Content Warning: Homophobic crimes and government persecution
This post is adapted from a forthcoming article.
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In a 2017 interview, Chechnyan President Ramzan Kadyrov laughed off [Content warning: video contains hate speech] a question about the torture and murder of gay people in his small Caucasian republic: “That’s nonsense. We don’t have that kind of people here.” Many of Kadyrov’s compatriots would believe him, because to many, gay people in Chechnya—and indeed, across much of the Russian-speaking world—are invisible. The ongoing purge of gay Chechnyans presents a chilling catch-22: When people want you to be invisible, of course it’s dangerous to be seen, but invisibility poses dangers of its own.
A growing number of researchers are turning their critiques on the invisibility of LGBTQIA+ people in the language classroom (Moore, 2020; Rhodes & Coda, 2017; Nelson, 2010; Nelson, 2006; Knisely & Paiz, 2021). They have found that teaching materials rarely represent lifestyles, family structures, or individuals outside of the heterosexual and cisgender norm (Gray, 2013; Paiz, 2015, cited in Moore, 2020). And although standard language varieties have ceded some ground to regional dialects in recent years, queer language practices have not enjoyed these gains. As a result, queer and trans students may find themselves lacking even the most basic words to describe their own experiences. Interviews with LGBTQIA+ language teachers and students have shown that the conflicting pressures to discuss and to conceal their private lives may so fully alienate LGBTQIA+ students that they withdraw from class entirely (Gray, 2013; Moore, 2016).
The root of these ills is heteronormativity—that is, the construction of straightness or cisness as normal and mundane, and queerness as unusual or sensational. Heteronormativity begets queer erasure, which in turn justifies the exclusion of queer people, cultures, and language practices from pedagogical discussions and materials. It frames queer cultures and language practices as special interest topics that should only be discussed in the context of other, supposedly more broadly-appealing subjects. It interacts with queerphobia to discourage even supportive teachers, students, and administrators from speaking up. Heteronormativity is so all-encompassing that it often feels impossible to fully grasp, let alone conquer. But that’s what we need to do. As language teachers, we have three mandates: To care for our students, to push their thinking, and to help them develop their understanding of different languages and cultures. And that is why queer pedagogy is every language teacher’s fight.
Most teachers want to include their LGBTQIA+ students and promote tolerance more generally (Kissau et al., 2019; Rhodes, 2019). Advertisements for language programs are all too eager to tout the purported connection between language learning and the development of tolerance. So then what makes heteronormativity in language teaching seem so intractable?
The first and likely most significant answer is fear: LGBTQIA+ teachers may fear backlash from sharing their personal lives with their students, while heterosexual and cisgender teachers may lack confidence in their ability to discuss LGBTQIA+ topics. In short, teachers can sense the danger both of not being knowledgeable enough as well as of being too knowledgeable. Gray (2013) recounts how after one ESL teacher disclosed his civil partnership, his strong rapport with his class “crashed” (p. 59). And the wave of reactionary policies restricting inclusive educational practices makes discussing queerness dangerous, not only socially, but also legally.
The only way past these justified fears is through them, and there are tools that can help us get there. Curran (2006) discusses some facilitation strategies that can turn hateful or ignorant comments around to examine their underlying assumptions. Teachers can also prepare for possible conflict by establishing class norms for respectful dialogue and preparing de-escalation and conflict resolution plans. Of course, teachers can’t stick their necks out on their own; administrators need to support their staff both by helping them to develop these skills and tools and by committing to backing them if and when conflict arises. In this way, educators can foster opportunities for growth and trust-building instead of maintaining an illusory peace built on the shaky foundation of suppressed difference.
Unfortunately, supportive administrators and good facilitation practices are only part of the battle. Teachers also need adequate teaching materials. At present, queer pedagogical resources are scant, to put it lightly. Education publishers tend to cater to their most conservative markets, meaning that potentially controversial topics often get left on the chopping block (Paiz, 2018). One ESL publisher explained her discomfort with this fact, which made her complicit in queer erasure: “The compromise is very hard, [but] you can’t… force your teacher to raise certain issues…the bottom line is we want our course to be bought” (Gray, 2013, p. 51). When textbooks do take up LGBTQIA+ issues, they often do so in a problematic way, for instance asking whether gay people should have the same rights as straight people (Gray, 2013; Moore, 2021). This does more harm than good.
