In the making of “Schitt’s Creek,” Dan Levy chose to cultivate a fictional landscape in which homophobia does not exist. He executed gay character arcs unapologetically and, in doing so, absolved viewers of the idea that a person’s identity is something to question. Levy freed homosexuality of its regular oppression without feigning backlash from fictitious bigoted characters. Rarely does the media allow people to simply exist in their sexual orientations in such a powerful way. So, when Levy achieved such a feat and revealed “Schitt’s Creek’s” love-trumps-all mindset, he received overwhelmingly positive feedback from the LGBTQ+ community.
There is, however, something to be said about his intentional omission. By purposely excluding homophobia from his show, Levy is blatantly removing the prevailing history of bigotry that folks of the LGBTQ+ community continue to battle. This omission may be considered a form of privileged ignorance, but I don’t see it as such. Rather, the creative choice turns an otherwise stereotypical country town into a sanctuary for which acceptance is paramount. Viewers can lose themselves in the comfort of a place in which gay people are not questioned, and engage in the escapism of fiction.
Upon watching and rewatching the show, I continue to find solace in the leading partnership of David and Patrick. I see my own relationship in every loving remark they share and the way they poke fun at each other’s quirks. David and Patrick are unapologetically themselves, enabled by the acceptance of one another, their families and the community around them. When Patrick serenaded David with his rendition of Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best,” my heart nearly cried. Never have I seen such a romantic moment be executed in a fictional LGBTQ+ relationship. By eliminating the backlash, Levy effectively made room for passionate and tender moments just like this. The way in which his parents reacted in the audience, full of awe and adoration of the couple, just made the scene all the more endearing.
More so, David’s coming out story provides an accurate portrayal of the slightly awkward conversations that often occur when sharing that piece of yourself with someone new. The now famous metaphor of “liking the wine not the label” has been a vehicle that queer “Schitt’s Creek” fans use to come out to their families and friends. With every new person I come out to, the same hesitancy remains. Seeing accurate portrayals of such a difficult conversation, and examples of accepting reactions, like that of Stevie to David, is not only comforting, but remarkably helpful. Now, as I come out to the whole Michigan community, I think back to David’s courage and the unconditional acceptance he was shown.
***
Arriving in Tel Aviv this summer, I felt that I had entered Levy’s fictitious world of unconditional acceptance. Iridescence swirled around me as I walked through Frishman Street. Rainbow flags peeked through the windows and dangled from the rooftops of every storefront. After 30 minutes of half-hearted unpacking, my girlfriend, Sari, and I decided to celebrate our reunion with the city we had been longing for during months of Midwestern frost. Both Sari and I had lived in Tel Aviv in years prior, so we eagerly spent our first day back passing the mic, playing tour guide and passenger.
We first took a detour through the SuperYuda so I could show off my all-time-favorite yogurt, which, to my great offense, Sari deemed “milky.” We stumbled upon her gap year neighborhood, and she held my hand down the dizzying stairs of Dizengoff Center Mall. She led me through the Shuk to her favorite Thai stand. I showed her the exact square near Sarona Market where I got a 175-shekel ticket for scootering on the sidewalk just two summers prior. It was like bringing her into my childhood bedroom, still cluttered with sappy memorabilia from before we met. Between every stop, we’d walk through the hallowed streets of the city, our faces lighting up every few seconds with sight of yet another set of rainbow stripes.
With Israel’s incredibly frequent media presence, it’s surprising how little people tend to know about its culture. Tel Aviv is one of the most gay-friendly places in the world; the city is a blaring haven of pride and acceptance. Every summer, at the start of June, Tel Aviv hosts the largest Pride parade in the Middle East, and one of the largest in the entire world. This year, the festivities were split into two days. On the evening of June 8, more than 150,000 residents, tourists and visitors marched along the boardwalk for the parade; on June 9, the music festival took place in the park. The festivities did not stop there. On June 13, Adam Lambert came to the city for a pride month performance.
Due to foreseen parade traffic, I graciously got off work early for the first day’s festivities. The extra hour or two allowed me to spend ample time picking out my outfit and applying generous amounts of glitter to my eyelids. Bellies bulging with schnitzel, Sari and I joined our Michigander counterparts and took to the beach for the long-awaited parade.
Floats lined the pier and rainbow flags with big Jewish stars hovered over the crowds. A reveler held up a sign with the phrase, “Respect my existence or expect my resistance.” One marcher turned his lengthy beard into a stream of rainbow stripes. And I indulged. I danced when the music was familiar, and cheered on the patrons when it was foreign. I laughed and kissed and appreciated that I am living in a time and place where I can be unapologetic in my identity.
The second day’s festival resulted in some moderate dehydration, but was otherwise equally successful. Cold water misted the music-filled air as allies and community members alike chowed down on kosher hotdogs and ice cream. Pictures were taken, new friends were made and it was all-around an amazing celebration. That is, until we exited HaYarkon Park. There stood eight scruffed-up men with megaphones, shouting passages of the Bible and preaching at the pride-goers to find Jesus. Their protests did not enhance the day’s storyline or contribute any profound political meaning to the celebration. Rather, the display of hate was begging to be ignored. I hope they were satisfied with wasting their day, because I can guarantee nobody’s minds were changed.
Every time I experience homophobia, whether it be in the form of microaggressions or blatant disapproval, it stings just as bad as the first time I heard it. I think back to the town of Schitt’s Creek and silently thank Levy for providing a space to watch gay relationships thrive without being subjected to second-hand bigotry.
Excluding politics from storytelling entirely is not feasible. In fiction, political upheaval can provide an enriching point-counterpoint argument of human values and ethics. In fact, its removal would compromise the authenticity of the story. As someone highly fond of debate and formal argumentation, I can certainly recognize the importance of exploring such conflict.
That said, acknowledging hate gives it a voice and, in the appropriate context, its absence is incredibly powerful. In the creation of this column, I have taken a page from Levy’s book and practiced intentional omission, in order to showcase the place I love most in a positive light. I have done so because any political sentiment would only distract from the truth I hope to convey, which is that Tel Aviv is a wonderful city with wonderful people.
The Friday night after our arrival, Sari and I helped run a Shabbat dinner, sponsored by Hillel International at Tel Aviv. We arrived early to help dish the food onto platters and set the tables. One by one, the Israeli and American guests began to arrive, and we greeted them at the door. Not an hour later, the 35 guests had merged at the seams. As we stuffed our stomachs full of challah and chicken, we exchanged stories and talked about everything from the army to our torah portions, to whether we were “Nike people” or “Adidas people.” We chatted and laughed into the night, bonded by delicious food and the place we love most.
Sometimes omitting hate is more important than addressing opposition. It’s a way to protect prejudice from infiltrating its way into our words, and prevent a beautiful story from being tainted by rotten beliefs. In the spaces where we have control, why illuminate those opposing voices?
Absence is powerful. Our brain struggles to distinguish between negative statements and positive statements, as everything in our mind exists. However, we can easily distinguish between presence and absence. Upon further thought, consumers may reflect upon the absence of a belief they deem critical, and question whether those opposing sentiments are actually necessary.
When I tell strangers that I am spending the summer in Israel with my girlfriend, I am not only stating a fact; I am revealing my political views in more ways than one. I can only hope that one day the people I love and the places I go will not be controversial. But for now, I will continue to share my truth and omit the political opposition when sharing my story.
Statement Correspondent Talia Belowich can be reached at taliabel@umich.edu