why queer diaspora?

Author(s): Meg Wesling

Source: Feminist Review , 2008, No. 90, gendering diaspora (2008), pp. 30-47
Published by: Sage Publications, Ltd.

Stable URL: https://www.jstor.org/stable/40663937

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90 why queer diaspora?

Meg Westing

abstract

'Why Queer Diaspora?' intervenes at the intersection of queer theory and diaspora
studies to ask how the conditions of geographical mobility produce new experiences
and understandings of sexuality and gender identity. More particularly, this essay
argues against a prevalent critical slippage between queer and diaspora, through
which the queer is read as a mobile category that, like diaspora, disrupts the stability
of fixed identity categories and thus represents a liberatory position within the
material and geographical displacements of globalization. Instead, I posit that the
work of 'queering' diaspora must be to examine the new articulations of normative
and queer as they emerge in the transformations of the late twentieth century. To this
end, the essay looks to two contemporary documentaries, Remote Sensing (Ursula
Biemann, 2001) and Mariposas en el Andamio/Butterflies on the Scaffold (Margaret
Gilpin and Luis Felipe Bernaza, 1996), as models of alternative articulations of the
queer and the diasporic. Ultimately, I argue, it is a focus on the labour through which
the seemingly natural categories of gender and sexuality are produced, that a queer
diasporic criticism might offer.

keywords
diaspora; queer studies; globalization; sex work

30 feminist review 90 2008

(30-47) © 2008 Feminist Review. 0141-7789/08 www.feminist-review.com

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The question that is the title of this essay is an earnest one, and I pose it to
index two related but distinct lines of inquiry that arise as we confront the
relation between queer theory and diaspora studies. What does it mean to 'queer'
diaspora studies? To pose the question more broadly, what analytical possibilities
open up when we consider the relation between sexuality, identity, and desire on
the one hand, and the geographical mobility, estrangement, or displacement of
people on the other? This essay will approach these questions by considering how
the contemporary conditions of geographical mobility - the diasporic condition
that attends the circumstance of globalization - produce new experiences and
understandings of sexuality and gender identity. In this interest, this essay thus
hopes to contribute to the timely work currently underway under the rubric of
'queer globalization studies'.

This, however, begs yet another question: what is at stake in the tendency, in
much of that very same work, to conjoin the queer subject and the diasporic
subject as theoretical twins? In the increasing number of anthologies and
monographs exploring the intersection of sexuality studies and globalization, it is
the diasporic queer subject in particular who is called upon to bear witness to the
political, material, familial, and intellectual transformations of globalization. As
I will explore in more detail below, such work offers the diasporic queer as the
exemplary subject of globalization, in order to posit an analogy between
queerness as that which subverts gender normativity, and diaspora as that which
troubles geographic and national stability.

Such critical moves rest on the following line of thinking: on the one hand, it is
asserted, the nation, through structural arrangements of citizenship, marriage
law, and immigration regulation, always and unconditionally privileges
heterosexuality. On the other, then, queerness challenges not just the nation's
familial metaphor of belonging, but disrupts national coherence itself (Eng and
Horn, 1998; Muñoz, 1999; Patton and Sánchez-Eppler, 2000). Newly emergent from
the debris of nationalism is a figure of the 'sexile', a gay cosmopolitan subject
who, once exiled from national space, is therefore outside of the duties,
identifications, and demands of nationalism, and is paradoxically liberated into
free transnational mobility (Guzman, 1997). Carried to its logical end, this binary
would suggest that to the extent that queers necessarily disrupt national
coherence, they are always already extra-national. In the end, queerness and
transnational movement are collapsed: queerness constitutes a mobile resistance
to the boundaries and limits imposed by gender, and that resistance is the same
as the migrant's movement through national and cultural borders. Put simply, the
analogy is this: queerness disrupts gender normativity like globalization disrupts
national sovereignty.

While there is much to be said for the transformative potential of queer and
diasporic practices, I want to suggest an alternate line of inquiry for thinking
about the intersection of sexuality and globalization. In particular, I propose that

Meg Wesiing fe m i n i st re vi e w 90 2008 31

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 the study of sexuality and globalization would do well to consider what kinds of
critical and political work are done not just through the (geographically and
corporeally) mobile bodies of queer subjects, but among those bodies and
communities not marked as mobile, whether literally or theoretically. More
specifically, I wonder how the study of queer globalization might attend to the
production of new forms of normativity among diasporic communities, as well as
the gendered labour that subtends post-Fordism's modes of production and
accumulation. For it is my contention that it is precisely the critical analogy
between gender mobility and geographic mobility that risks mystifying the
material and psychic relations it would seem to illuminate. That is, as I will
argue, the analogy conceals, by rendering them equivalent, the very links
between desire, practice, and material relations that produce gender and
sexuality as social formations. This critical move thus occludes the very question
it would seem to want to ask: what analytical possibilities open up when we bring
queer studies and globalization studies into closer proximity - when we think
globally about queerness, and queerly about globalization?

