A Particular Invisibility
by Kayla Whaley
The first essay I ever submitted won an award. A group of writing professors at my university read the piece, described it as written with “delicate emotion,” and handed me a check along with the certificate. I called home as soon as I found out, literally breathless with the news. I told Mom I’d won a writing contest, and before she could even react, rushed to say she couldn’t ever, ever read the essay.
A few days later my sister told me to call home. “Mom’s freaking out,” she said. “She doesn’t know why she isn’t allowed to read it. She thinks it might be about drugs or something.”
It wasn’t. It was about the bracelet a friend had given me. It was about unrequited first love. And it was the last thing I wanted to admit to my mother.
I almost let her continue thinking the worst. I told myself I was embarrassed, because who wants to talk about boys with their mom? (Of course, my sister did, regularly and at length, but my sister was different than me. I’d always known that.) As I tried to reassure her she had nothing to worry about, my chest tightened with the realization that I needed to come clean to fully ease her fears. I said, “It’s just about a friend. Just a crush on a friend,” and I nearly burst from the effort of expelling those words from my lungs. She didn’t sound relieved, quite. Maybe she sounded confused, but it could have just as easily been discomfort and so the latter’s what I believed.
It wasn’t until much later that I finally understood that throat-clenched, face-flushed, clammy-handed feeling for what it was: shame.
I’ve talked before both about the denial of sexual desirability to disabled bodies and about how difficult it was for me to recognize and accept my queerness. What I haven’t talked about is the ways those two facets of my identity—my disability and my queerness—intersect.
Growing up, I saw few disabled characters in romantic relationships and even fewer in sexual ones. In media, much like in my own family, disabled people weren’t expected to want or to be wanted. In the few instances where they were allowed one or (miraculously) both, they certainly couldn’t also be queer.
Sexual attraction while disabled had been presented all my life as unnatural, and queer attraction while disabled as unfathomable. As I started exploring my sexuality and eventually my queerness, all while in this disabled and therefore undesirable body, I, perhaps inevitably, recognized—and feared—myself as both unnatural and unfathomable.
But forced invisibility is not the same thing as deviance, and a lack of mirrors does not mean you have no reflection.
It’s taken years to assert—even to myself—my right to be sexual, disabled, and queer. I had so few examples of how to be any one of those, let alone all three. I tried stitching my gathered scraps of representation into something I could wear, something that could cover all of me, but it was an impossible task, and even after years of eager patchwork, piercing needles, and teeth-torn threads, all I’ve managed is an ugly, incomplete quilt of mismatched rags.
I’ve just started writing a new book. It’s a YA romance starring a wheelchair user and the girl she falls in love with. They flirt, tease, laugh. They gift themselves full first touches and trade hesitant, hopeful smiles. They are physical and sexual with each other; they are romantic and tender, too. They fight, they miscommunicate, they want, and they get a happy ending.
I’m writing the narrative I never saw, crafting the mirror I never had. I’m imbuing it with as much nuance and truth and passion as I can coax from this body society refuses to acknowledge, from this body desperate for the validation of flesh seen and desires known.
Who can say at this point if it’ll ever reach readers, but no matter what happens with my book, I pray that today’s queer, disabled girls will grow up without the lack and without the shame. I pray that we’ll fill the gap where I slipped and fell and settled before clawing my way into myself.
I pray, most of all, that no one else will have to endure the pain of this particular invisibility.
Kayla Whaley is a senior editor at Disability in Kidlit and a graduate of the Clarion Writers’ Workshop. Her work has appeared at The Toast, The Establishment, and Uncanny Magazine, among other venues. When not buying way too many books, she’s usually being overly sincere on the internet. Never Am I Whole
by Wesaun
There’s nothing more exciting than the prospect of finally seeing myself in the books I read except, oh wait, I never do.
