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How the Trope of Queer Women Dying on Television Can (And Must) Be Stopped

*Caution: Spoilers ahead if you haven’t watched Sunday night’s episode of The Walking Dead*

It’s only been in the last 26 years that lesbian and bisexual female characters have been fully integrated into television shows, with pivotal moments occurring on early adopters like L.A. Law, which boasts the first-ever lesbian kiss in 1991, Friends, with the first lesbian wedding, and E.R. with the first regular lesbian lead on a primetime network ensemble show with Dr. Kerry Weaver. While at first queer women were happy just to have any kind of representation on television, the only characters that were provided were largely white, feminine, and of a higher socioeconomic status. The same could be said for Ellen DeGeneres when she came out on her show in 1997, although after “The Puppy Episode” aired, her character followed her real-life trajectory of becoming more herself and her androgyny was more noticeable in manner and dress.

It wasn’t until the early 2000s, though, that networks and showrunners began to embrace lesbians and bi women on a slightly larger scale, with All My Children‘s lesbian couple, Willow Rosenberg’s starring role on Buffy the Vampire Slayer and the premiere of The L Word in 2004. It doesn’t feel all too long ago, does it? And in the scheme of television history, queer women waited almost 70 years after the creation of television sets and their appearance in homes across the United States to see any kind of reflection of themselves, save for some unfortunate characters that appeared briefly and almost always as some kind of lesson about living an unnatural life. Like in pulp novels and cinema, lesbian characters may have been able to have a lesbian identity, but they were not able to go unpunished for it. That punishment was, more often than not, certain death.

Post-L Word, there has been a significant rise in the amount of LGB women on the small screen, but they are largely relegated to sidekicks, friends or co-workers of the leading heterosexuals. And although their queerness hasn’t always been the reason for some of their untimely deaths, it is certainly related, as showrunners and writers are still incapable of creating a lesbian or bisexual character that is fully-realized enough to be seen through to the end.

Despite objections to the “bury your gays” or “lesbian death” trope in the last decade, this trend not only continues but has come to a head in the last few weeks as two major lesbian characters have been killed on two popular and highly-watched dramas, The 100 and The Walking Dead. There was also the death of a queer disabled woman of color on SyFy’s The Magicians, whose appearance was wholly a prop for the leading straight white character, as is the case for typical LGBT presence on procedurals like Law & Order.

In 2016, there are more queer women characters on television than ever before, and some of them are leads on their respective shows (Clarke on The 100, Emily on Pretty Little Liars, Bo on Lost Girl, Piper on Orange is the New Black, etc.). But they are still anomalies if you consider how expansive the world of series television has become, and network TV, especially, lacks the kind of lesbian lead we are still yearning to see. So with the growing number of LGB women characters (still waiting for the T to catch up, sadly) regularly appearing on television, it would seem that the ratio of those who die vs. those who are allowed the chance to stay alive throughout the series (or, at least, most of it) would shift so that most would be forced into the same trope that has plagued them since the beginning.

However, on many TV shows (especially in the more recent past) death, murder and violence is a large part of the landscape. Some of the most popular series on television are set in worlds where any character can die at any time, including leads. This is especially true in the sci-fi/horror/fantasy genres, which is where Lexa of The 100 and Denise of The Walking Dead live(d). So in order to discuss the ways in which these demises were handled, we have to decipher some very basic “Who? Why? Where? When? How?” components to each one, as it would be ridiculous to ask that every single lesbian/bi character who was ever created in a fictional setting stay alive. Because even though television is fiction, it is based on the realities of life, and that includes death. But that includes a balancing act that most showrunners and networks fail to address or consider, or possibly even just ignore when deciding that a lesbian/bi character could or should be killed off a show.

WHO?

In the earlier years of visibility, this mattered less because the few times a lesbian/bi character appeared on a show was so infrequent that they were the only representation we had. So if there were two queer women characters on television at the same time (usually on the same show) and one of them died, that gave us a 50/50 chance of survival. Sadly, if one was killed off, it was also the case that their partner (aka the other lesbian on the show) would just be written off into oblivion because there was no use for her anymore, then, once her purpose (to simply be a lesbian, for ratings or possibly an attempt at diversity, depending on the show) had been served.

But in the last 15 years, the “who” has become much more pertinent. When Tara (Amber Benson) was hit by a stray bullet on “Seeing Red” (Buffy the Vampire Slayer, 2002), fans were shocked. Tara and girlfriend Willow were major characters on one of the most queer-friendly shows of all time, so this sudden, unexpected loss was a huge would that even giving Willow a new girlfriend, Kennedy, couldn’t heal.

