“Why Do You Only Write About Gay Men?”

My high school taught girls to fear straight men

Photo by Sam Balye on Unsplash

Dear Coddling Movie Community,

Sometimes I wonder if maybe things aren’t as bad as they seem. After all, plenty of critics say we who worry so much about “coddling” issues are fear mongers.

But there’s another option: Maybe things are even worse than they seem.

That’s the thought that kept ringing through my head while reading the latest essay from our talented Gen Z contributor

Margo Margan

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It’s an extraordinary journey into a subculture that few adults over 30 are privy to.

We’re so happy to have Margo on our team, and you won’t want to miss today’s essay. Also make sure to check out Margo’s first contribution:

• How “The Coddling” Movie Helped Me: A Gen Zer’s story

We’ve been so pleased with how The Coddling Movie has been received by Margo and other Gen Zers.

As a new school begins, we’ll be working hard to bring the film to more viewers, including more young viewers. Stay tuned.

All the best,

Ted

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Why do you only write about gay men?

This is a question I’ve often been asked about my creative writing. And, dear reader, I’m always happy to answer questions about my work. I get it. Writing a cast like that comes with connotations: Either I’m trying to be “woke,” or I’m doing it for the romanticized appeal. 

Having met several authors of both types of work, I’d argue there isn’t much difference between them. Those in the former behaved eerily similar to the latter, and those I knew in the latter group all believed their efforts were, in fact, heroically progressive. 

My writing can look a lot like these pieces: A cast of primarily same-sex male couples, with very few female characters present. When looking back at my writing during my teen years, I notice several tropes that say a lot about how environmental pressures controlled the writing of myself and other Gen Z writers. I want to introduce you to each of these archetypes, and more importantly, what inspired them. 

Surprisingly — I used to write mostly girls. After high school, however, my writing was fundamentally changed. And the cause was feminist extremism. 

Extreme Feminist Culture

The first member of our cast I’ll call The Female Character. She’s a bland, ugly, young female protagonist. Frustrating to write, and painful to read. Though she was meant to be a reflection of me, trying to connect with her felt like stepping into shoes three sizes too small.

The Female Character and her counterparts were primarily inspired by a documentary I watched during a high school assembly about cultural norms related to gender. One segment featured children about 9 years old as interview subjects. They were asked what they would choose if they could change one thing about the world. A young boy said he’d like to add more lanes to highways to reduce traffic, and a young girl said she wanted nobody to be lonely again. 

The school (and documentary) framed this as a clear sign that girls were oppressed because they cared about more “meaningful” issues than boys. Messages like this were read into nearly everything.

We were treated like victims in almost all classes. Basic professionalism like brushing my hair was instead explained to us as being an oppressive, patriarchal standard. 

This attitude felt humiliating to me. Instead of empowering women, my teachers wanted us to be fragile. I’ve felt this in the wider society today, with every pop song, commercial, and movie telling me as a young woman that I shouldn’t be starving myself out of pressure to look like Barbie. Even Barbie has taken shots at Barbie. 

I’m not arguing that it is a problem to support women who do have these insecurities. However, these messages have been misused to mandate that all of us must feel broken. We must be traumatized — to the point of having severe eating disorders or depression — by Barbie dolls. We must be saved from the patriarchy, which can’t happen if we aren’t in need of saving in the first place. 

Saying otherwise was simply incorrect — as clearly explained by one of my feminist activist peers. While advertising a feminist event, she was hit with this exact question by a boy she was speaking to, “What if it doesn’t affect me?” 

Promptly, she spouted the alleged facts from her brochure, “Actually, it does affect you. Boys have internalized notions that they can’t cry and can’t wear make-up.” 

I was the age of the interview subjects in the documentary when I began writing. At that age, if I were asked what I’d do to change the world, I’d probably say something more useless than adding traffic lanes — “Make Invader Zim real!” I didn’t create female characters for any reason except that I happened to want to. 

But, “internalized misogyny” was supposed to be the cause of my every decision. I needed to read a deep meaning into anything related to gender. 

Thoughts began to infect my creative brain; “I must be writing a female character to express my underrepresented female experience. I must represent the life of a young female. This is the story of a female being angry, a female being in love.” Writer’s block. 