I look and look and search and search and all that meets me is a gap, all that meets me is the laughter track as if I am on a comedy show and I am the queer character that has just had a cruel trick played on them. All that meets me is parts of my identity dismembered and separated into different stories but never am I whole. Because according to books, I do not exist. Nobody knows me. They know depressed teenagers in young adult literature and queer ones and black teenagers and teenagers in a bunch of other countries, third world and not, although rarely Jamaica. So, when privileged writers complain about marginalized writers and readers criticizing the way they portray the marginalized, it becomes a point where we stop looking at those that are marginalized and we start paying attention to the privileged and we turn back to lifting them up and making them comfortable rather than establishing equality for those who need it within the publishing industry. Privileged writers, for the most part, have seen themselves in literature and media, so how can they still complain and fight against those who haven’t? Complain and fight against the very people that will in the end be putting money in their pockets.
I hate that there are people with the view right now that all marginalized people must do all the work. I do the work all the time and they do not even realize it. I smile when one of my gorgeous friends says something ignorant, and then take a deep breath and educate to the point where it triggers me. When you call me a slur word, if I do not hop on you and pull your hair, screaming and making you pay, I will keep on drinking because you aren’t worth my time and I am educated enough to know my worth does not decrease because you are ignorant. I do all the work, but what load do you pick up? Do you seriously not realize, after all the experience you should have had in this industry by now, that you reap all of the benefits? Could you look me in the eye when you answered these questions?
The publishing industry has always catered to those who are white cishet Americans. And the moment that we finally start looked at other groups of people, privileged writers are out there writing entire threads about why it is unwise for marginalized to critique them and complain about paying sensitivity readers and demand that we read their representation, that may be shoddy anyway, for free. It’s annoying when you go against our campaign and still claim to be our allies; you still claim to be benefactors but are you really when you attempt to smother and silence our voices? How do you feel when you say that marginalized people should not discourage you from writing our stories when people of your privileged group do a poor job? If we are talking to those who misrepresent and you are doing your research and work, then why do you feel so threatened? Do you feel strong telling us how to react to our marginalization?
Stop acting like all I do is whine, like this piece is a teenage nonbinary just whining and whining and not doing any work. I work every day. Marginalized people and their struggles are underestimated far too often for my liking. Tolerating suicide jokes is work. Fighting against homophobic and racist slurs is work. Honestly, just coming across it without saying anything will still make me feel burdened. I could work until I feel like I’m about to die, but that wouldn’t make progress any faster and even though you can bet money I will keep working, I cannot do all the work all the time, I am too tired.
I write because I want to exist. I write and write and write but it doesn’t mean I will publish immediately, everything smooth sailing. So you should stop talking like it’s so easy when you’ve never tried to live this life. It’s so easy to talk because you can count on someone being on the side of your privileged perspective. I speak because there is an entire world out there telling me not to. There is an entire world out there where people are quiet and unless I say something, nothing will be said, and then people seeing my courage to speak up can gain some of their own courage, too. I write stories about kids that I do not see enough for the younger me. For the younger kids that will be similar to the marginalized teens that are my friends and whom I love today. I write because no one else will. Because when I speak, you are still there rolling your eyes. You are still there feeling threatened and crying out like a mewling kitten to the book world for approval. You are still there saying, “Hi, I am an uncomfortable white/straight/cis/neuronormative person”, and when people see reason with you, all I can feel is rage. The first words that I wish to let off my finger tips are these: “It is not about you. Do you understand? This. Is. Not. For. You. This is about the teenagers who are suffering, the teenagers who are dying, who are alone and sheltered and afraid and are the child of immigrants and born citizens and have nowhere to turn to see themselves. This is about our kids. It has ALWAYS been about you, and it cannot be any longer.”
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“Today a reader, tomorrow a leader”- Margaret Fuller
Wesaun is a teenage book lion who is passionate about many things, but the main are: books, art, equality in YA lit, supporting good people in the community, women, and all things queer/lesbian, not to say the two are 
interchangeable.
