Queer is a term I struggle to identify with. Growing up in Istanbul, Turkey, my understanding
of identity and sexuality has been profoundly shaped by cultural expectations and familial
norms. Although I’ve been confident in my bisexuality since I came out at 14, I find myself
wrestling with the term "queer." My appearance—very feminine and aligned with traditional
gender norms—feels at odds with how I perceive queer identities. It often clashes with my
sense of queerness and the struggles typically associated with it. It’s difficult for me because
the word “queer” wasn’t really part of my vocabulary. Growing up, I had access to very few
images or stories that portrayed queer identities, making it hard to identify with the term. I’m
not ashamed of who I am, but rather, I battle with fitting into the queer mold due to my own
internalized beliefs.
There’s a specific look that I’ve associated with queerness, and I often feel my own
experience doesn’t match with this image. I present as feminine, use she/her pronouns, and
fit the general stereotype of cis femininity, which sometimes makes me feel like an outsider
in the queer community. Interestingly enough, while I’m not concerned with how others look,
I feel a strong need to fit into the framework of what a woman “should” look like myself,
applying this expectation only to me. It’s not that I question my queerness; instead, I grapple
with the discomfort of not fitting the stereotypical queer appearances I’ve seen around me.
This struggle also intersects with my cultural identity. Despite being born and raised in
Turkey, my fair skin, dyed ginger hair, and American accent sometimes shield me from the
prejudices others in my community might face. This duality often leaves me feeling detached
from my Middle Eastern identity, even though it’s an intrinsic part of who I am. It’s a complex
balance of fitting in and standing out, and it contributes to my ongoing journey of self-
discovery. Family dynamics have also played a significant role in shaping my experiences.
While my family supports me in many ways, their reactions to my bisexuality have been
mixed. They’ve often implied that my bisexuality is a result of my “artsy” nature and have
made it clear that they wouldn’t welcome a female partner into our home. This has made me
question whether I’ve subconsciously avoided dating women to avoid potential conflict with
them.
Moreover, my relationship with body image and attraction has been influenced by cultural
standards. Growing up in a culture fixated on weight, I’ve developed a deep attraction to Big
Beautiful Women (BBWs), which has become a crucial aspect of my sexual experience. This
attraction, while deeply fulfilling, has been a source of shame due to societal norms that
often marginalize BBWs. I find myself struggling with societal standards of beauty, feeling
embarrassed when my body or desires don’t fit the conventional mold. The more I think I
shouldn't like something because it's not accepted by society, the more I'm attracted to it.
With this show, I'm trying to create enough internal space to allow all parts of myself to
coexist, despite the contradictions. I want to make room for creativity and for my fears. I like
chaos, but in my journey of self-actualization, I've come to recognize that being at peace
doesn't mean denying or ignoring parts of myself. It involves giving space to all aspects,
including the bad. This is the only way to cultivate authenticity. In this expansive state of
being, I am learning a profound sense of liberation. I am trying not to suppress myself but
instead to integrate all these parts into my whole.
"The Little Death" is my artistic response to these internal conflicts. The show is inspired by
a question I was asked last summer—“How do you feel after sex?”—to which I replied, “Like
I am going to die alone.” Through this production, I aim to explore themes of vulnerability,
shame, and self-reflection in a way that is both humorous and heartfelt. The show features a dynamic mix of cabaret, comedy, and camp aesthetics, performed by an all-queer cast. It’s a
labor of love and self-exploration, directed by myself and Justin Atkins.
I want to emphasize that while The Little Death dives into intimate and sometimes sensitive
topics, it’s crafted with a deep commitment to authenticity and respect. My co-director and I
have made a clear effort to portray the struggles of women without objectifying or fetishizing
them. We want to ensure that the show is an honest and respectful exploration of these
themes, offering a space for shared vulnerability and understanding.
The Little Death dives deep into the heart of what it means to be human. My journey of self-
discovery brings poignant reflections on love, loneliness, and the human condition. It's a
reminder that even in the pursuit of pleasure, we all crave connection and understanding.
The Little Death is an electrifying celebration of resilience, shamelessness, and the universal
quest for fulfillment.
Catch The Little Death at The Kings Head from 26th - 31st August.