Project (LGBTQIA) +
By: Marco Salazar De Leon
Tags: LGBTQ, Gaming, Super Smash Bros, Community, Esports

Project (LGBTQIA) +

Trigger Warning: I use potentially offensive language and words like “rape” in this piece.

At the time of this writing, I just finished reviewing a rejection letter: “Sorry, we decided to go with someone else….” Ouch. Oh well.

I submitted an application to be a leader for my company’s LGBTQIA+ employee resource group, and the powers that be went with someone else.

What does being a leader for an ERG mean? It can mean many things, actually. But my interpretation of the role was that I would try my best to serve and represent queer-identifying employees at my company through internal programming, communications, and outreach. Essentially (and hopefully) help queer folks at my company feel seen and be seen.

I’m not mad I didn’t get picked. I’ve only been working at the company for a few months, so there are definitely folks with tenure that deserve the spot. Also, I’m sure there were more qualified folks that applied and met the role’s criteria. I’m not exactly your “quintessential queer person,” whatever the fuck that means. I’m cis, bi but straight-passing, and I’m still so very ignorant of queer issues and perspectives. And I can’t even begin to talk about queer pop culture without my gaze jumping to and from Wikipedia. It’s ok that I didn’t get the [extracurricular] job.

But what does that say about my desire to lead such a group? Where do I even get the cheek, the nerve, the gall, the audacity, and the gumption to apply if I carry all of these noticeable (and many more embarrassing) red marks to my name?

Jailbreak and Representation

Last week’s Jailbreak was my first major Smash event in three or so years, and within minutes of walking into the convention center room where it was hosted, I could immediately tell that things had changed in the best possible way. Friends that previously identified as one gender were now proud to live their truths and express themselves differently, yet authentically, as another. Hair colors — running the au naturale to rainbow gamut — of all familiar and unfamiliar styles were on full display, along with dresses, jeans, stockings, and gamer paraphernalia. Within minutes of sitting down for my stream match, the producer asked me for my pronouns. The absolute best change of all is that no one batted an eye.

When I first started playing competitive smash in 2004, it was pervasive to use words like “gay” to describe craven, cowardly, or undesirable ways of play. You’d “suck dick” if you were a poor player, and you’d “rape” if you were terrific or did something especially notable or brag-worthy. This was not a good time for Smasher slang, and it’s reprehensible and completely cringe when looking back on it, but that is simply how things were. Even as progressive (by mid-2000s standards) and as open-minded as I wanted to seem and be, I still participated in the toxic masculinity of the time because it was just that ever-present.

If you entered the community when I did and see where it is now, you could see how the community is on the right path. There will be detractors that complain about “cancel culture,” complain about being overly PC, or complain about the inconveniences of being bothered to simply let others feel belonging, safety, and inclusivity. But there will always be detractors. There will always be people that argue for being able to say “ah… rape” or stand in the way of progress, but they never challenge their own views, habits, and behaviors for the sake of others.

In many ways, it’s this stubbornness, this overwhelming emphasis of the Self and its prerogatives, that’s coded into the DNA of many hardcore gamers and drives us to pick up the controller before all other tasks. Or, at least, that’s part of my story and my relationship with my own history. You can call it maturity, or you can call it a crash course in pissing off enough people you love that you eventually learn to sacrifice the Me in favor of the Us. Still, I like to call it an inevitability: you will mature, and if you don’t, you will continue inhabiting that liminal space of socially tolerable shades. A gamer community bardo, forfeiting your agency and voice for whatever dumb tradition you think needs to be preserved, and pointing the finger at a woke Bogart when you were the not-so-silent specter all along.

I’m Serving Identity Play Realness

Lately, I’ve been thinking about the similarities between competitive Smash and drag culture. In the time since it first started airing on TV, RuPaul’s Drag Race has done so much for exposing the world to a niche, consistently misunderstood, and heavily appropriated sub-culture. If you’ve watched the show for a few seasons, you may have noticed a common narrative thread during the confessionals or deep-dive interviews: “It wasn’t until I put on drag and started performing that I really started to feel….” And you can end that sentence with words like “confident,” “myself,” “whole,” and the list goes on. Sure, the show producers are notorious for selling vulnerability and relatability as story arcs for the contestants. Still, when I heard these stories, I was reminded of smashers and their own struggles with self-actualization. Like drag queens using drag and their onstage personas to explore what it means to be who they are, I’m convinced that many long-term competitive Smashers use their tags, mains, and skill at a children’s party game to find that ever-elusive sense of belonging.