They are a book blogger at Oreos & Books: (oreoandbooks.wordpress.com), beta/sensitivity reader of Writing In The Margins, and will forever talk about how they’ve been dubbed, “social media warrior that will eat you alive” and “volunteer publicist” by bloggers within the community, because, well, it’s true.
In their spare time, you can find them writing either in a notebook or on a computer, creating an art piece frantically from an idea that just popped into their head, watching queer Youtubers/admiring queerer fashion, or reading a book whilst walking down stairs, the streets of New York, and other unsafe places to read while walking.
You can also find well as being really overenthusiastic on their Twitter: @epicbooklover/their transitioning business email: fighterofawriter777@gmail.com.
What’s Your Queery? Advocacy & Inclusivity in Teen Library Services
by Candice
Happy LGBTQIA Heritage Month and happy 5th anniversary, Gay YA!!
I am so honored to have been invited to contribute to Gay YA’s awesome Pride Month and anniversary blogathon!
As the President of the Young Adult Library Services Association and the Senior Librarian of systemwide Teen Services at the Los Angeles Public Library, I wanted to highlight how some library staff have advocated for greater inclusivity and awareness of LGBTQIA communities and provide tips for those who want to organize and advocate locally.
I interviewed Xochitl Oliva and David Hagopian, the Chair and Co-Chair, respectively, of the Los Angeles Public Library’s Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender, Queer/Questioning, Intersex, and Asexual/Androgynous Services Committee as our library system is getting ready to march in our second LA Pride Parade on June 12th in West Hollywood. David’s responses are in blue and Xochitl’s responses are in green.
What is the LGBTQIA Services Committee at Los Angeles Public Library?
The LGBTQIA Services Committee is a group of Los Angeles Public Library staff members from all regions, departments and classifications. Our goal is to share the excellent services and resources of the Los Angeles Public Library with all Angelenos in our diverse communities, with a special focus on service to LGBTQIA patrons. Our main projects include outreach, training for staff, providing themed book lists and program resources, and generating more visibility in untapped areas for the Library.
What are the committee’s goals?
The committee’s goals are programming for LGBTQIA patrons, outreach, collection development, more visibility for the library in LGBTQIA communities; and training for staff about LGBTQIA issues and concerns in the workplace. Also, as leaders of the group, one of our main goals is sustainability for the group. We want to make sure that this committee, or one that evolves from it, will continue at LAPL and be involved in advising and supporting all LGBTQIA-related issues and agendas at the Library. Additionally, the group has served as advocates for various issues since its inception. Staff has brought some things to our attention and we’ve been able to investigate and sort some things out.
Why and how was the committee started?
There was a need for LGBTQIA Services in several areas: programming, outreach and training, particularly.
It came about when Administration, responding to requests from LAPL staff throughout the system for more freedom to pursue special projects within the Library, invited staff to a meeting to discuss services that might be missing and ideas that might be untapped in all areas. LGBTQIA services was one area that came up. Staff at the meeting was asked to lead particular committees and I volunteered to lead this one. I think an email went out inviting staff to join and contact info was given for the various new groups. A handful of staff expressed interest in the LGBT (that’s actually what it was called back then) group and of those, five of us showed up and we went from there.
Can you tell us more about the resources, especially the YA booklists?
We created our first June LGBTQIA Heritage Month Resource Packet because we wanted to make it easier for librarians at our 73 branches to host June heritage month programs and give meaningful reader’s advisory on the topic. We recognized that members of the LGBTQIA community may be reluctant to ask for books on this topic in person, so we decided to create book lists as a resource for librarians and patrons. We encourage librarians to print and make the lists available in branches and we also post them on our public website. We recruited YA librarians to build and add to the list, so it is constantly growing.
Can you tell us more about the library participating in the LA Pride Parade?
We thought that marching in the LA Pride parade would be an opportunity to build community within our committee ranks while engaging in fun, active outreach. It’s a volunteer event and the goal is to make it as fun and engaging for our contingent as it is for the spectators. Our ambitious goal was to form a human rainbow by outfitting the contingent in custom t-shirts in the colors of the spectrum. We had an all staff contest for our tagline, “What’s Your Queery?” We printed it on our shirts, banner and promotional materials. It was a unique opportunity to show the LGBTQIA community how fun and inviting our library staff are. We also included our url (www.lapl.org/lgbtq) on promotional materials, in order to direct the public to our services.
