Everyone has a moment in “The Wizard of Oz” that they can relate to on a personal level. Whether it’s identifying with the Scarecrow, Tin Man, or Cowardly Lion and their desire for a brain, heart, and courage, or feeling a connection to Dorothy and her yearning to escape her troubles by flying beyond the rainbow. This sentiment is echoed by cult gay filmmaker John Waters, who expressed his confusion about Dorothy’s desire to return to Kansas when there is a vibrant world of magic shoes, winged monkeys, and gay lions.
Personally, I find myself aligning most with Dorothy as she pleads with Glinda the Good Witch for help in returning home. It’s a moment that resonates deeply, as Glinda reminds Dorothy that she always possessed the power to go back to Kansas. My earliest memory of watching “The Wizard of Oz” was during Easter weekend when I started kindergarten. Back in 2004, I watched the film with my cousins on a rented VHS. However, I seemed to be the only one truly captivated by it. My parents and relatives had already experienced the movie during their own childhood, and my cousins had little interest in it.
But, like many queer men before me, “The Wizard of Oz” became a lifeline. The idea of returning to dreary, black-and-white Kansas seemed unfathomable when I could immerse myself in the beautifully gay, sing-songy Technicolor world of Oz. Pop culture, especially from past decades, held a similar appeal for me. These nostalgic references allowed me to briefly escape and embrace a world where my unique interests felt welcome and understood.
Judy Garland played a crucial role in this journey. Through the bonus features of a “Wizard of Oz” DVD gifted to me by my aunt, I discovered Garland’s early career and the hard work she put into portraying Dorothy Gale. Unfortunately, these features neglected to mention the personal and professional struggles Garland faced as a result of her time at MGM. It is widely known that she was subjected to harsh treatment, including alleged starvation and the administration of amphetamines that later developed into substance abuse and alcoholism.
As I grew older, my love for Garland became a private pursuit. Despite societal expectations, there were parts of myself I couldn’t hide. While other boys played rough, I preferred the company of girls, which often attracted unwelcome attention and scrutiny. In my neighborhood, however, my friends and the women in my family embraced and nurtured my emerging queer identity. The transition to middle school proved more challenging, as friendships splintered and finding solace in adults became harder. This is why I still prefer using “queer” over “gay” as identifiers since the latter acquired a specific meaning during my time in junior high.
To heal these wounds, I sought solace in art and media. I delved into the pop culture of bygone eras, creating a sanctuary where my interests felt untouchable and uniquely mine. It’s easy to enjoy popular artists until they become appreciated by those who once caused you pain. So, I sought refuge in the music of Madonna, Whitney Houston, and Paula Abdul, creating my own queer haven.
The public library also became a sanctuary for me. Every Saturday, I spent hours surrounded by books on 20th-century pop culture, establishing a sense of belonging. Even when I finally found a group of friends in high school, I clung to this personal refuge. However, when my friends abandoned me after I chose a college in the city while they remained in the suburbs, I reconnected with an old friend named Judy.
I borrowed every Judy Garland DVD available at the library. I recorded movie marathons on TCM, immersing myself in her films. I even splurged on a limited Blu-ray edition of “A Star is Born” to add to my collection. During a period of academic stress, undiagnosed anxiety, and bouts of depression, Garland’s struggles with her own mental health felt eerily familiar. Reading about her experiences and watching her performances allowed me to find solace in shared emotions.
The term “Friend of Dorothy” originated as a way for LGBTQ individuals, predominantly gay men, to covertly identify others amidst a time when homosexuality was criminalized. While its precise origins are unknown, the term is often associated with Dorothy from “The Wizard of Oz” due to her defense of her queer Oz friends in the original novel. However, it gained prominence through Garland’s devoted gay fanbase. Gay men, who faced persecution themselves, felt seen in Garland’s suffering and admired her resilience in the face of adversity. Some even attribute her funeral, which coincided with the Stonewall riots, as a catalyst for the LGBTQ community’s fight for equality.
Although Garland’s impact on queer history is debated, as many argue that it was street kids and drag queens who initiated change, I found solace in her stories. In college, I began to embrace my sexuality more openly, no longer keeping it a secret. Still, I carried on my connection with Garland, finding understanding and strength in her struggles. She represented an older generation of closeted queers, whose stories resonated deeply with my own experiences.
In essence, “The Wizard of Oz” and the captivating performances of Judy Garland became my lifelines, offering refuge and understanding during times of rejection and isolation. They remind me that there is power in embracing one’s unique identity and finding solace in the art, culture, and stories that resonate deeply within us.
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