Toward this end, this essay will consider how national and transnational
relationships of production codify normative gender roles within a hetero-
normative national narrative, while remembering, at the same time, that the
queer subject is also produced through transnational capitalism and the
nationalist discourses that exist in tension with it. How does this queer subject
allow us to reconceptualize the very formulation of national subjectivity within a
transnational economic productive system, without fetishizing the queer
diasporic as the 'localized' site of both national knowledge and diasporic
consciousness?

the queer face of globalization

In the introduction to their influential anthology Queer Globalizations, editors
Amoldo Cruz-Malavé and Martin F. Manalansan IV open their essay with the
simple and direct assertion: 'Queerness is now global' (2002: l). Suggesting the
timeliness of this development - the now of queerness' transnational reach -
Cruz-Malavé and Manalansan ground their claim in two intersecting but distinct
developments. First, they point to the increased visibility of queer sexualities
through the global circulation of images of, and commodities for, queers.
Second, they cite the transnational coordination of queer politics, a form of
global coalition-building made possible through queer visibility in the market-
place. As they argue, it is the commodification of gay and lesbian identity that
enables the international recognition of, and mobilization around, struggles for
sexual and social justice, making not only the visual codes of queer identity, but
also the struggles for queer rights, recognizable in a transnational framework.

32 feminist review 90 2008 why queer diaspora?

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It is the project of queer globalizations to chart the relations between these two
developments.

At the centre of their framework is the diasporic queer subject, a figure imagined
as both geographically and ideologically unlocateable, who mediates between the
commodity-based queer identity and its political mobilization as the diasporic
queer subject. That is, the mobile body of the diasporic queer serves as the
'mediating figure between the nation and diaspora, home and the state, the
local and the global' (Cruz-Malavé and Manalansan, 2002: 2). Importantly, their
central interest in the diasporic queer as a paradigmatic figure of globalization
draws from a long critical conversation, one that begins with the 'transnational
turn in lesbian and gay studies and queer theory' (Povinelli and Chauncey, 1999: 439).
This position is elaborated extensively in a broad range of recent queer work. For
example, in Queer Diasporas, editors Cindy Patton and Benigno Sánchez-Eppler
site the queer diasporic subject as the paradigmatic body of a mobile, transitory
postmodernity. Reading, through the story of Adam and Eve's banishment from
£den, an originary articulation between spatial and sexual prohibition, they make
the case for a complementary relation between diaspora and queerness as
analogous forms of mobility. In isolating the specificity of 'queer escape and
reconstitution', Queer Diasporas thus defines the queer as a particularly
peripatetic mode of sexuality, a 'mobility of sexuality across the globe and body'
(2000: 3). The diasporic queer subject thus becomes a doubly mobile or
transgressive body, who challenges not simply the repertoire of localized
categories of desire but the stability of national identity itself.

Working within a similar logical frame, John Hawley has insisted on a parallel
between queer and postcolonial studies, in which queer theory's deconstructive
reading of identity enacts in an individual frame the global condition in which
supranational organizations and corporations exert authority as a deterritor-
ialized framework of power in which 'globalization, in effect, becomes queer'
(2001: 8). Likewise, the special issue of Social Text, Queer Transexions of Race,
Nation, and Gender, looked to 'free up' the 'queer' from the specificity of
sexuality, in order to throw into productive crisis 'the social antagonisms of
nationality, race, gender, and class' (Harper et a/., 1997: 1,3). The title of the
1998 CLAGS (Center for Lesbian and Gay Studies) conference, 'Queer
Globalizations, Local Homosexualities' betrays the same logic, uniting an
identity-based 'homosexual' with the stasis of the 'local', and positing both
against a more mobile, global, transgressive 'queer'.

Each of these frameworks unites the queer with the diasporic in a privileged
relation of transgressivity, begging the question about the critical function of
such an analogy. Both, it would seem, are fundamentally disruptive of static
categories of being, of the hegemonic categories through which proper, normative
subjects are produced. Taking this analogy a step further, the queer subject, as a
fundamentally diasporic figure, becomes synonymous with globalization itself.

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 Within this analogy, the queer diasporic body is doubly disarticulated from the
stasis of sexual and national normativity; likewise, he (gendered male) is doubly
privileged as the site for interrogating the assimilative function of
heteronormativity and national identity.