No longer could my characters just be characters, they instead became Female Characters, Female Protagonists, Female Villains. That’s how The Female Character was born. She’s supposed to “represent women as whole and complete people,” but the reality is that this framework makes her only defining attribute being a woman. 

What About Men?

Our next cast member is a trailblazer, the emergence of gay men taking the stage in my writing. Often the sidekick to the female lead, he’s shy, sensitive, often feminine enough to be mistaken for a girl, and definitively — he’s gay! I’ll call him by the name of his first iteration, Rosemary. 

Rosemary reflects how I was taught to treat men. And I had to be careful with men in my writing. My community was terrified of them. 

This is once again best illustrated by the gender documentary shown at my high school assembly. Perhaps more pernicious than how my school interpreted the girl’s statements was how they regarded the boy’s. He was scorned as privileged and ignorant, his answer (which I found innovative and bright) was used to make an example of the alleged horrors in our society, how men had it so much better than women. 

Just a reminder: We’re talking about the nine-year-old boy who said he wanted to change the world by finding a solution to highway traffic. 

My high school also showed us the infamous Gillette commercial on “toxic” masculinity, awakening us to the disgusting behavior of boys who play-wrestled as children. Yet another documentary depicted men being deeply, deeply depressed because society did not allow them to cry. These severely unhealthy men did not reflect the men I saw in reality.

Any presentation of stereotypical masculinity — real or fictional — was branded as “toxic.” This divided girls and boys, and when paired with the earlier fragility, the effects of this us vs. them thinking ripped apart social groups. 

A poignant example comes from the class Discord of the similarly cultured school where I took my gap year internship. There were two dominant friend groups: sensitive girls, and boys who liked to banter. While there was some mild tension between them, we had all learned to tolerate each other’s quirks.

Then came the boiling point. A male student made a comment to one of the girls that, while rude to say to someone outside of his friend circle, was nothing more severe than what we were all seemingly used to;

“Technically, the definition means ‘lazy dog.’ That would make you the bitch.”

The environment turned nuclear. The entire collective of girls in the chat began fervently calling out this boy. They insisted only women were allowed to use such a historically evil word. When a boy pointed out this gatekeeping was sexist, he was promptly shot down. 

I soon found myself added to a group text and Google Doc to plan a feminist community event intended to educate these allegedly sexist men. I was asked to describe my experience as a woman.

What was my experience? 

Well, the feminist lecture was never actually held, as the students were severely lacking in executive function — or as some might say, “lazy.” The boy’s line was spot-on. I never responded —because I was laughing too hard!

Perhaps this makes the both of us rude, but, “sexist?” I don’t believe so. Had he used any other insult, the scenario would have been resolved with nothing more than a few virtual eye rolls. What was framed as a matter of gender was instead a matter of personality.

If people couldn’t see my gender, they would probably think I was a “toxic male.” I don’t like being publicly vulnerable, I banter with my friends, I used to pretend to wrestle as a child, and I casually skip Barbie ads without understanding why they’re so offensive. 

On the same note, I can understand why someone might steer away from trying to befriend boys (or girls) when motivated by a pattern of personality clashes. I’m not against men’s or women’s groups existing for a purpose like that.

Yet, I have seen instances where men were blatantly ostracized. My high school’s only non-activist lunch club was an ordinary art club. This was never advertised as a girls’ meet-up or tied to a similar purpose, but the hosts quickly mentioned at the end of the club’s announcement that only female students would be allowed. There were no other options for boys to socialize. I asked the hosts why this was the case, and they informed me the decision was made to ensure female students felt safe. 

A similar sentiment was carried by one of my gap year mentors. I was in a class with only one other student, a boy. This teacher asked me after class if I was alright because I seemed quiet. She remarked how we had naturally slipped into gender roles, the man doing all of the talking. This, and her constantly correcting her usage of the term “you guys,” betrayed how set she was on believing I was a victim of male existence. 

I found this insulting to both of us. My classmate was in no way malicious or sexist, consciously or subconsciously, for being more talkative than me. Quietness was a flaw I was responsible for working on, and blaming men treated me as incapable of agency. 

