Representation matters. Or so we’ve been told—usually by someone holding a Diversity & Inclusion pamphlet in one hand and a pitchfork full of budget cuts in the other. But nothing says progress like a major studio loudly patting itself on the back for including a gay character that blinks ambiguously in the background of a war movie for three frames. Is that queer joy? Or just dust on the lens? Unclear. Either way, congratulations, we’ve done it. Equality achieved. Roll credits.
Let’s start with the real issue here: representation isn’t just about existing on screen—it’s about how we exist. And historically, we’ve been offered three core LGBTQ+ character types to choose from:
- The Sassy Gay Best Friend Who Lives to Serve
His primary purpose? Whispering, “Yaaas queen,” into a heterosexual void and decorating apartments no one in the friend group can afford. - The Doomed Lesbian With a Tragic Haircut
She finds love—right before a truck, a tumor, or a turbulent flash flood ends it all. Don’t worry, though: the straight couple gets a happy ending. - The Token Trans Character Who Exists to Teach a Cis Person a Lesson
Often played by someone who couldn’t even spell “gender dysphoria” if you spotted them the vowels.
But hey, don’t be greedy. You got one whole episode! You want more?
Tokenism: The Budget-Friendly Queer Experience™
Every Pride month, corporate America rolls out the red carpet for us—by which I mean, they recolor their logo, sell a rainbow jockstrap, and then donate our dollars to anti-gay politicians faster than you can say “limited edition Skittles.” Meanwhile, Netflix bravely gives us a series about a bisexual tree who falls in love with a non-binary fox, but only if you live in Norway and stream between 2:00–3:00 a.m.
Representation? We’re overflowing with it. Just last year, we got:
- The first openly gay character in a Marvel film who mentioned his husband before being obliterated by Thanos.
- A brief kiss in Lightyear that caused global panic and was promptly edited out for 47 countries.
- One line in a Star Wars film from someone named “Rebel Pilot #6” whispering, “My wife died” before being gunned down by space fascists.
It’s called inclusion, sweetie. Get with it.
The Straight Gaze™
Most LGBTQ+ storylines aren’t actually for us. They’re for the straights—to teach them a very special lesson about tolerance via soft focus and string music. These stories typically unfold like this:
- Gay kid gets bullied.
- Gay kid cries in the rain.
- Straight parent learns that love is love.
- Gay kid either dies or goes to college in Vermont.
Meanwhile, in reality, we’re out here navigating the labyrinth of hookup culture, queer joy, Grindr ghosting, identity crises, and the DMV—all while trying to survive both global politics and rainbow capitalism. But sure. Let’s watch another coming-out scene where someone stammers through the word “lesbian” like it’s a racial slur in a Victorian parlor.
When They Do Let Us Be Happy, It’s for Two Seconds
You finally get a queer couple. A hot one. With chemistry. Maybe they hold hands. Maybe they kiss. Maybe they plan a life together. And just when you exhale—just when you feel something—boom: buried. Dead. Gone. Cancelled. We’re still searching for the showrunner who hasn’t murdered their gays with the urgency of a Victorian doctor applying leeches to a cough.
Even in supposedly groundbreaking shows, our joy is rationed like post-apocalyptic canned food. You get one episode of happiness, and then—surprise!—homophobia, betrayal, or a meteor wipes it all away. But don’t worry. They’ll post a thinkpiece about it on X (formerly Twitter).
And Don’t Even Get Me Started on Disney
Disney has been teasing a “first gay character” since the Clinton administration. Every year, they gift us another side character voiced by Billy Porter who winks a little too hard at the camera. They show up, say something mildly coded like, “I love that blouse,” and then disappear into a subplot about friendship. Trailblazing.
But if you ask the studio execs? Representation! Visibility! Progress! Meanwhile, we’re still begging for a queer lead who doesn’t end up alone, dead, or recast by a straight actor who says something problematic two weeks into press tour.
The Damage
But here’s the less-funny part: lack of representation, and poor representation, harms people. I spent my formative years thinking “gay” meant dying young, or being the butt of the joke, or existing only to further someone else’s emotional growth. We internalized invisibility. We made ourselves smaller. And when we did come out, it was into a world that didn’t see us as whole people—just supporting characters in someone else’s drama.
The media taught straight people to tolerate us as long as we were tragic, fabulous, or neutered. It taught parents that love was conditional. It taught kids like me that being gay meant losing everything unless you kept quiet or got lucky.
Representation matters because when we don’t see ourselves, we assume we’re not supposed to exist. And when we do see ourselves, but only in trauma or tokenism, we start believing that’s all we’re worth.
So What Now?
We don’t need 800 new queer shows. We need better queer shows. We need stories that are queer and boring. Queer farmers. Queer detectives. Queer people who don’t die. Queer people who get to be selfish, messy, hot, and mediocre—just like the rest of you.
We need characters who are gay and happy. Trans and powerful. Bisexual and not just confused. Nonbinary and not a metaphor for aliens. We need less trauma porn and more sitcoms. Less Pride month marketing, more year-round investment.
And maybe—just maybe—when we finally get that show where the gay couple isn’t tragic, the lesbian isn’t dead, the trans person isn’t a token, and the storyline doesn’t revolve around whether or not we’re palatable to your Aunt Linda…
We’ll finally feel seen.
But until then, we’ll be here—queer, watching background kisses on mute, and pretending that maybe next season, the sassy best friend gets their own damn storyline.