To be sure, inasmuch as the work of queer globalization scholars looks to

foreground sexuality as a necessary category for thinking the material, psychic,
and social effects of globalization, these interventions are both necessary and
significant. At the same time, the emphasis on the queer diasporic subject as the
central figure of that analysis produces a critical discourse that reinvests in the
very categories it would seem to want to challenge. First, the structure of
analogy between the queer and the diasporic establishes a tenuous partnership;
here the work of Black feminist critics usefully reminds us that such critical
analogies fail to attend to the complexities of differentially lived experiences
(Crenshaw, 1991; Collins, 2000; Zack, 2005). Moreover, in focusing on mobility
over stasis, these interventions have less to say about the conditions that enable
or disable the body's mobility. In this way, such theories replicate what other
feminist critics have isolated as a gendered dynamic in which women occupy,
implicitly, the static role of the local, as well as a critical trend in which queer
theory more generally has looked to disarticulate itself from feminism by positing
'queer' as mobile, in relation to feminism's presumed fixity (Martin, 1997). They
replicate, as well, the critical paradigm evidenced in macroanalyses of
globalization, which have had little to say about gender as an organizing
category (Harvey, 1989; Waters, 1995; Appadurai, 1996). The result is 'the
implicit, but powerful, dichotomous model in which the gender of globalization is
mapped in such a way that the global: masculine as local: feminine' (Freeman,
2001: 1,008).

Such work would thus do well to attend to the critical history of mobility as a
liberatory paradigm. This is the challenge offered by Sara Ahmed (2000), who
warns against the reification of 'migrant ontologies' in which migration is
understood as a necessarily transgressive mode of existence. Likewise, while
recognizing the new patterns of movement that are characteristic of post-Fordist
regimes of production and consumption, several feminist critics insist upon
the importance of groundedness as well, questioning 'the presumption that
rootless mobility is the defining feature of contemporary experience' (Ahmed
et al., 2003: 2).

As I have argued, this collapsing of the queer and the diasporic prevents us from
forging a politics that could recognize the patterns of contradiction and
complicity between the psychic and the social, the cultural and the economic,
that converge to produce the formations of queerness we recognize today. The
claim for the mobile transgressivity of queerness as its own diasporic category -
the idea that it is necessarily disruptive of categories of nation, home, and
family - misses the ways in which queer desire is necessarily constituted in

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relation to such categories and can offer us no assurance of their disruption. The
point is not to deny the power of mobility as a condition of modern existence, but
to resist its epistemological centrality in contemporary scholarship and, in so
doing, mark the specificity of forms of rootedness and movement as coincidental,
not oppositional categories (Brah, 1996; Fortier, 2003; Gopinath, 2005). As
Roger Rouse has observed, lthe cultural politics of domination always concerns
the regulation of desire1 (1995: 376); as such, queer desire, no less than other
forms, must be understood to be fundamentally implicated in the social
reproduction of globalization. To take the regulation of desire and domination
seriously, then, I suggest we start by abandoning our sense of the forms that such
regulation might take. Our starting point would thus take seriously Amy Villarejo's
warning that 'there is no confident way of predicting how gender will be
consolidated in the service of regulatory mechanisms in any given place or
moment' (2003: 16). It is precisely in the spirit of such unpredictability that the
critical insights of queer theory might be brought to bear upon the political,
social, and economic transformations of globalization, not only to push the
boundaries of what we might understand as queer, but also to offer new insight
into the regulatory mechanisms and the forms of desire such global
transformations produce.

compulsory mobility and the

counter-geographies of sex
With such questions in mind, I would like to turn to two visual texts, Mariposas en
el Andamio/Butterflies on the Scaffold (1996) and Remote Sensing (2001), each
of which offers a distinct but compelling model for alternative inquiries into the
sexual politics of globalization. Neither documentary has received wide
commentary, and neither positions itself within the specific critical conversation
around queer diaspora. And yet, both consider questions of sexuality, mobility,
and the global relations of production and accumulation in ways that offer, I
think, suggestive visions for expanding upon our current understandings of the
relation between sexuality and globalization. Moving to the documentary form, I
do not mean to escape but rather to expand the scholarly conversation outlined
above. As creative and thoughtful interventions into this conversation, each film
offers a highly specific picture of globalization, and in so doing, offers a way of
contextualizing the political and material conditions of mobility that become the
conditions of possibility for sexuality, understood in terms of both desire and
identity. Taking as my starting point the understanding that globalization is not a
uniform phenomenon but an ensemble of 'uneven processes whereby certain
locales are constituted as "the global'" (Ahmed, 2000: 14), I will suggest that
each documentary offers a critical language through which we might place such
locales as intricate parts of a larger picture of the queer and the diasporic.
Moreover, through interplay between the formal and narrative aspects of each

Meg Wesiing fern i n ist review 90 2008 35

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 documentary, we see challenged both the grand narratives of globalization as a
seamless and coherent system, and the privileging of mobility as a liberatory or
transgressive position.