What are the committee’s next steps?
We have grown so much and had a measureable impact on our Library’s services to the LGBTQIA community in two and a half short years. However, this advocacy work is something we all do in addition to our primary duties. In order to make the work more sustainable, we are currently expanding our leadership by making merit-based appointments of additional co-chairs so we can break up the work into the following categories: training, collection development and reader’s advisory, outreach and programming.
We are also working on getting approval for system wide Transgender & Gender Sensitivity Training made mandatory for all LAPL staff. Additionally, we continue to reach out to other City government agencies and organizations in the community with whom we might partnership, based on similar goals and agendas; the newly formed Transgender Advisory Council to the Mayor being one of them.
What tips can you give to others about building grassroots LGBTQIA advocacy in their organizations?
I think that the main tips that we could offer are (in no particular order):
- Have regular meetings, check in with group members, have a regular agenda and stick with it
- Constantly recruit. Always tell people about the group and the work it does and invite people to come to meetings or receive information. Ask people to ask people to come.
- Identify active members and support them in their efforts.
- Strong leadership. From the beginning Xochitl was the one who had ideas, enthusiasm and energy and was doing a lot of good work – all great qualities for a good leader of a group like this. She was the natural choice for chair of the group. We’ve been trying to identify others with similar qualities in an effort to given them an opportunity for a leadership role.
- Form partnerships. Everywhere. Within the organization. Outside of the organization.
- Tell people with power in the organization your good ideas to garner support.
- Make those people look good with the group’s good work.
- Be all inclusive and open to great ideas from everywhere.
- Try to have fun and to make it fun.
- Constantly work on ways to ensure sustainability and legitimacy within the organization. Little things, like pushing for a webpage; getting an email address for the group; participating as reps from the group in other departments’ “stuff”; identifying potential future leaders; making ourselves available to advise and advocate; getting an official logo; doing awesome work that gets the group noticed and mentioned
*Photos courtesy of Xochitl Oliva and Celia Avila
Also, for anyone attending the American Library Association’s Annual Conference in Orlando at the end of this month, my Presidential theme this year has been 3-2-1 Impact! Inclusive and Impactful Teen Library Services, which is a call to action to our members to improve services to underserved teens in our communities. My upcoming President’s Program at ALA Annua, on Monday, June 27th, from 10:30 a.m. – noon highlights inclusive and impactful library programs for teens from across the nation, including:
Ady Huertas, San Diego Public: LGBTQ+ Spectrum Club advisor: hosts weekly meetings, providing a space for youth to meet and share their experiences as well as plan activities to reach other youth in the community and raise awareness. Current focus is services to transgender and queer youth.
Courtney Saldana, Ovitt Family Community Library Ontario, CA: STeP – Skills for Teen Parents; with community partners, provides parenting and job skills training for pregnant and parenting teens aged 12-20.
Marian Mays, Washington Talking Book and Braille Library: by providing access to adaptive games (braille legos, braille board games, Audio Archery, etc.), visually impaired teens have the opportunity to develop the necessary social, emotional, and cognitive skills that give them a greater sense of independence and that can be transferred to educational and workplace settings as well as networking opportunities among peers. (Teen Tech Week winner)
Renee McGrath, Nassau County (NY) Library: in conjunction with a local theater group, created sensory theater experiences for teen with autism.
Veronica Caballero, San Mateo County Library: Incarcerated Youth Book Club brings books, 3D printing and other activities to incarcerated youth.
