Growing up, I didn’t have a personal hero to look up to. Who was there for me, a brown bisexual Muslim, to identify with? The terrorist? The taxi driver? The character with the broken accent who served as comic relief for everyone else to laugh at?
Simply put, there were no characters on television or in film that represented me realistically, that looked like me, spoke like me or shared my experiences and my pain. Strong non-stereotypical character of color? Needle in a haystack. Strong bisexual non-stereotypical character of color? Needle in a haystack inside a haystack inside a maze.
Coincidentally, I came to terms with my sexuality around the same time I discovered Star Wars for myself. The characters were, to me, a breath of fresh air. Different. Uncommon. There’s Luke Skywalker, who defies toxic masculinity. Leia Organa, who, instead of being the damsel in distress, is the knight in shining armor. Finn and Bodhi Rook, two men of color who — although different characters — both make a choice that ultimately saves the galaxy, all due to the highest form of human compassion and empathy. Poe Dameron, your classic hotshot hero except friendly, trusting and compassionate.
Star Wars is different. And that’s what makes it so great. And while the franchise does a great job at redefining what it means to be a hero, it has yet to break away from patterns that exclude LGBT people.
Star Wars has a worldwide reach, a cultural impact like no other franchise, and the ability (responsibility, even) to help lead conversations that need to be had.
Many adults argue that introducing long-overdue LGBT characters to the galaxy far, far away would “ruin their childhood.” Blatant homophobia aside, that statement is deeply flawed and, quite frankly, selfish. Your childhood is over. Nothing can take away the cherished moments you had with your heroes. Let LGBT children have theirs. Don’t stand in the way of their desperately needed representation.
The importance of representation doesn’t need to be reiterated, but I will say that seeing a bisexual character on screen would have helped little old me greatly. It would have meant the world to me as a kid to be able to say that I’m Luke Skywalker, master of the Force and destroyer of Death Stars. I’m Leia Organa, accomplished Senator and courageous leader of the Resistance. I’m Han Solo, Alliance Fleet general and commander of a strike team.
If Star Wars comes through, it will help guide LGBT children on their path to self-discovery and make them feel less alone, more accepted. It will give them the hero they deserve, the one I and many others never had.
It is often said with pride that Star Wars is for everyone. Respectfully, I disagree. Star Wars is not for everyone. Not yet, at least. But it can and it absolutely should be.
The fear of including more (or, in the case of Star Wars, any) LGBT characters keeps old prejudices alive and hinders the progress of diversity in film. And in the words of Grand Master Yoda himself, “fear is the path to the Dark Side.”