Remote Sensing is the agile and adept work of Ursula Biemann, a German artist,
theorist, and curator, whose interest in questions of gender and globalization has
been at the centre of multiple videos, books, and curatorial projects. While I have
referred to Remote Sensing as a documentary because of its reliance on
interviews, voice-over interventions, and a realist mise-en-scene, it is also an
experimental video-essay, juxtaposing multiple media formats, like close-up
interviews with NASA satellite ¡mages and computerized data streams, in order to
make visual as well as narrative connections between the different ways, global
and local, abstract and particular, of knowing and experiencing the mobility of
globalization. Distributed by the New York-based Women Make Movies, which
produces and distributes films by and about women, the video's circulation quite
explicitly places it within feminist conversations about gender, geography, and
mobility; the film's screenings in multiple museums and film festivals in Europe,
the US, and New Zealand have earned it significant recognition in international
feminist conversations about migration, border crossing, gender, and geopolitics.

While the corpus of Biemann's work has won her an international reputation as a
feminist critic highly attuned to the gender politics of geographical mobility,
Remote Sensing (2001) is particularly compelling in its searing look at the sexual
trafficking of women across the globe. In part, then, it must be understood as a
creative engagement with feminist critics about the politics of sex work and,
more broadly, the new conditions of circulation for women and girls forced into a
mobile life of sexual labour. Put differently, Biemann's video offers an answer to
the questions recently posed by Amalia Cabezas, who asks, 'what is new about
global sex? How does globalization create the conditions within which sexual acts
and sexualized identities develop?' (2004: 988). Biemann's video thus enacts a
critical engagement with recent feminist investigations of globalization that have
shown how the invisible trade in sex has developed in proximity to the formal
tourist sector in many developing countries, exploring the ways in which informal
economies of paid sex work provide crucial income in areas devastated by
development policies that have caused currency depreciation, the devaluation of
labour, and the redirection of subsidies from social programmes to debt
repayment (Hubbard, 2001; Cabezas, 2004; Sanchez Taylor, 2006). Adapting to
the difficult circumstances brought about by the implementation of free-market
reforms and the devastating effects of the International Monetary Fund's
structural adjustment programmes, communities have witnessed the growth of
'tourist-oriented prostitution' as a supplemental industry that accompanies the
international financial community's formal investments in its tourist economy.
Sex work, then, is a vital part of the global economy, one in which the class
politics between global and local are played out in highly racialized ways that

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'reflects the consequences and legacy of colonialism as they play out on this
current stage of global capitalism' (Cabezas, 2004: 998).

In Biemann's work, however, the strains of mobility are manifest quite differently,
as it is the women themselves who have been displaced, moving between cities
and across borders as part of a seldom-visible network of migrant workers. It is
this constrained mobility that is foregrounded in the formal aspects of the video,
which shifts frequently between formats. Basing her claims largely on interviews
with women touched in some direct way by the global trafficking of women sex
workers (many of its interviewees are either former sex workers or activists
mobilizing to help those women unwittingly or coercively recruited into the
trade), Biemann intersperses such interviews with long shots of NASA satellite
pictures of the Earth, dividing the screen into four panels so that, even as we get
to know the women of the film, they exist simultaneously and directly connected
with this broader, more abstract view of the global terrain they have travelled.
And indeed, this juxtaposition is precisely the point; while resisting a simple
contrast between local (woman interviewee) and global (satellite shot), this
split-screen view nevertheless suggests interconnectedness between each person
and the geographical terrain that engenders her ways of knowing. This is the
message expressed in the video's opening shot; to the backdrop of these split-
screen satellite views, the video opens with a voice-over, telling us that these
'remotely sensed' images, offering both 'the most accurate data' and 'the most
ultimate abstraction of geographies', are insufficient to explain how and why
'women travel across the globe for work in the sex industry'. Instead, Biemann
asserts, we need 'a ground-up view to fill in the missing data that will capture
the complexity of lives, including the reason why women trace their routes across
the land the way they do'. Switching, then, back and forth between shots of train
tracks along the US-Mexican border, interspersed with shots of busy night-time
sidewalks, where women and men loiter, talk, and circulate, Biemann concludes
the first segment by asking what will be the video's pressing question: 'How can a
technological geography be complemented with multiple counter-geographies
that will map a gendered and possibly conflicting view of the world, that can
account for migration and cross-border circuits, illegal and illicit networks,
alternative circuits of survival where women have emerged as key actors'?