On Chicago Fire, out EMT Leslie Shay (Lauren German) was one of the show’s best characters, and given stories that were not solely relegated to her being “the gay one.” A strong and bold lesbian, Leslie was good at her job, a great friend, and unlucky in love, but fun to watch trying. When she was killed in the line of duty in the show’s second season, it was emotional for not only fans but the other characters on the show and the actors who played alongside her. Considering executive producer Dick Wolf‘s true lack of LGBT characters on the Law & Order and subsequent Chicago franchises, it felt like major disrespect and many lesbian/bi fans have stopped watching the show since.

Strong and bold are also words that could describe Lexa (Alycia Debnam-Carey) from The 100. The lesbian leader of men and women alike was ruthless and fearless; someone who her enemies did not take lightly and her people greatly respected. Like the case with Willow and Tara, she was part of a beloved pairing with Clarke (Eliza Taylor), creating a love story fans were rooting for en masse. So when she was also shot unexpectedly (more on the “HOW?” later), it was like wound had been re-opened, and despite Alycia’s being a guest star with limited time available for The 100, it begged the question that is always asked when lesbian/bi characters are done away with:

WHY?

Joss Whedon and other writers of Buffy have admitted that the death of Tara was used to propel Willow forward; that she needed an emotional comeuppance instead of existing in happy couple land. But in many interviews and appearances before that episode aired, Joss told viewers he had no plans for Tara to be written off the show. Still, Willow had to suffer, and the ultimate way for her to do so would be to lose the love of her life.

It feels strange to say that the only positive in this kind of reasoning is that it to propel another lesbian character, as most often, the death is for the furthering the vulnerabilities and lives of the straight characters around them (Chicago Fire, Sara Lance on Arrow, Snoop on The Wire, Tara on True Blood, etc.) Arguably, the deaths of Lexa, Denise, Tara, Maya on Pretty Little Liars and Dana Fairbanks on The L Word were to move story for another queer woman. However, it is problematic to assume that the only way to move story for a queer woman is to kill her beloved. Although this is something that happens to non-LGBT characters, it happens far more often on shows with more than one queer woman (and usually, they are the only two at that time).

The reasoning behind the murder of a queer character may not satisfy viewers who are unable to see any reason worth losing the character in question, but the “why” has a lot to do with the intention on behalf of the showrunner and/or writer of a respective show. For instance, Ilene Chaiken has said that the death of Dana was to create a conversation about breast cancer and its effects on women, including lesbians. In 2006, Ilene told The New York Times:

“If we had told it about a character who was less well loved, it wouldn’t have been as powerful. Dana is somebody whose entire life was about health and fitness. And it comes as a really rude shock to her that her body isn’t always going to do exactly what she wants it to do.”

And while lesbians and bisexual women are at higher risk for breast cancer, fans were not happy about the decision for Dana to die. Why couldn’t she have battled the disease and won in the end? Ilene has since admitted she regretted her decision to kill Dana off:

“The one thing that I most regret on the show is Dana’s death. The reaction was so passionate and the grief was so deeply felt — and to have be responsible for causing that kind of grief just is hard to live with. … If I could go back and do it over again that might be the one thing I do differently.”

Conversely, fans were not nearly as unhinged about the Season 6 death of unlikable Jenny Schecter. In fact, Ilene used her unlikability to drive the plot for the final season, giving every other character a reason as to why they might be driven to murder.

As for the more recent deaths of Lexa and Denise, they are similar, but separate cases in that Denise’s whole raison d’etre was to give Tara story, something The Walking Dead has had trouble with since introducing her in Season 4. But what’s troubling is that Tara has already loved and lost when her girlfriend, Alisha, was shot to death in the episode “Too Far Gone.” While it’s true that many of the characters on the show have faced this same kind of love-and-loss situation, heterosexual couples are somehow also able to exist on the show for more than just a handful of episodes.

In Lexa’s case, the “why” is somewhat informed by real life in the way that Alycia Debnam-Carey did not have the time to devote to the character, as she stars on Fear the Walking Dead, The Walking Dead‘s successful spin-off. That being said, Lexa did not have to die. While it may have been impossible to write more for Lexa on-screen in Season 3, there were clearly ways that she could have remained alive while the story followed Clarke or other characters through subsequent battles, and hopefully, Lexa could have returned in Season 4, even if it scheduling allowed for just a handful of episodes. Or, depending on the nature of contracts and possible other conflicts as Alycia’s star continues to rise, perhaps the show could have decided to go full-force with Clexa earlier on and given the pairing the full weight of the show instead of a plotline for Clarke that will inform her going forward as she does now, alone.