Hateful comments were even made in class, including a student saying, “Why do we have to have men in the world? We don’t need men!”

Such a comment is horrible to make about any group of people and would’ve probably netted punishment if said about any other gender. Instead, our teacher responded with, “You’re right!” She backed up the student with a reference to some scientific discovery that would allow women to have children without the need for human males. 

Men were seen as dangerous to society just by existing. 

Only one type of man was accepted: A woman.

What do I mean by this? My schools would praise sensitive, fragile, non-masculine men. Men like Rosemary, who wore eyeliner, went by a girl’s name and were often seen with teardrops of make-up running down their cheeks. Gay men, in particular, were prized as heroes breaking this toxicly masculine mold. And though we were told the usual about the offensive stereotype of hyper-feminine gays, when it came down to it, breaking the patriarchy was never going to be met with anything but applause. 

Us female teen writers believed it was an act of progressive valor to draw boys in dresses. To gossip about which boys in the class were bi. To describe our characters as “super gay.” Early on, I fell into the same traps, Rosemary being one of my more prominent characters. It was blatantly obvious we were all doing it because we thought they were cute.

Then, midway through my ninth-grade year, one of Rosemary’s successors served as the protagonist of a story made in reaction to this culture. The premise? Characters were placed in a Hunger Games-style death game. Contestants were recruited based on how many minority boxes they checked off, and put through a televised series of torment to “represent their struggle.” A direct commentary on how our seemingly progressive motives were masking something more insidious. Reading it through that lens is like opening a time capsule of my social justice extremist memories. 

The line, 

“Think about it, Remus. Just try to think. You and I are both homosexual. You’re on the autism spectrum, and I’m a three-quarters cat born. That’s two labels right there, and that isn’t yet all of it. Most men don’t wear their hair like you do.”

It is perhaps one of the most cringe-worthy pieces of dialogue ever written, but even more tragically, it would have sounded completely natural if spoken aloud among my teenage friends. 

Representation was Everything

In my teenage world, diversity was one of the most important factors determining a piece’s worth. Representation was everything. 

We were taught this in class. Our teacher asked if we knew of a fictional character we could see ourselves in, and I said “yes.” 

Then, we were asked if we saw ourselves in someone of the same gender. No…

However, lacking a female character who shared my life experiences wasn’t a great tragedy. I had some really, really rare ones that were seldom represented, male or female. I saw having a character like me as a gift but never held a grudge against writers for not providing it. 

But in the minds of progressives, I couldn’t feel helped by a male character, or see a man as a role model, even if he  shared everything else in common with me. I was supposed to feel like I wasn’t allowed to exist until I saw those traits in my own gender. 

Literature was seen as responsible for creating and ending the alleged toxic gender norms. Writers were not just encouraged, but required, to change the world for the better. They would be blamed for the suffering of millions if they failed.

My peers dominated our lectures discussing the need for an abolishment of the nuclear family and other social norms. They insisted it was this lack of representation that severely broke their mental health. When others in the class said not fitting these norms wasn’t actually all that bad for them, they weren’t even allowed to finish speaking. Once again, dissent was not an option. 

And heterosexuality? Untouchable. 

Our Sex Ed courses preached to us that any romantic interaction whatsoever, from sex to holding hands, done without asking permission over and over and over was a serious breach of consent. And if our partner said yes, was not coerced by outside factors, seemed visibly enthusiastic, but still turned out to have not really meant it… We would still be responsible for a violation. 

I had my questions, humorously picturing a scenario in which a hypothetical boyfriend stopped every few seconds or so to ask, “Can I hug you?” “Can I kiss you?” “Can we keep kissing?” “Are you sure?” “Are you sure you’re sure?”

We then listened to an audio clip of questions and answers on the subject. “Wouldn’t that ruin the mood?” said a man, wanting advice on making these interactions less awkward, luckily asking my question for me. 

Then I had my answer: Men are idiots. It was a stupid question to ask. 