To shade in the contours of such a counter-geography is thus the aim of the

video, and it does this through a mix of interviews with women connected to the
sex trade, moving from the US-Mexico border to Thailand, Korea, China, Vietnam,
Switzerland, and the former socialist republics of Eastern Europe, in order to
illustrate the dynamic geographical movement of women in sex work, these
'alternative circuits of survival' that the satellite views, too abstract and remote,
fail to illuminate. Key shots of text superimposed on the screen give us the
numbers: 'There are 160,000 Nepalese women held in India's brothels, 200,000
Bengali women sent to brothels in Pakistan, 19,000 Pakistani girls sold to the

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 Middle East, 200,000 Burmese women trafficked to Pakistan, 20,000 Burmese girls
trafficked to Thailand each year, 100,000 Southeast Asian women shipped to
Japan each year1. As if to testify to the sheer magnitude of such numbers, women
interviewed elaborate by telling their stories, describing a cross-border,
transnational mobility that is hard to trace but nonetheless has real material,
psychic, and personal costs. The voice-over once again interrupts to remind us
that this 'costly transaction across boundaries' with women, a 'large and fragile
cargo that is difficult to hide', means that 'corruption will always be cheaper
than concealment'. Naming this sex work the 'giant Fordism of service', the
interruptions of the voice-over provide a more comprehensive complement to the
individual stories the film highlights.

What is most interesting about Remote Sensing is the careful way in which the
film explores the dynamic and devastating links between labour, migration, and
sex. Such references to the Fordist nature of global sex work suggest a highly
systematized process, reminding viewers that questions of labour, capital, and
exploitation are at the heart of such work; despite the seeming invisibility of sex
work in the calculations of state GNPs and on the ledgers of the World Bank, this
labour is not without material benefits for the State, as well as for the individuals
who traffic in sex work. As one telling scene describes a series of ad campaigns in
the 1980s that attempted to popularize Thailand as a tourist destination by
attesting to the desirability of both Thai beaches and Thai women, the camera
pans bars, beaches, and cafés populated by aging white men, presumably
European and American men who have come to sample the promised bounty of
marriageable women advertised in covertly-circulated catalogues and mailings,
which, according to the video, 'featured photos of Thai women by the thousands'
and promised browsers that '[their] bride is in the mail'.

Such moments highlight the acutely racialized and gendered nature of this
economy, and Biemann's focus complements feminist analyses of sex work as not
peripheral to the tourist industry, but central to it (O'Connell Davidson, 1996;
O'Connell Davidson, 2001; Cabezas, 2004; Sanchez Taylor, 2006). In the overlap
between tourism and sex work, websites appeal to potential tourists by promoting
the fantasy of unfettered access to women and girls of varying ages and
ethnicities as part of a vacationer's experience in an 'exotic' location. Such
marketing strategies promise authentic contact with the racialized Other, where
wealthy white men from Europe and North America are solicited as sexual
adventurers in a new, foreign landscape (O'Connell Davidson, 1996). In its overt
promotion of white patriarchal power, this industry, while largely illegal, is utterly
in keeping with the classical liberal state's protection of white men's interests in
women as property (O'Connell Davidson, 2001). As such, this industry is not
irrelevant to the consolidation of state power, but enabled by state and
international policies that make such labour necessary. This point is reiterated by
one unidentified interviewee who comments at length about the increased sex

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trade between Western and Eastern Europe since the 1990s. Noting that the
European Union has taken sex trafficking into little account in its migration and
border policies, she concludes with a pressing observation: ll find it ironic that we
hear that women should get support in leaving the sex trade, and the State, on
the other hand, holds on to the structures which strictly forbid them to work in
another profession. So you wonder to what extent the State is interested in
reducing the traffic in women'.

At this point in the film, the screen splits. On the right, the camera offers an
aerial view of white men in suits deliberating across the table of a conference
room. On the left, text scrolls up the screen, detailing the shape and form of the
kinds of labour that comprise the highly gendered migration at the film's focus:
marriage migrant, cabaret dancer, prostitute, and domestic worker. Under
different names, these kinds of work overlap and collide as parts of the
underground or illicit trade unaccounted for on global balance sheets. At the
same time, at corporate conference tables across the globe, another kind of work
transpires, and their clever juxtapositioning in the side-by-side frames begs the
question that the video asks in so many different ways: how do we trace the
paths between border brothels and corporate conference rooms so as to
reconnect seemingly disparate points in the global circuits of capital
accumulation? This is not, then, to find refuge in the local as an alternative
to the global, but to understand the global as a constellation of interconnected
points that undercut lthe global' as an abstract concept. Ironically, it is from the
distant gaze, the 'orbital perspective' of the camera itself, that the circuits of
the sex trade can be put back into proper perspective, reintegrated with other
forms of labour and migration to claim its significant, if ignored, part in the
global economy.

It is important to note that while Remote Sensing is interested in the specific

relations between migration and sex work, it in no way claims the local as the
'authentic site of identity formation' (Kaplan, 1996: 148); in fact, the video
keeps us perpetually displaced, and the women and places remain unidentified
throughout. Instead, the video redirects our attention to the vastness of this
work, the large scale of this unaccounted-for economy. It wants, too, to
demonstrate from up close and afar, the costs of the emotional, material, and
physical labour that is the global sex trade. In the end, this is a video about
work, about the material and physical costs of globalization seen from a
particularly gendered vantage. The video elaborates the many ways in which
women sex workers' disempowerment shares much in common with the situation
of exploited workers and global migrants in other trades: insufficient monetary
remuneration, physical threat and intimidation, lack of access to labour
organizing and unionization, illegal immigration status, and little or no state
protection.

