Ocean Vuong explores both gender and sexuality in his autobiographical novel, On Earth we’re Briefly Gorgeous. The novel focuses on Little Dog, a Vietnamese American, who knows from a very young age that he is gay. As Little Dog grows up in Connecticut during the 1990s and 2000s, he is constantly bombarded with society’s stereotypical assumptions of gender, particularly masculinity. When the cruel neighborhood kids laugh at Little Dog and call him a “little bitch,” Little Dog’s mother, Rose, encourages him to be strong. “You have to find a way, Little Dog,” she says, “You have to be a real boy and be strong.” Little Bird is taught early on that being a “real boy” is rooted in strength and hinges on a very narrow, traditional definition of masculinity. “See?” Rose says to Little Dog the next morning. “You already look like Superman!” Little Dog’s trouble with the neighborhood kids is just the beginning of the discrimination he faces because of his sexuality and failure to embody the qualities of a “real boy.” Through Little Dog’s experiences, Vuong highlights the discrimination faced by the queer community in 21st-century American society and argues that such hate is ultimately rooted in traditional ideals of gender and masculinity.
Most of the discrimination Little Dog faces and witnesses in On Earth we’re Briefly Gorgeous is related to sexuality and stereotypical assumptions of gender and masculinity, which reflects their connection within American society. When Little Dog is just a boy, his mother buys him a hot-pink Schwinn. The colorful bike is the cheapest, and it is all she can afford. The first day Little Dog rides his new bike, a neighborhood kid knocks him from it and proceeds to scrape the pink paint from the metal frame. Little Dog is a boy, and the neighborhood kid isn’t comfortable with the hot-pink bike, a color stereotypically associated with girls and femininity. Little Dog tells of Marin, a transgender woman in his neighborhood, who is harassed everyday on her way to work. “I’m gonna kill you, bitch,” the neighborhood men say to Marin. “Don’t sleep tonight, don’t sleep tonight, don’t sleep tonight. Don’t sleep.” Marin, like Little Dog, does not embody stereotypical gender ideals, and she must similarly face hate and abuse. At one point, Little Dog and his mother wake up to find “FAG4LIFE” spray painted in red across their front door. Little Dog’s mother is illiterate and doesn’t speak much English, so he tells her it says “Merry Christmas,” but the hateful message is still clear. Little Dog’s sexuality is the source of much abuse and discrimination.
This discrimination and stereotypical gender assumptions are even present in Little Dog’s relationship with his first lover, Trevor, a masculine boy whom Little Dog describes as “all-American beef.” After Little Dog and Trevor’s first sexual encounter, Trevor turns from Little Dog and cries “skillfully in the dark. The way boys do.” Trevor is clearly ashamed of his sexuality, and he hides his tears in an attempt to prove his masculinity. Little Dog and Trevor have a type of modified sex they refer to as “fake,” during which Trevor is always on top. Once, they attempt to switch, but Trevor stops. “I can’t. I just—I mean…” Trevor says. “I dunno. I don’t wanna feel like a girl. Like a bitch.” Trevor is comfortable having sex with Little Dog, as long as Little Dog agrees to be the “girl,” and it doesn’t violate Trevor’s sense of masculinity. Furthermore, Trevor often insults Little Dog and makes comments based on Little Dog’s sexuality and Trevor’s stereotypical gender assumptions. Once, during an argument, Little Dog stops talking to Trevor. “Hey,” Trevor says to Little Dog, “don’t do the fuckin’ silent thing, man. It’s a fag move.” This same hatefulness is later seen when Little Dog refuses to shoot up heroin with Trevor. “Looks like you dropped your tampon,” Trevor says to Little Dog, again illustrating the connection between stereotypical masculinity and discrimination of the queer community.
Not long before Trevor overdoses and dies, he asks Little Dog how long he will be gay. “You think you’ll be really gay, like, forever? I mean,” Trevor says, “I think me…I’ll be good in a few years, you know?” Trevor is “raised in the fabric and muscle of American masculinity,” and, regardless of his own sexuality, he leaves Little Dog feeling as if he has “tainted [Trevor] with [his] faggotry.” Unlike Trevor, Little Dog knows he will be gay forever—that it’s part of who he is and not some sort of phase—and the discrimination Little Dog faces because of his sexuality is closely connected with society’s expectations of what it means to be a “real” boy or man.
Gender and Sexuality ThemeTracker
Gender and Sexuality Quotes in On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous
“I’m sorry,” you said, bandaging the cut on my forehead. “Grab your coat. I’ll get you McDonald’s.” Head throbbing, I dipped chicken nuggets in ketchup as you watched. “You have to get bigger and stronger, okay?”
“You have to be a real boy and be strong. You have to step up or they’ll keep going You have a bellyful of English. […] You have to use it, okay?”
Afterward, lying next to me with his face turned away, he cried skillfully in the dark. The way boys do. The first time we fucked, we didn’t fuck at all.
“I can’t. I just—I mean…” He spoke into the wall. “I dunno. I don’t wanna feel like a girl. Like a bitch. I can’t man. I’m sorry, it’s not for me—“He paused, wiped his nose. “It’s for you. Right?”
“I don’t like girls.”
I didn’t want to use the Vietnamese word for it—pê-đê—from the French pédé, short for pédéraste. Before the French occupation, our Vietnamese did not have name for queer bodies—because they were seen, like all bodies, fleshed and of one source—and I didn’t want to introduce this part of me using the epithet for criminals.
“Tell me,” you sat up, a concerned look on your face, “when did all this start? I gave birth to a healthy, normal boy. I know that. When?”
A few months before our talk at Dunkin' Donuts, a fourteen-year-old boy in rural Vietnam had acid thrown in his face after he slipped a love letter into another boy's locker. Last summer, twenty-eight-year-old Florida native Omar Mateen walked into an Orlando nightclub, raised his automatic rifle, and opened fire. Forty-nine people were killed. It was a gay club and the boys, because that's who they were—sons, teenagers—looked like me: a colored thing born of one mother, rummaging the dark, each other, for happiness.
I don’t wanna, he said. His panting. His shaking hair. The blur of it. Please tell me I am not, he said through the sound of his knuckles as he popped them like the word But But But. And you take a step back. Please tell me I am not, he said, I am not
a faggot. Am I? Am I? Are you?
Trevor the hunter. Trevor the carnivore, the redneck, not
A pansy, shotgunner, sharpshooter, not fruit or fairy. Trevor meateater but not
veal. Never veal. Fuck that, never again after his daddy told him the story when he was seven, at the table, veal roasted with rosemary. How they were made. How the difference between veal and beef is the children. The veal are children.
I never did heroin because I’m chicken about needles. When I declined his offer to shoot it, Trevor, tightening the cell phone charger around his arm with his teeth, nodded toward my feet. "Looks like you dropped your tampon." Then he winked, smiled—and faded back into the dream he made of himself.
"Is it true though?" His swing kept creaking. "You think you'll be really gay, like, forever? I mean," the swing stopped, "I think me . . . I’ll be good in a few years, you know?"
I couldn't tell if by "really" he meant very gay or truly gay.