The 100‘s showrunner Jason Rothenberg explained his reasoning for killing Lexa as two-fold: Scheduling, and his idea for finding a connection between two stories he’d created for the world that needed to find a place to meet. Lexa was simply his device in that connection, much to the chagrin of many angry Lexa fans who have expressed their anger, tenfold. This line of reasoning also happens to exclude Clarke and how she will feel as her story continues, indicating their relationship might have been treated with less respect than deserved.

WHEN?

A big indicator of how little a showrunner or writers’ room might have the ability to write for a lesbian/bi character is the amount of time dedicated to their respective character. If a lesbian/bi character is only given minimal screentime and is generally relegated to a diversity token to deliver lines that support the major straight character, it is likely their time will be limited simply because the writers have no idea what to do with them.

It seems easy enough that a writer would give LGBT characters the same storylines as they might their heterosexual, cisgender counterparts, but that is often not the case. For example, House of Cards had no idea what to do with Rachel Posner (Rachel Brosnahan) once she wasn’t under the helm of Doug Stamper any longer. She became collateral damage, used sparsely in Season 3 just to be offed as to indicate (further) Doug’s pre-established evil side. She was never given any chance to reclaim a more powerful role after being used as a hooker-turned-captive that only found any kind of normalcy or love when she met Lisa (Kate Lyn Sheil). Their relationship was short-lived, and yet the show lives on.

Jimmy Darmondy’s queer wife, Angela, was only allowed two seasons out of five on HBO’s prohibition hit Boardwalk Empire. Victoria Hand on Agents of Shield was a tiny part of the show’s first season. There are far too many instances of this when it comes to the amount of screentime and development given to queer women characters that are inevitably killed off, or in the case of Renee Montoya on Gotham, just never seen again.

But the “when” of a lesbian/bi character’s demise can also be related to what happened for them recently in terms of their sexuality or sexual identity. As has been the case for lesbian stories for years (see aforementioned pulp novels), any celebration of lesbianism is generally followed up with the punishment of death. So when Willow and Tara had sex not long before Tara’s being shot, there is a direct connection between her having consummated her lesbian relationship and her ultimate murder. The same question was raised in regards to Lexa and Clarke’s time spent together in the boudoir before Lexa’s own shooting. For Denise on The Walking Dead, she and Tara had just found love in a world where loss and a lack of hope permeate everything, and the desire to find connection (especially between two women) feels like a lost cause.

While Buffy writers and others have copped to the connection not being intended, it still has the implications that lesbianism has always been affected by the idea “Live your lesbianism, and then die by it.” Others mentioned in this article (Angela Darmody, Rachel Posner) had found same-sex love and celebrated it just before their lives were in danger.

WHERE & HOW?

The “where and how” are inextricably linked in that the setting of the killing and the way in which the character is killed has a lot to do with the world of the show in question. An argument can be made that a violent show that kills off many characters (including leads that are not LGBT-identified) are indiscriminating, and therefore, no one is safe. The 100 and The Walking Dead are two such worlds, where the death toll is inevitably climbing, and any character could be gone at any time. But when there are so few LGBT characters on these shows, there is a lack of much-needed balance.

For example, Tricia was a small character on Orange is the New Black‘s first season, but her death was still upsetting to fans of the show. However, because the series has several other queer women, it does not feel like her death by drug overdose was done in vain because it was a much-needed plot point and also a sad reality for women in prison, one that has a throughline with Nicky Nichols and other addicts inside Litchfield. Conversely, when The Walking Dead has two lesbian characters and one is only created for the use of a few episodes in one season to give the previous lesbian character something to do, the loss is taken harder.

Except for select shows like Orange is the New Black, Transparent and The L Word, lesbian/bi characters are always a very tiny fraction of a show, and when they are on a show where the world is considered unsafe for series regulars, it is almost certain they will not make it until the end. The minorities on the periphery, whether it be LGBT people, people of color, disabled people or women, are often given less care, which is why a show like The Walking Dead has a bad track record with the amount of diversity it includes vs. the amount of minority characters that are able to stay alive. That’s why the death of lesbian/bi characters tend to carry more weight.

