Earlier this year, I predicted that Chappell Roan was on track to transcend from being “gaymous” to being actually famous. What I could not have predicted, though, was how fast that would happen — and as the singer herself has said many times by now, neither could she.
Naturally, such a rapid ascent to fame has led to some undesirable consequences. In a Sunday Instagram post, Roan called out the sort of “predatory behaviour” (disguised as ‘superfan’ behaviour) that has become normalized because of the way women who are well-known have been treated in the past. Consisting of a series of Notes app screenshots, the post was far from the kind of public apology that has become synonymous with that format; instead, Roan outlined the reasons why the public, arguably, owes her an apology. She begged people to stop touching her, and to “stop being weird to my family and friends.”
Instagram content
This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
“When I’m on stage, when I’m performing, when I’m in drag, when I’m at a work event, when I’m doing press… I am at work,” Roan wrote, adding that outside of that context she is “clocked out.”
The Instagram post was preceded by two videos that the singer posted to TikTok, in which she called out creepy, overfamiliar fan behaviour in a much more candid fashion. “I don’t care that it’s normal; I don’t care that this crazy type of behaviour comes along with the job,” she said in the front-facing videos. “I don’t give a fuck if you think it’s selfish of me to say no for a photo or for your time or for a hug.”
TikTok content
This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
TikTok content
This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
It would be incorrect to act as though this sort of behaviour is unique to this time period, or to queer people. It has experienced a recent resurgence but parasocial relationship theory was coined all the way back in 1956, used to describe the phenomenon of people feeling personally connected to figures in mass media.
That connection might be mostly harmless in and of itself, but left unchecked, it can spiral into unhealthy obsession. Mark David Chapman, the man who shot John Lennon, was himself a huge Beatles fan who was reportedly upset that Lennon declared the band to be “more popular than Jesus.” That may be an extreme example, but it illustrates that celebrity culture, at its absolute worst, encourages fans to think that they have ownership over the object of their fixation.
Within the LGBTQ+ community, garden-variety celebrity worship has been a central facet of just about every culture that fits within the acronym, from our love of Judy Garland to the unwittingly anthemic Diana Ross to Princess Diana and beyond.
Historically, most people who have been deemed “gay icons,” though, are notably not gay themselves. But as the number of out-queer celebrities multiplies — especially out-queer musicians who have made their identity a central facet of their work — it makes sense that that degree of obsession would intensify and sometimes take on a frightening edge.
Roan is the most relevant example of this at the moment, but the near-religiosity of queer fan culture has been evident for a long time, increasing in fervour over the past few years. Gen Z is the queerest generation ever, even as their mental health is suffering from a political landscape that is repeatedly ramming them over the head with the message that they are intrinsically evil and must be eliminated. Heartbreakingly, one Trevor Project study published earlier this year found that over a third of LGBTQ+ youth don’t believe that they’ll live past the age of 35.
In the face of such profound evil, people often turn to religion. When met with insurmountable opposition, what else is there to do other than appeal to a higher power? To state the incredibly obvious, however, the vast majority of queer and trans-Americans are hard-pressed to find spiritual or religious spaces that are explicitly accepting of them, though bastions of safety do exist.
Facing tremendous challenges, and struggling to find meaning in the world, it’s easy to understand why many young queer people would see openly LGBTQ+ celebrities as quasi-religious figures, instead of seeking that sort of salvation elsewhere. Looking after one’s spiritual health doesn’t have to mean participating in organized religion; there are many ways of finding purpose and fulfillment in life that are worth pursuing, and that can help fill a void in life.
I’m not the only one to notice that pop stars seem to have become near-deities. Last June, TikTok user @madisonbravenec pointed out that boygenius songs sometimes “give a little bit of Christian worship music,” and I was never able to listen to the band in the same way after that observation.
TikTok content
This content can also be viewed on the site it originates from.
Phoebe Bridgers, Lucy Dacus and Julien Baker may not have intentionally tried to cultivate cool youth pastor vibes during their supergroup era, but I do think that they drew an audience inclined to see them that way.
If you search the phrase “church boygenius” on X, you’ll find plenty of posts likening the band’s concerts to religious experiences. The top comment in one Reddit thread reads, “At their Halloween show in LA, they dressed as Jesus, God, and the Holy Ghost and I was like, ‘THIS is what spiritual enlightenment feels like! I finally get it!" Anyway, if they started a cult I'd follow.’” At an incredibly challenging time for out queer youth, a band like boygenius invited people to communally and unapologetically share in their experiences of suffering, offering living proof that living to adulthood as a queer person is possible. The same is true of an artist like Roan.
There is nothing inherently wrong with artists serving as possibility models. As a teenager, obsessive music fandom was absolutely a lifeline for me; My Chemical Romance’s recent reunion tour brought me right back to that mindset. When I saw a clip of Gerard Way in a pencil skirt yelling, “In the face of extermination, say fuck you,” I experienced the same electric thrill that I would have as a queer, trans teen who felt helpless and doomed, and for whom music offered a much-needed window into a possible future.
But we also have to remember that putting people on pedestals, as Roan pointed out, is its own form of dehumanization. The singer was right to emphasise that while she loves her work, it is still work at the end of the day. Viewing your favourite pop star as an infallible prophet rather than as someone with a job leads fans down bad paths: When you see Roan as a symbol rather than a person, the temptation to cross boundaries grows. But stalking, touching, and other forms of violation are never okay, no matter how famous someone is.
I largely stopped putting celebrities on a pedestal once I was an adult who could (and did) seek more in-person queer community. Some of the relationships I cherish the most in my life are my cross-generational queer friendships, including the one with my blue-haired nonbinary roommate, who is 16 years my senior.
One of my favourite things about going to any kind of queer space or event is seeing older queer people living their best lives, whether they’re marching in the streets in a leather chest harness or drily cracking jokes while checking visitors in at an LGBTQ+ museum. I make eye contact with those older queers, and I feel that same excitement I once felt watching clips of My Chem. There are real-life people out there who prove that queer and trans self-actualization is possible; they’re not just on stages and on your phone.
If you’ve been reading this while feeling defensive of your attachment to Roan or any other queer pop star, know that it’s okay to be a fan — even a stan! — but you don’t need LGBTQ+ celebrities to validate your existence. Models of queer possibility exist everywhere. You just have to go looking for them.
A version of this article was originally published on Them.
The singer has turned the comments off on two videos that have quickly gone viral.