Rebecca Webb, Fairbanks (AK) Northstar Borough School District – created a Coding Camp for Native youth, giving them a chance to explore coding and teaching them useful computer skills (as well as patience, perseverance, and problem-solving skills), that would spark their interests and encourage them to stay in school. (Teen Tech Week winner)
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Find Candice on Twitter: @TinyLibrarian
Where They Never Bothered to Go: Hiding Queer YA from the Mainstream
by Shaun David Hutchinson
To say I’ve been overwhelmed by the response to my latest book, We Are the Ants, is a bit of an understatement. I didn’t start out writing books with queer narrators. It wasn’t until my third book that I worked up the nerve to do so (and that courage came in part from splitting with my first agent and feeling like my writing career was all but dead, and therefore I had nothing left to lose). My first two books had queer characters in them—a gay best friend that comes out in Deathday, and a gay couple in FML—but I didn’t really embrace writing queer characters and owning my identity as a queer author until The Five Stages of Andrew Brawley.
Part of what held me back was my fear of being labeled a “gay author.” When I was a teen and struggling with my sexuality, I sought out books with characters whose experiences were similar to my own. I was a voracious reader of fantasy and science fiction back then, but the only books I found (and only by accident) were Mercedes Lackey’s The Last Herald Mage Trilogy. Occasionally I would sneak around the bookstore trying to work up the courage to peek at the Gay & Lesbian Fiction shelf (or rather one small section of one shelf), but most of what I found were non-fiction books and erotica anthologies. My fear of being labeled a “gay author” was that my books would be relegated to that small shelf where the queer or questioning kids who needed them might never find them and the kids who might learn from them would never bother to go.
Five Stages and We Are the Ants both wound up on the regular YA shelves alongside the YA books with queer and non-queer characters alike, but I still found myself being labeled a “gay author.” At first, I shied away from it, but I eventually embraced it. I am, in fact, gay, and I am (despite my imposter syndrome) an author. I’m not ashamed of being either.
But, beginning with Five Stages and continuing with Ants, I noticed a pattern that bothered me. I would read reviews of both books that were wonderful and made my heart sing, but often contained a statement along the lines of, “will appeal to gay readers.” And every time I read those words or words similar to them, I felt like I was being shoved to the back of that Gay & Lesbian shelf where no one would ever find me. As if only queer readers could be interested in reading books about queer characters.
Later today I’m on a panel called Dudes Write. Dudes Read. Cheers for Men Writing for (Primarily) Boys, and I’m kind of nervous about it because it seems like the kind of panel that’s going to focus on how there aren’t enough books out there for boys to read and relate to, and assumes no boy could ever relate to a book written by a woman or featuring a female protagonist. I’m uncomfortable with the panel because A) the assumptions it potentially makes are dangerously wrong, and B) because it hits so close to home regarding my own fears about writing queer lit. (The panel actually went really well, and didn’t even come close to wallowing in any “woe is me, where are all the books for the boys” nonsense. Whew!)
I’m thrilled beyond measure at the attention queer YA has been receiving lately, and the success of books with queer narrators. Books like recent Lambda Literary Award winner Alex Gino’s George, Adam Silvera’s More Happy Than Not, and Becky Albertalli’s Simon VS. the Homo Sapiens Agenda, just to name a few. But I fear we’re still at a place where these are viewed as “queer” first and anything else second. Where More Happy Than Not is a gay book rather than a book about a young man struggling with his own grief and insecurity. Where Henry’s story in Ants is seen as a book about a gay boy rather than about boy trying to figure out what in his life is worth living for. I hate that because it often feels that only straight, white, cis male characters get to have stories that extend beyond their identities. Why is it African American Literature or Latino Literature or Disability Literature or Women’s Literature rather than just plain literature? If I ever win an award, I want it to be because I wrote a great book, not because I wrote a great gay book. But while we’re making strides with more visible representation, queer books are still often seen as books for queer readers.
This worries me because I’m scared diversity might be just another trend in YA literature. Like we’ve moved from vampires to dystopians to diversity, and that when people tire of it, they’ll move onto something else. That’s the danger of viewing books with queer characters as “queer books” first and everything else second.