In terms of the actual way a character dies, it has more often than not been a gunshot that kills queer women on television, followed by many other violent ways of being offed (car accidents, suicides, parachute issues, etc.) Although no studies have been done to indicate how most lesbian/bisexual women die, women, in general, are most likely to die from heart disease, cancer, chronic lower respiratory disease or a stroke rather than “unintentional injuries.” Taking into consideration that TV is entertainment and most writers find something dramatic like murder to be a more enjoyable experience, it does seem that writers who succumb to the same ways of delivering death to queer women characters are ultimately lazy in their execution, or possibly unaware of the deaths of LGB women characters that precede theirs, which leads us into the final section.

WHAT CAN BE CHANGED?

This last year has been one of demanding more from Hollywood than ever before, with discussions on the lack of women, people of color and LGBTs, who have access to directing, showrunning and starring in films. But the same should extend to television, where things have improved care of the likes of Shonda Rhimes and Lee Daniels, but the reemergence of the “kill your lesbian” trope trend has shown that there is still room for much-needed improvement.

It’s not surprising that most showrunners are white, cisgender, straight men, and that writers rooms remain largely straight and male. And while it’s not impossible for people with these identities to be allies and write great lesbian/bi characters, there seems to be a clear issue with several of them in their lack of knowledge or concern about developing fully fleshed out, three-dimensional lesbian/bi women whose story can not only continue through but help to carry a show.

Unfortunately, many showrunners/TV writers say they are not influenced by fan reaction to their writing or decisions, which means that it’s highly possible that social media outrage might not be the most proactive way in ensuring these kinds of tropes are not continued again and again in the future. That isn’t to say that you should not air your frustrations and grievances for a show, showrunner or network should they continually disappoint you; but here are some other ways that the television industry needs to consider changing for them to be better not only for us but for themselves in their future storytelling as to not continue with a lazy, overdone character trajectory.

  • Networks must hire more LGBT women as showrunners/producers/writers.

Plain and simple. They are out there, and they are trying to sell their shows and pitch networks on their abilities to run shows already in progress. There are only a handful of LGBT women showrunners currently (notably Ilene Chaiken on Empire, Ali Adler on Supergirl, Nahnatchka Khan on Fresh off The Boat, Jill Soloway on Transparent, Sarah Gertrude Shapiro on UnReal, Dee Johnson on Nashville, Marlene King on Pretty Little Liars) and interestingly, two of them (Ilene and Marlene) have been guilty of the trope on their shows. Still, they have a balance on their respective shows (past and present) where LGBT women are plentiful otherwise. While Supergirl does not currently have any lesbian/bi characters, Ali has written LGBT characters before on Glee and The New Normal, and Nahnatchka’s ABC comedy takes Jessica (Constance Wu) to a lesbian bar when she wants to get away from her family. There have never been any LGBT women on Nashville, despite Dee’s having been behind some of the first and best lesbian storylines in network history (E.R.), and Sarah Gertrude Shapiro created a small town lesbian character for her otherwise straight Lifetime show that resonated with viewers.

All this to say, LGBT women know how to write LGBT women. Whether they are running the show or a writer in a room, their experiences and individuality are part of what makes their LGBT characters more nuanced than those from non-LGBT women. Diverse writers’ rooms are a must. There is no way around this, and there shouldn’t be. Hiring lesbian/bi women as showrunners, especially, will help do away with the lack of balance and ingenuity when it comes to writing us because they are writing people they know intimately: themselves and their community.

On that note:

  • Lesbian/Bi writers must acknowledge their responsibility.

I’ve done interviews with lesbian/bi writers, directors, showrunners or producers where they have acted somewhat flippant about their responsibility to creating LGBT characters, and while I understand that their job is to serve the story and the show first, they are inevitably the only representation we have in their room. Therefore, lesbian/bi women on television shows must push for accurate and fair representation. In short, if we aren’t doing it, who will? New writers are sometimes afraid to rock the boat; happy to be in a highly-coveted position they’ve often worked long and hard for. But their space at the table is also likely because they are not only talented writers and storytellers but because of who they are. Most networks are attempting to better themselves (whether it’s genuine or so they can escape our constant complaints about their straight, white rooms), so they are also looking at LGBT writers as diversity hires. Even if there isn’t an LGBT storyline or character for a specific show, the viewpoint of a lesbian/bi woman will and should make sure said show is one that is respectful and appreciate of LGBT fans.