And the media was held responsible for causing misbehaviors. Consider a scene of a girlfriend breaking down crying, and her boyfriend immediately hugging her. It could be seen as corny. It could be seen as a sweet moment, where the girlfriend needs someone to comfort her, and instinctively knowing this, her boyfriend is right there to support her. 

It could be seen as the boyfriend not only hugging her without consent but also making physical contact with someone who is having a panic attack. Despite the fact that many humans need physical contact like this and that these scenes are likely not meant to reflect clinically serious symptoms, my classmates always were certain to err on the side of mental disorders. 

Romantic relationships were a minefield, with straight men taking the brunt of the blame. One wrong move, and you’d be in big trouble. Gay couples seemed to get a pass from this hyper-scrutiny, and I’ve never seen a woman accused of harassment. 

Many of my peers had also gotten wrapped up in the gay fanfiction sphere. This type of media is often accused of romanticizing homosexuality to appeal to straight women. It does seem like a very popular genre amongst teen girls who are outsiders or troubled in some way. Looking at it now, I can make a guess as to why the girls I knew sank so deeply into obsession with these forms of literature. 

 I think, deep down, it is the case that a lot of us would’ve wanted a boyfriend (or male friends in general), but were taught to fear men so deeply we buried this desire. I didn’t speak to conservative boys in my classes despite thinking we’d get along great because subconsciously, I thought they were dangerous. With men so scorned, young, more masculine girls who would’ve wanted to connect with young, nerdy boys turned to truly toxic alternatives.

Meanwhile, homosexuality seemed prized above all else. 

There’s a scenario I need to get off my chest. Something feels off, but I can’t quite place what.  

A conservative student tried to justify “gay panic” insanity pleas, claiming he could understand why seeing a gay couple could shock some people into committing murder. He was promptly kicked out of class.

One of his critics was a liberal student who had previously stated similar beliefs. She felt those who killed out of nowhere weren’t neurotypical, making it unfair to punish them for how they were born. Despite her views seeming to blatantly endorse his, she refused to allow the conservative to finish his sentence. 

In a later class period, she said, aloud, on a recorded Zoom call, “I have thought about killing someone before, but…” 

Nothing visible was ever done about this. 

Some students questioned the decision to remove the conservative. Teachers said his views made students feel unsafe. I felt unsafe around students who confessed to contemplating murder. I can’t make claims about the exact motives as to why each call was made, or assume I know all of what happened behind the scenes. 

But I still can’t help but come away with a sense that, regardless of their reasoning, the school handled this with an inappropriate amount of bias. 

Being gay was not only specially protected, but specially praised. The effects of this attitude manifested poignantly in how my peers critiqued literature, often in quite belittling ways.

I overheard discussions of a popular show among students, The Owl House, for an entire school year. It was recommended to me quite frequently. Given the amount of exposure, one would expect me to have picked up on most of the key details about the show.

All I knew about The Owl House was that it was on Disney, and the characters were gay. I didn’t even know it was an animated series or the main character’s name. 

 Online groups closely echoed what I saw in person. Members would spam all-caps cheers after finding out a music artist was bi, or draw their characters dressed head-to-toe in the colors of Pride flags. These eerily echoed the conversations from my early high school years.

But, in the years beyond my graduation, these spaces were “queer” spaces. Their population was not much different from my high school self: nerdy early-teens girls who weren’t interested in dating. Except, I identified as a straight person capable of individual wants and choices, while they considered themselves “asexual.” 

I was taught the word “queer” was a slur. And I certainly didn’t need to announce my romantic preferences (or lack thereof) in my online profile. 

While under the guise of easy-access “queer” labels, these writers not only escaped accusations of problematic material but passed it off as a work of charity. Most claims of asexuality never seemed to hold water against how obsessed the writers seemed with their original characters, who were often abused, closeted gay men. 

Journalist Eliza Mondegreen has observed a similar trend of “trans gay men” — specifically, those born female who transitioned after reading large amounts of this type of fanfiction. I’m not the only one seeing this, and I feel obliged to expand upon what it’s like living in the weeds of this culture.