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 This strikes me as a compelling linking of questions of globalization and sex,
migration and sexuality. Within the focus of the video, sex is a product sold
within an illicit and lucrative market, and the camera's gaze is limited to women.
At no point does the video take on questions of queerness, of gay sex tourism or
male prostitution. In my view, however, there is still much that a queer diasporic
reading might gain here. For in the video's careful look at the global trade in sex,
it suggests that we might begin to consider how these sexual practices are
produced in relation to global capital and its circulation. More precisely, the
video makes clear that the production of desire - not just sex but sexuality - is
inextricably linked to the global distribution of capital and the shifting relations
of power, surveillance, and protection across borders. Far from confirming the
liberatory potential of migration - a globalization that is celebratorily 'queer' -
Remote Sensing demonstrates the devastating effects of these mobile
articulations of normative, patriarchal sexual arrangements as they are felt by
the least empowered subjects of globalization.

In recognizing sex as work, the video intervenes in a critical dialogue about queer
globalization by forcefully insisting on the material value of desire and its
relation to conditions of compulsion, coercion, and commodification. While the
subjects that feature in Biemann's documentary are in no way marked as queer,
her intervention positions sex as a kind of labour that is at the same time
divorced from and articulated through sexuality as an identity category, such
that the women recruited or stolen into migratory sex work are not given the
opportunity to articulate the forms of their own sexual desire, even while their
livelihood depends upon recognizing and fulfilling the fantasies of others. That we
do not know, and cannot know, anything about the sexuality of the women
interviewed in the film is precisely the point. What we know is that the
commodification of desire and the work of producing themselves as lucratively
gendered and racialized subjects is what the trade demands. Most importantly,
Biemann makes clear the utter danger of privileging mobility as a liberatory
condition of globalization, instead putting labour at the centre of her gaze. In
the formal and narrative links she makes between boardrooms and brothels,
Biemann insists upon the centrality of this marginalized and often invisible kind
of labour.

While it would be easy to see this sex work as just another kind of exploited
labour, albeit along particularly gendered and racialized terms, at the same time
Remote Sensing demands that scholars of sexuality take pause and consider how
both normative and non-normative patterns of desire participate in the sexual
exploitation of others. As many scholars have argued, North American politics of
gay and lesbian liberation hinge on strategies of queer visibility that often have
counter-effects in other parts of the world, inspiring new policies of surveillance
in homoerotic encounters and closing off important possibilities for non-
heteronormative social and sexual desires (Altman, 1997; Morris, 1997; Puar, 2001).

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Thus complicating the transnational spread of US politics of gay liberation, the
mobile status of queerness is also troubled by the questionable circumstances
through which gay and lesbian identities are formulated as mobile by gay cruises
and tour companies that specifically market gays and lesbians. Many queer
subjects, no less than others, benefit from the privileges of race, gender, and
class that protect their global rights as consumers, rather than citizens, and
replicate the imperial framework that grants mobility as the privilege of
whiteness. As the largest growth area of gay capital, gay tourism in particular
upholds a dichotomy between consumer and producer perfectly aligned with a
First World/Third World hierarchy in which the 'queer fetishized native' is the
silenced and place-bound product, which the gay tourist is encouraged to
consume (Alexander, 2005: 70). Thus, the fact that the encounters in Remote
Sensing are largely heterosexual ones in no way invalidates the question of how
all forms of desire are articulated not against but within the uneven distribution
of wealth across race, gender, class, and national lines. The question then
becomes how forms of desire and sexual identity that are transgressive in certain
contexts can function normatively, even coercively, in others. Queer globalization
studies must thus take into account how sexuality forms a crucial part of these
uneven relations, through the regulations within which certain sexual identities
are socially legible and internationally legitimated, validated by state laws and
international policies.

sexuality and the labour of gender

I want to turn now to a more specifically queer venue for the further
consideration of these questions, by looking briefly at another film that places
the queer subject of globalization at the centre of the camera's gaze. Margaret
Gilpin and Luis Felipe Bernaza's (1996) Mariposas en el Andamio /Butterflies on
the Scaffold is an appealing documentary about Cuban drag. Filmed over a six-
month period in Havana by a largely Cuban crew, the film debuted at the Havana
Film Festival in 1996 and has since enjoyed an international circulation, screening
in film festivals in over 26 countries. Unlike Remote Sensing, the film's direct
focus is an absolutely localized one: its central figure is in many ways the place
itself, La Giiinera, a settlement outside of Havana that was adopted by a
community of squatters and turned from a 'marginal area' into a vibrant
community. Shortly before the film's release, La Giiinera's achievement was
recognized by the UN Environment Programme for 'the cultural development
promoted in the community', and this award underscores a general feeling of
development and progress that guides the film. Sharing the spotlight is a group
of drag queens whose contributions to the area, we learn, have helped to
transform it into the notable community it is. The story, however, is largely told
by Fifi, the chief of housing construction and a community member revered by the