Though I’ve embraced the label of “gay author,” I don’t feel like I write queer books. I write weird books. Contemporary, mostly-realistic books that sometimes have a sci-fi angle. I write books that deal with mental illness and are usually character driven. I write books with frustratingly vague endings. I also write books with queer characters. And I do want readers to know that. I want it to be easy for teens who are looking for books with queer characters to be able to find them. But I also want readers searching for weird books to find them, and readers searching for character-driven contemporary books to find them.
Books with queer characters don’t appeal only to queer readers any more than books with vampire characters appeal to vampire readers, but that’s often the message I see being put out there, and it’s the wrong message. The surge in the popularity of queer books is encouraging, but I worry it’s a bubble because the focus is on the queerness of the books rather than the books themselves. I’m not suggesting we hide a book’s queerness or that the characters’ queerness is incidental to the rest of the book, but rather that we stop treating queerness in books as something that will only appeal to queer readers.
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Editing Diversity in Chile – Part 2
by Daniela Cortés del Castillo
I’ve already covered the challenges I’ve faced at Loba Ediciones when trying to publish diversely. Now I’d like to speak briefly about what happens when I change my hat and become an editor working with an author.
Editing with intersectional feminism in mind is not easy. You carry around a lot of theoretical baggage that you need to use, but can also spoil the trip. I don’t want to become so pedagogical that I ruin a perfectly good story. Early on, I had to decide on a strategy, something that would allow me to keep my political vision* at the back of my mind while focusing on things such as plot, pacing and characterization. The strategy chosen for editing books is the same one I use to enjoy all cultural artifacts: to put on the shades of gender perspective. To me, that means to observe the world, both real and textual, with an understanding of the forces that influence our gender construction, and the structures of privilege that help sustain those forces. As an intersectional feminist, I believe those forces aren’t limited to patriarchy, but also to racism, classism and heteronormativity (among others).
Now, that is still too theoretical. Looking at things from a gender perspective is perhaps almost second nature to me now, but it’s not very translatable to material terms. Therefore, I also set some concrete rules:
Wider stories. A protagonist’s story cannot be limited to their “diversity”. Malinda Lo once said that sexual orientation is part of an identity, not a plot twist, and this is something I keep in mind when choosing and editing the books that I publish. Just because a character is trans, for example, doesn’t mean that their whole story has to be about their transition. I want novels where trans teens can see themselves fighting off invasions of extraterrestrial dogs and saving the world. I won’t limit the adventures a protagonist can have to their sexual orientation; just like I wouldn’t make a book about a straight character all about their straightness. This also means that I won’t imbue gay characters with a halo of sanctity just because they are gay. I want them to be morally complex, like any interesting character would be. I want them to be heroes. I want them to be villains.- This is the unbreakable rule, no exceptions. I need all the characters in a novel to have agency, or at least to have attained it by the end of the book. First of all, they must have agency to determine their own identity (including their sexual orientation and how they construct their gender) and agency to determine their own fate. There is nothing wrong with being a very feminine girl who likes Disney and pink t-shirts, just as there is nothing wrong with being a very feminine boy who likes Disney and pink t-shirts. What is important is that that identity is built in an autonomous manner. This goes not only for the main protagonist, but for all characters. I don’t want my heroine’s bff to be a stereotype. I want her to be written with as much care and thought as the protagonist.
- Offering alternatives. Now, thinking someone can construct their own identity and master their own fate may sound a bit naïve as we are all socialized beings and escaping that socialization is next to impossible, but the thing about fiction is that it gives us more leeway than reality. It’s a chance for readers to see someone be empowered, even if they can’t achieve that for themselves in real life just yet. For me, it is not enough to make visible the discourse and the forces that dominate us; as YA writers and editors we must offer alternatives of existence. Perhaps it’s not necessary to write a whole new utopian world, but by giving some agency to your protagonist by the end of the story you’ll be offering readers a bit of hope.