  • Networks must hire consultants.

It is not uncommon for television shows or movies to hire consultants of a specific kind for their project. For example, Transparent and The Danish Girl both hired trans people to help inform the portrayals of their trans characters. If television shows are writing queer women characters and they do not have any queer women in their room, they should be hiring queer women consultants. Said consultant can be a writer, producer, author, historian or overall expert on what it is to be a lesbian or bi woman, and can answer any questions and offer up important knowledge about the lesbian/bi experience. All of this will not only help writers to avoid repeating tropes and offending the community but will also have richer characters and story because of it.

  • Fans must deny support.

If a showrunner is a repeat offender or has done something that, as a queer female fan, you cannot condone; then it’s highly advisable that you pull your support from them and their work. That means not watching and not participating in any attention that the show will receive. You know the phrase “There’s no such thing as bad publicity”? That is especially true when it comes to television. The more attention paid to a show, no matter the reason or the negativity vs. positivity inferred, the stirring surrounding it will only bring more views, clicks or hits. The best thing you can do, as an upset fan, is to refuse a show, networker or showrunner your energy and time. It used to be that networks decided a show’s worth on the amount of viewers that tuned in, but now, more than ever, social media and critical response can inform a network’s decision to keep it on air.

Amazon owner Jeff Bezos told The Washington Post:

“I don’t know that you measure that by measuring solely the amount of people that are there at the beginning. When I talk about implicit feedback, it’s how many people rewatch the show? How many people complete the show that they are watching? How many people talk about it in social media?”

In the same article, FX president John Landgraf echoed a similar sentiment:

“The way I look at these decisions, I and my team get one vote, you and the other experts get one vote, and the audience gets one vote. Two votes gets a show picked up, but we can overrule a 2-to-1 vote against us for a time, if we believe either the audience or the experts will come around based on the quality of the show.”

Julie Plec, showrunner of The Vampire Diaries had this to say in The Wall Street Journal:

“We work very hard not to be too swayed…and not turn it into a choose your own adventure where whoever yells the loudest wins.”

With the audience having an ability to drive that vote (whether it’s a “yay” or a “nay”), it’s crucial that fans offer their support to shows they do like vs. the ones that they don’t; rewarding those worth watching and doing a good job with their lesbian/bi characters with positive affirmations and social media shares. Again, this isn’t to say fans should not air grievances with shows/showrunners who disappoint them-they should, but also take into account that networks will likely include their conversations as proof people are talking about their show when they go to advertisers who are looking at numbers, not necessarily sentiment. (Although some networks are now using a new system that does measure that.) In other words, controversy can work to a show’s advantage.

  • Fans can take real life action.

In 1973, the Lesbian Feminist Liberation protested at NBC headquarters after the network aired an episode of the series Police Woman called “Flowers of Evil” that depicted lesbians as murderers and thieves, inside of a nursing home, no less. A group of 75 women demonstrated and hung a 20-foot banner reading “LESBIANS PROTEST NBC” from the balcony of then-vice president Herminio Traviesas‘s office. Soon after, the network agreed never to re-run the episode.

A year later, lesbian feminists protested a film called Born Innocent, another NBC title that depicted a lesbian gang raping star Linda Blair with a plunger handle. This first-ever all-female rape scene was later removed from VHS copies and re-runs of the film.

Whether it’s a protest or a fan campaign to save a show, the tangibility of real life action can influence networks and force them to confront a community who is dedicated to making sure they are heard. And while some things like the death of our favorite characters can be irreversible and have long-lasting effects, making sure networks can’t ignore their decisions, and the consequences of them can and has proven fruitful in the past.

WHAT’S NEXT?

It is inevitable that we will see more lesbian and bi characters die on television, because, as I mentioned at the top of the article, death is a part of life, and life is what writers aim to recreate for television. But when writers, showrunners, and networks make decisions on killing characters, they shouldn’t take them lightly, especially if the answers to the questions above are “Who? One of our few lesbian/bi characters. How? Violently. Why? To move story for someone else. When? After little character growth or plot, or close to when they’ve just had sex.” The mere consideration of these questions should help in rooms without the presence of LGBT women or a showrunner that isn’t aware of harmful tropes concerning lesbian/bi characters.

Should a lesbian/bi character have to die on a television show, she should be given the same respect in death and in life that her heterosexual counterparts are, and the best way to make sure that’s happening is for writers to acknowledge the real person they are representing, because even in fiction, they are based in someone’s reality.

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