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 drag queens for the encouragement she provided in integrating the drag shows
into the workers' cabaret. Identifying herself as a domestic worker recruited to
work by age nine, Fifi testifies that '[she] couldn't enjoy much of [her]
childhood'. Looking into the camera with a palpable sense of satisfaction, she
continues: 'Now I've had the opportunity to work on the development of La
Giiinera and I feel like a new woman'. Her centrality in both film and community
is underscored by several of the drag performers, who attest, 'She opened a
cabaret in the workers' cafeteria and brought us into it. She made us face the
herds of public we were afraid to face. She reassured us

honored by us'.

On the surface, then, this is a film about place, and about th

community that has embraced members who, not long befor
harassment and persecution as sexual dissidents. But Butter
ties this narrative to the broader questions of development,
ideological, charted most clearly through Fifi's own changin
place of these workers in the community. At first, she admi
While the camera scans a series of buildings, we first hear he
first building was this one to the left. Then we built one wit
then one with 45'. As the camera quickly cuts to a close-
continues: 'This met the needs of the neighborhood. We set
houses and to build the new "man in our society'". Her voice
long sequence of clips from the community drag performanc

At first I rebelled. I'm an older woman. I wasn't accustomed to runni

class of people... The workers brought me one to show me. I said
be around you guys. I wouldn't be doing my duty to society. I'm too ol

never been involved in these things.

Through Fifi's guidance, we are thus led into an inspiring com

all of whom attest to strong allegiance to the collectiv
Revolutionary nation building. Not only does she intervene at
film to lead us through the community and to tell, in great
stories of its development, but she also offers us a model t
witness a second transformation, in this case not across gend
ones. Fifi's growing acceptance of the drag community and,
defence of the drag performers as invaluable workers in the bu
houses' and 'the new man' makes her centrality in the
interesting.

The film refuses to linger solely on the local dimensions of this community,
however; it takes many a clever route to its explication of how this local
movement for social equality and queer recognition is linked to a national
politics of queer repression, and a global politics of immigration and exile,
development and scarcity. One particularly moving sequence features various

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performers detailing the materials they use to substitute the commodities
necessary for their performances which they are unable to obtain: one scene
features Armando holding up a black and sequin robe, noting that, among the
dyed goose feathers and sequins, he integrated 'crinoline, tulle, and plastic,
normally used for garbage bags. It is "airy" and functional for a costume'.
Another, while carefully applying eyelashes, laments, 'although you won't believe
it, I'll lose an eye at any moment. This is acetate. Real eyelash glue disappeared
from our world'; a third then adds, 'other drag queens use their own eyelashes or
they make them out of horse or wig hair

out of ... carbon paper from the office'. Finally, a fourth pe

fingernails, explains, 'this is baje - glue. If it gets on my d
used to glue shoes and for many other things'. In the swif
preparations, the film registers in one poignant moment the
of the 1990s resulting from the collapse of the socialist trad
embargo (Susman, 1998; Cabezas, 2004). The fact of loss
subject for further comment, however, and the camera's l
performer in her preparations gives us time to register, on
kinds of adaptations signalled in these moments of mak
available. At the same time, the sequence strikes a deter
reaffirming the communal value of this process, and the l
bodies it produces.

Moments like these are particularly telling, for the camera r

too deeply into the individual stories of these performe
carefully focused on the communal process of their perform
interestingly, on the material process of each transformatio
this one, the performers highlight the material production
tions, thus pointing to the extensive, expensive labour
performance. There are innumerable examples. In the only m
that references Cuba's unwieldy northern neighbour, o
mockingly chastises the audience, insisting: 'I'm sick of th
me a Washington'. Like other scenes, the economic effects
here a subject of both sadness and amusement, and in such
the performers' own careful work in locating La Giiiner
economy and the particular history of US-Cuba relations. Ea
- in the disappearance of eyelash glue, fabrics, and mak
towards US dollars; and the Spanish adaptation of American
us that, however fraught, these performances take place wi
exchange of goods, ideas, and people.

Importantly, however, such transnational mobilities be

diasporic privilege for queerness, and the film is unique in i
the US as the site of queer liberation. In this way, it works to
than that of other popular depictions of homosexuality in

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 becomes the only possible condition of the queer subject (Almendros and Leal,
1984; deVries, 1995; Sánchez, 1998; Schnabel, 2001). It also works against the
grain of the queer diaspora criticism I explored above: the kind of gender mobility
the film documents is not linked to any particular geographical mobility; this is
not, to borrow from the language of Queer Diasporas, a 'mobility across globe
and body'. Rather, this is a vision of sexuality and gender identity inextricably
linked to time and place, one which enacts a highly localized vision of
community, and yet is no less implicated in the material conditions of
globalization.