Editing Calíope
Calíope, agente de Nunca Jamás by J.L Flores is our first published novel. It’s a middle grade book about a society of faeries hiding in plain sight in Santiago. Cali is a nineteen-year-old halfling: half-troll and half human. She works as a freelance detective for the faeries’ government investigation agency. In the novel, Cali is asked to investigate the disappearance of human and faerie children and this takes her on a whole set of adventures.
I loved this manuscript. Cali is a great character: she’s funny, smart, kind and doesn’t really give a crap about the faeries and all their snobby rules. She’s happy being herself and does everything on her own terms. The author had been asked by another publisher to change Cali’s gender because “girls can’t be the protagonists of adventure books” and because “she acted too much like a boy”, but the writer (J.L Flores has published several children’s, YA and adult books) refused and brought the manuscript to us.
One of the first things that caught my attention was how flirty Calíope was. Even though no actual romance happened between her and other characters, there was palpable chemistry between Cali and her partner, Peter, and between Cali and her nemesis, Melusina. At first, I wasn’t going to say anything. I thought I might be reading too much into things. However, the chemistry became too obvious and I finally had to sit J.L. down and ask: “Hey… is Calíope bi?”.
He laughed. “I think she is.”
“Well… can we make it a little clearer?”
He raised his eyebrows. “Can I?”.
Now, if you read the section on “Publishing Diversity” you’ll know why he was asking. If no one wanted to publish Cali because she didn’t act like a proper girl, who would want to publish her if she was openly bisexual?
I would! Cali was exactly the type of protagonist we wanted for our first book. Someone totally unapologetical about herself and her sexuality. Now, even though we made Cali’s sexuality more obvious, she never says “I am bisexual”. This was a conscious decision. When a protagonist is straight, there is no need to point it out on page nine. We don’t see: “By the way,” John said as he picked up his toothbrush, “I’m straight.” The same goes for Cali. She likes girls. She likes boys. She has a bit of action with both. (No spoilers!) With the invisibility bisexual people face in the media, leaving out the label was a tricky decision. I don’t want people to think Cali is confused, or fluid, or experimenting. Calíope is bisexual, but the label of her sexual orientation is not pertinent to the plot. Perhaps it will be later on (and I do hope Cali shows up again on our editorial list), but in this particular book she is too busy saving the world to sit down and educate people about bisexuality.
The other tricky thing was deciding how much “action” Calíope would see. Now, she is nineteen, but this is a middle grade book. There aren’t any x-rated scenes, because they don’t belong in a book like this. (Also, see above re: Cali busy saving the world). Unexpectedly, this resulted in someone telling me he didn’t think Cali was bisexual because she didn’t do anything “censurable”, implying that: 1) the only way someone can be bisexual is if they are seen having sex and 2) same-sex sex is somehow “censurable”! Again, one more challenge faced in a conservative society.
Working on Cali’s sexuality throughout the editing process wasn’t only about whom she made out with. It also took a lot of work on a deeper level. Early on I realized that many of the challenges faced by Cali as a halfling are lived by bisexuals on a daily basis, and I decided to take the opportunity to use her mixed blood as a symbol for her sexuality. (Someone pointed out that it can also be seen as speaking to those of mixed-raced, and that may very well be true). Cali is rejected by the faeries (i.e. LGBTQIA community) for not being faery enough, yet she knows she will never fit among the humans. Throughout the novel she comes to understand that she isn’t “half faery” or “half human”, she is something else, something unique and powerful all on its own. I think every bisexual person wishes someone had told them that when they were 12. I know I do!
*I’m unapologetical about the political vision behind Loba Ediciones. Every publishing company has one. For instance, I know a Chilean YA publisher with strong ties to the Opus Dei. We’re just very straight-forward about ours.
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Daniela Cortés del Castillo is a Bolivian journalist, writer and editor. She is the founder of Loba Ediciones, an MG and YA publishing company in Chile. She holds a master’s degree in creative writing, publishing and editing from the University of Melbourne. She enjoys reading, lindy hopping, and ranting about identity politics.