The pervasive lack of suitable materials can leave both teachers and students believing that it’s nonsensical to talk about such a supposedly niche or sensational topic; they may resent the “shoehorning” of LGBTQIA+ themes into the curriculum. But are the issues that concern LGBTQIA+ people really irrelevant or inappropriate? Communicative language teaching is suffused with questions of how we arrange our lives and relationships, so sexuality is already a central part of the curriculum. Take for example this excerpt from the introductory Russian textbook Troika, published in 2011 (a translation of the first two paragraphs follows).
Our Family
My name is Nina. My last name is Lebedeva. Our family is large: I have a mother, a father, two brothers, and one sister. My sister is named Natasha. She’s married (she has a husband). Her husband is named Valentin. He’s a journalist. He’s very nice. They have children: a son, Misha and a daughter, Ira.
My older brother Sergei is also a journalist. He’s not married yet, but he has a girlfriend. Her name is Tanya. My younger brother Sasha is a student. He thinks that happiness is a motorcycle. He has a new Japanese motorcycle, a very expensive one.
Virtually every general language course includes a text like this one, because students are expected to talk about their families, homes, and partners. By my count, it contains no less than six heteronormative references: three male-female relationships, two mentions of having children within a heterosexual marriage, one to romantic relationships necessarily culminating in marriage (“He’s not married yet”), and the implicit definition of “family” as the nuclear family. (We could also get into the fact that the men have careers and interests, whereas the women only have marital statuses, but that’s an issue for another day.)
My point is not that the authors have done something wrong, nor to suggest that they should have included a non-binary or trans family member or a same-sex, polyamorous, or queer platonic relationship. Rather, I want to highlight how innocuous this text is—with all due respect to the authors, I could hardly make it more boring if I tried. It may never win a Booker, but it addresses some of the most fundamental questions of how people arrange their lives. The tendency of language teaching materials to take up these questions in a heteronormative way does not make the questions themselves—or any of their potential answers—inappropriate. And yet it’s unimaginable that Natasha’s partner could be named not Valentin, but Valentina. I myself, despite having gay Russian friends and being more knowledgeable than most about LGBTQIA+ culture in Russia, have so deeply internalized the equation of “Russian” with “homophobic” that I caught myself writing that it was not unimaginable, but unrealistic for Natasha to have a female partner.
Of course, some teachers might worry that bringing LGBTQIA+ topics into the classroom disrespects or misrepresents the culture and values associated with the target language, particularly in a language like Russian. But why would we treat queerphobia as an immutable cultural value, as if LGBTQIA+ people don’t exist in every culture? Moreover, it’s xenophobic to assume that even the straight members of a given language community are necessarily closed-minded or hateful—and I say this as someone who grew up in the Bible Belt and witnessed first-hand how quickly entrenched queerphobia can melt away given the chance. By perpetuating the belief that there is no way or need to talk about queer issues in, for example, Russian, we offer a narrow view of what it means to be a Russian speaker and who is allowed to be one. It follows from that line of thinking someone who is gay or trans cannot be fully Russian. Kadyrov’s response to the Chechnyan gay purges demonstrates how dangerous that belief can be.
Furthermore, if you aren’t connected to queer communities where your target language is spoken, how do you even know where to begin? In some contexts, including Canada, where multiculturalism and tolerance are not only widely accepted values but also important pillars of nation-building (and therefore already in the curriculum), it’s easier to get started. In others, it’s much harder. For example, Russia’s cultural canon and current political situation can make the development of queer pedagogy feel like a Sisyphean task.
* * * * *
For most of the 20th century, homosexuality was illegal in Russia and the Soviet Union. Of course, it continued to exist, as the sudden flourishing of gay publications following its decriminalization in 1917 and 1993 attest. Since 1993, it has been legal to be gay in Russia, but whether it is safe is another question, especially in the last decade. Since the beginning of Putin’s third presidential term, campaigns promoting so-called traditional family values and cultural isolationism have fueled queerphobic legislation. In 2013, a bill titled On the Protection of Children from Information that is Harmful to their Health and Development, popularly known as the “gay propaganda” ban, passed unanimously in the Duma, or federal parliament. In December of 2022, the law was strengthened and extended not only to minors, but to people of all ages. As a result, it is currently illegal in Russia to fly a pride flag, to speak openly in support of gay people, and to “promote gender dysphoria” (read: acknowledge the existence of gender diversity) to minors. The law is vague by design and its enforcement arbitrary—much like the enforcement of laws protecting freedom of speech and prohibiting hate crimes against LGBTQIA+ and other marginalized people.