At the same time, it is a vision of drag that highlights the material and social
labour of gender's production, and this comes through most compellingly in the
performers' own perspectives on their work. In one telling scene, Maridalia recalls
that 7't first [the construction workers] didn't understand us - they didn't see us
as workers'. Another performer, Mandy, speaks of the accomplishments of the
drag performers, saying that Tm proud of one thing... thousands come through
here who never thought they'd do this kind of work'. At the same time, the
camera lingers on long, uninterrupted scenes documenting the careful
preparations for the shows, in which performers are aided by friends, lovers,
and colleagues. This is a tremendous collaborative, collective effort behind this
gender mobility, such that we begin to understand the gendered body as the
product of social and material effort. Resisting the naturalizing of the gendered
body, the film thus exposes the material production of gender as a form of
communal work, a socially necessary labour that, while most appreciably
performed through drag, is no less important in the production of normatively
gendered (straight) bodies. While it does not reject the camp of drag, the film
thus insists that gender production is far from simply a playful spectacle. And for
this conclusion, we return again to Fifi, our guide, who argues that:

I think this type of work should go on all over the country because of the respect, pride, and

responsibility with which they work... If the nation accepts these cultural workers, these
workers for the society, as we did here in La Giiinera, we'll be successful as a nation.

Insisting upon the necessary work of drag, Fifi thus links this labour to the
success of the post-Revolutionary project and the liberatory possibilities of a new
nation. As the film's guiding figure, Fifi's transformation becomes a model of our
own, as the film guides its viewers toward a position of acknowledgement and
respect for the strenuous and necessary labour that these workers have
performed.

Butterflies on the Scaffold thus joins Remote Sensing in offering inventive

readings of the relations between gender, sexuality, and globalization, readings
in which, importantly, labour figures centrally. While Remote Sensing offers a
suggestive look at sex work as a mobile, gendered form of labour, Butterflies asks
that we consider how gender itself is a kind of labour - one that drag makes

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explicit but that is nevertheless part of the production of all gendered bodies. As
such, it insists that gender is a part of a material process, linked to the
reproduction of nations, the formation of the 'new man', and to the broader
patterns of global production and exchange. What these films share is a
compelling sense of the material, psychic, and physical costs that comprise the
everyday productions of gender, of sexuality, and of desire. Such productions
might at first seem out of context in a critical evaluation of queer diaspora, for
neither film takes as its focus the queer diasporic subject. However, in each
film's careful interrogation of the production of the sexual subject within the
particular geographical locations and dislocations of globalization, they offer the
opportunity to reconsider this alignment between queerness and mobility, pushing
us to consider how each of our contemporary articulations of sexual and gender
identity are produced within, and in relation to, globalization. That is to say, the
work of queer globalization studies is not simply to seek out liberatory positions
for queer subjects in the shifting material, national, and geographical
configurations of globalization, though some such liberatory spaces may indeed
be found there. It is, as well, and perhaps more pressingly, to understand whether
or not the material changes that attend the conditions of globalization, mobility,
and diaspora engender new notions of the normative and the queer, new forms of
discipline and liberation, and new articulations of desire, identity, and sexuality.
To 'queer' diaspora is thus to reopen the question of the relation between the
sexual and the global, without knowing in advance whether or not the forms that
sexual identity might take will even be fully recognizable to us as queer or
straight, normative or not. Such possibilities, I would say, are the most critically
viable ones available.

acknowledgements
I express gratitude to the participants in the 'Gendering the Diaspora, Race-ing
the Transnational' conference at Duke University in November 2005 for their
thoughtful questions and comments, as well as to Tina Campt, Deborah Thomas,
and the anonymous reviewers for their insightful suggestions for revision. I also
thank Robyn Wiegman for her sustained engagement over various permutations of
this essay.

author biography
Meg Wesling is an assistant professor of Literature at the University of California,
San Diego. She is currently completing a manuscript on US empire and American
literary canon-formation.

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films

Before Night Falls (2001) directed by J. Schnabel, New Line Home Video.
Gay Cuba (1995) directed by 5. deVries, Frameline.
Mariposas en el Andamio/Butterflies on the Scaffold (1996) directed by M. Gilpin and L. Bernaza.
Mauvaise Conduite/lmproper Conduct (1984) directed by N. Almendros and 0. Leal, Cinevista.
No porque lo diga Fidel Castro/Not Because Fidel Castro Says So (1998) directed by G. Sanchez,
Frameline.

Remote Sensing (2001) directed by U. Biemann, Women Make Movies.

doi:10.1057/fr.2008.35

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