What's With Queer People's Love of Cryptids?
By Anne Gregg
Why do queer people love cryptids?
Cryptids are creatures from folklore or local legend that people have claimed to have seen, but there is not biological proof that they do. Bigfoot, The Lochness Monster, The Fresno Nightcrawlers, Jackalopes, and Mothman are some popular examples.
I am obsessed with the Mothman. I don’t know why, I think it started after watching “The Search for the Mysterious Mothman” episode of Buzzfeed Unsolved. But now I have a collection of Mothman stickers , buttons, shirts, and plushies. I’ve played a warlock of the Mothman in a D&D campaign, dressed up as him for Halloween, did a failed podcast episode talking about him, posted a picture of him on my Instagram for National Boyfriend Day, and have a tv pilot in my drafts folder titled “The Mothman.” Despite my obsession with this eligible bachelor from West Virginia, my friends and the internet have identified this as a “lesbian” characteristic of mine. Mothman merchandise—and merchandise of other cryptids—has become a queer signifier, embraced by the nerdy, halloween-obsessed queer people in your life.
Cryptid obsession is not limited to queer people. They are folklore; they exist to explain mysterious phenomena, scare children, and feed the feeling that there is something more to this world than the eye can see. Something supernatural lurks under the surface. Cryptids are associated with small-town tourist traps and tacky Americana displays that sell legends. Cryptids are horror film fodder and fodder for monster-of-the-week television shows. They are for everyone who likes horror movies, tourist traps, and/or believing there is more to life than what is in front of you.
If you go onto Instagram or Etsy you are sure to find a plethora of cryptids drawn with pride flags, gracing pronoun pins, and adorning artwork with the expression “be gay do crime.” Queer musical artist Ratwyfe wrote a song “Cryptid (Mothman)” about imagining his ideal body is a cryptid body, free from gendered expectations.
Queer people have turned cryptids into gay icons. It’s easy to say queer people like cryptids because they identify with the monster. The antagonists in horror movies are often read as queer to LBGTQ+ audiences because they are othered, ‘unnatural’ creatures. The monster is defined by abnormality—it is scary because it does not fit into the codes of society.
Queer people may relate to the feeling of being an other, a monster. However, our embrace of cryptids is more celebratory and playful. We may love cryptids on some level because we feel like monsters. So we turn to the monster, the creatures outside the bounds of society and we celebrate them. We celebrate ourselves. Embracing ourselves by embracing the other defies the limitations placed upon us by societal expectations. There is a person we are supposed to be, and then there is an other, a being outside the system we know. Queer people break the expectations of cis-het patriarchal society. Our ideal self, our self expression can be anything. Self expression can be anything whether one is queer or not, but our existence is already outside of expectation. Cryptids are all different, some have wings, some have scales, some have tails, some have all three. They are all unique and exciting in their own way.
Cryptids are also campy, which is a queer aesthetic. Their mythology is often over-exaggerated with kooky features. However, some people treat them as scary monsters, lurking on the outskirts of our reality. But its hard to see an anthropomorphic moth, a shy prehistoric sea creature, or a furry human as the monstrous creatures their mythology writes them as. No one is really scared of Bigfoot. These fake creatures have tours, souvenirs, and roadside museums dedicated to them. It is delightful and absurd. Liking cryptids as a queer person may just be because you enjoy camp, you enjoy how seriously society takes silly things.
Maybe I just like the Mothman because I like moths and fuzzy creatures. Maybe I just like him because I love tourist traps and I like quirky small-town horror. I can’t say for sure. What I can say is that we should all embrace the things we do not know, the creatures that lurk at the edges of blurred photographs. We should look at ourselves and others with a sense of curiosity and wonder.
About the Author
Anne Gregg is a poet and writer from Northwest Indiana. She is an English Writing major at DePauw University and is the editor-in-chief of her campus’s literary magazine, A Midwestern Review. She is a Media Fellow at her university and loves dissecting how LGBTQ+ people are portrayed in film and tv.