If, as some have argued, the goal of the “gay propaganda” law is to construct LGBTQIA+ individuals as a detestable foreign enemy in order to justify restrictions on free speech, crackdowns on activism, and even the invasion of Ukraine, then it is having some success. But it will not succeed in eradicating Russian queerness. LGBTQIA+ people have always existed and will always exist in Russia. And even now, there are many straight Russians who relate to the LGBTQIA+ community positively or at least with nonchalant bemusement. Homophobic laws not only isolate LGBTQIA+ people and encourage violence and discrimination, they also make it harder for others to solidify positive attitudes and relationships with their gay and trans neighbors, friends, and coworkers. In such a situation, a little visibility can go a long way.
In the face of so much darkness, stories of queer resistance in Russia are full of joy, strength, and yes, even hope. Sasha Kazantseva combats the stigma of both queerness and sex education in Russia through her podcast, books, and collaborations with international companies and NGOs. Activist Yulia Tsvetkova has been fined and imprisoned several times on charges of distributing “gay propaganda” and “pornography,” in part for the drawing above. Yet the Twitter campaign for which she made that drawing, under the hashtag #давыберу (“I’ll vote yes”), produced a flurry of art expressing solidarity with same-sex couples from across the Russian-speaking world. The 2010 publication LGBT Activism: Shortening the Path to Change by Ksenia Kirichenko highlights LGBTQIA+ activism in the areas of popular culture, the justice system, and sexual health. The Path to Solidarity: How you Can Support Transgender People provides guidance for trans-affirming language, advice for family members of trans people, and a checklist for creating trans-inclusive organizations and events. The “We’re Everywhere” project (no longer available) collected anonymous queer and trans stories from across Russia in order to highlight the existence of LGBTQIA+ people outside of the large urban centers and to alleviate the isolation of closeted people in smaller cities and villages. If people in the former Soviet Union, one of the most uniformly homophobic regions of the world, are doing all that, just imagine what’s possible for the rest of us. I reiterate: The fight for queer pedagogies is every language teacher’s fight.
It’s our fight because while Russia may be in the vanguard, we are all in danger of being engulfed by the miasma of queerphobia. Powerful people in Russia and closer to home are working not only to invisibilize queerness, but to eradicate LGBTQIA+ people themselves. When we teachers sigh, shake our heads, and steer the conversation back towards the “safe” territory of Gogol (gay, by the way), Tchaikovsky (also gay), Tsvetaeva (bisexual) and Pushkin (ally?), we participate, however reluctantly, in these genocidal daydreams. Let Russian homophobic culture and the resistance to it serve as an example of why it’s necessary to fight back and what that fight can look like.
It’s our fight because, as any LGBTQIA+ person will affirm, a person or place that is not explicitly safe is, ipso facto, unsafe. Thus, if we do not loudly refuse queerphobia, we perpetuate it.
It’s our fight because, whether we know about them or not, there are LGBTQIA+ students in our classes. They shouldn’t have to wear rainbow sneakers to earn the same learning opportunities that we provide by default to everyone else.
Queer pedagogies can take many forms. At their most basic, they can include acknowledging the presence of queerness in the pre-existing curriculum (for example, including Tchaikovsky’s sexuality as a simple biographical fact). Teachers can go further by showing students the ways that people enact queerness through language, for instance by the creative use of pronouns and sentence structure to bypass binary gender constructions. They may also choose to explicitly discuss queer literature, art, news, and activism. Whatever route one chooses, one must be mindful not to force queer students to out themselves and to avoid framings that call into question the humanity or basic rights of LGBTQIA+ communities.
It is vital to speak about what feels unspeakable—and in the language classroom, this is not a metaphor. Incorporating queer pedagogies into language teaching is a small but meaningful way to counter oppressive political agendas and destabilize the seemingly ineluctable position of queerphobia at home and beyond.
References
Curran, G. (2006). The forum. Journal of Language, Identity, and Education, 5(1), 85-96.
Kirichenko, K. (2010). ЛГБТ Активисм: Сокращания путь к переменам [LGBT activism: Shortening the path to change]. Omsk: PULSAR Interregional Project.
Nummikoski, M. (2011). Troika, 2nd Edition. Vista Higher Learning.