I can’t help but wonder if a girl who loudly proclaims “I’m asexual!” is really trying to say “I’m better than that!” Though she likely isn’t aware of it, deep down, she’s thinking she would never stoop to such a thing as liking a boy… With heterosexuality so scorned, stigmatized, and dangerous, wanting a boyfriend, or even having a male crush, seemed like a death sentence.

Or in some cases, perhaps teens are transitioning because, subconsciously, they need a gay relationship. Because a straight boy isn’t good enough. He isn’t interesting enough. He isn’t diverse enough. He isn’t safe enough.

Though I hate to bring up online interactions as an example, online culture seems to be regularly bleeding out into reality. Like a miasma, those twisted by the Internet start flooding into places like women’s groups or gay-straight alliances, drowning out the normal and putting unstable teens in the driver’s seat. 

It was these teens who filled in the Rainbow Club at my gap year internship, seating my hypothetical audience. When it came to casting characters in my stories, I needed to fall in line with their trends, even if I desperately wanted to avoid them. If I ever did take the risk to share my work, lives were at stake, and objecting wasn’t an option. 

I still couldn’t write a “female perspective.” Trans or non-binary characters were too easy to mess up. Straight characters meant straight into cancelation. The safest choice was obvious. 

The Tipping Point

The nail in the coffin was when I saw firsthand what a woke critic looked like.

I submitted a novella to a writing mentor. One chapter was a fight scene. The story featured a female character who was weaker and didn’t fight much. She was my only female character, but also a side character, and therefore flat and underdeveloped.

It would have been a legitimate critique to say we needed to see more of what she provided to the team, or that she was boring. 

Instead, I was sent a section of critique notes titled “Women Writing Women.” We spoke face-to-face about how it was vitally important I handle women differently than male writers do. How this happened because I only had misogynistic male authors as references. How I didn’t put my male characters into stereotypes, so her gender was clearly the reason I messed her up. 

The reality: It was midnight when I wrote the scene and I forgot I had equipped her with a weapon. Regular old bad writing.

If anything, the pressure to write women so perfectly is what caused her character to become so flat in the first place. 

If she were a man, what would my teacher have said?

I spitefully continued making Male Characters. Male Protagonists. Male Villains. No female main characters, no wives, not even mothers. I wanted to prove a point. 

Removing women from my work meant I could finally have it critiqued on its merits. I could share the messages I wanted to share, without my readers becoming distracted by analyzing it for feminist lessons. 

Gay characters have come with their own conundrums. I’ve had readers praise my work because it’s “gay,” and I’ve had readers put it down because it’s “gay.” I don’t really feel like there’s a point in calling a piece of writing “too gay,” or “too straight,” for that matter. I’d be lying if I said this didn’t hurt after a while. 

But that’s the case with critique on anything, not just homosexuality, or gender, or representation. Every writer worth their salt needs to come into the field equipped to deal with critics. If I want to resist an environment that insists I am fragile, I can’t let overtly trollish comments from online strangers get to me. I’m not a helpless victim. I might feel annoyed or upset when I read them, but then, I just close the tab and move on.

Plus, my writing is not really as bad as I can make it out to be; I have written several female characters in major roles since breaking out of the social justice extreme mindset. At times I exaggerate the gender numbers because, at some point, even I have to admit it’s a little funny. 

Writer’s block lost. The real reason for my characters ending up as they are is that the residue of old habits just happens to be sticking around. I used to shred pieces I’ve written that could be deemed offensive, but now, I’ve changed strategies to revising and improving upon the tales I loved writing the most. Cutting perfectly good characters, or changing their demographics just to push for a different message, would only reinforce the patterns that created the problem in the first place. 

We cannot counter censorship with censorship. For all of the issues discussed, it was never gay characters causing them. Rather, it was the excessive self-censorship authors were pushed into that caused their work to center on gay characters as a side effect. 

So, why do I only write about gay men? I hope I’ve given a sufficient answer. 

Since we’re here, though, I have a question for you:

Why does it matter?

What’s truly valuable in a story is a well-written, well-developed hero with a compelling personality. Perhaps someone who resisted heartbreaking tokenism to develop their own path, with the strength to avoid living in prolonged resentment.

Someone like the straight female author you’ve been reading about, or the gay male protagonist of her novella IVY.