The Sharp Knife of a Short Life: On Naya Rivera and Representation
After Cory Monteith died on 13 July 2013, Glee aired a special tribute episode to the actor and his character, Finn Hudson. The episode is probably the show’s most genuine and moving, in large part because the cast and crew were in mourning at the same time as their characters.
The scene from that episode that still haunts me is Naya Rivera as Santana Lopez singing If I Die Young.
“If I die young / bury me in satin / lay me down on a bed of roses
Sink me in the river at dawn / send me away with the words of a love song”
Seven years to the day since Cory died, local authorities found Naya Rivera’s body in Lake Piru where she disappeared five days earlier.
In those five days — as it became apparent that Naya would not be found alive — I have grappled with an overwhelming sense of sorrow for her friends and family, in particular her 4-year-old son who she used the last of her strength to save before she drowned.
It’s a strange feeling, grieving for an actor I’ve never met. There’s an element of shame and guilt to it; after all, what right do I have to be sad when a young boy watched his mother disappear beneath the water and not resurface?
But actors are storytellers, and storytellers find a way into people’s hearts across miles and years. And when that story shines a light on people’s deepest feelings and darkest fears — well, it can become woven into their very identity.
Naya appeared on our TV screens for 6 years, delighting us with cutting one-liners, making us cry with her vulnerability, and wowing — always wowing — us with her voice. For many viewers, Santana was the first character they had seen that looked like them: Afro-Latina, mixed race, lesbian.
It’s easy to forget how different the world was when Glee began, because it was only 10 years ago. But this was 2009: marriage equality was still 4 years away for New Zealand, and Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell was still going strong in the U.S. Queer representation in media was few and far between — and when we got it, it was overwhelmingly white.
Santana Lopez was a gift in that world: a fierce, passionate, vulnerable Latina lesbian with a voice that reached right into your heart.
Naya Rivera wasn’t afraid to tell Santana’s story, to play a lesbian character in such an uncertain landscape. Her advocacy for Santana is a big part of why the story got told in the first place; that, and the passionate fanbase.
In the early days of Glee, Santana was relegated to little more than a bitchy side character. But over the years she became a powerhouse of a performer, a force to rival even Rachel Berry, the show’s golden child.
Long after I stopped watching Glee, I followed Santana’s story and listened to her songs each week. I remember getting chills the first time I watched Lea Michele perform Don’t Rain on my Parade, and I got the same chills watching Naya Rivera perform that song years later.
Ryan Murphy, Brad Falchuk, and Ian Brennan recognised Naya’s talent, even if they didn’t always respect Santana or her relationship with Brittany. Luckily, we had Naya for that.
Naya brought 110% to every line she was given, whether it was a scathing speech or a tearful coming out scene. She carried the nuance and layers of her character even when the writing was inconsistent, confusing, and problematic.
Naya brought Santana’s coming out story to life in vivid detail that I don’t think the writers could ever have imagined.
Santana’s story began as a throwaway line about having sex with her best friend, Brittany. It was played as a joke, as Glee was wont to do.
But the queer community was starved for representation and they latched onto that line like a lifeline. So the writers began writing more for Santana, and eventually that throwaway line became a big gay double wedding in the final season.
Through it all, Naya delivered her performances with depth, compassion, and a deep respect for the community she was representing.
In doing so, she held up a mirror for countless queer girls and women — particularly Latina women — who saw themselves in Santana’s story.
I didn’t appreciate at the time how revolutionary it was to have an Afro-Latina lesbian on a show as popular as Glee, but I’ve seen so many stories this week of how this character helped people like her come to terms with their sexuality. Santana gave a lot of people the courage to come out to themselves and their loved ones, and that is a life-changing gift.
I had forgotten — or perhaps never truly realised — what an impact Santana Lopez had on my own journey as a queer woman. When she was singing Landslide to Brittany, I was trying to find the words to describe what it meant for me that I had feelings for my own friend.
I liked a girl, but I didn’t feel gay and I didn’t feel bi — I just was.
I prided myself in the fact that I wasn’t scared or ashamed of my feelings, but looking back I can see I was a lot more closeted than I realised. Despite not feeling shame or fear, I still didn’t tell anyone for years. And even then, it was rarely face-to-face and often in throwaway lines that I heaved out through my hammering chest.
I guess fear and shame run deeper than I realised.
During those years of hiding a key part of who I am, I devoured Santana’s story and her relationship with Brittany. At her most vulnerable, Santana had me rapt. Every loaded glance, every shaky breath, every note in Naya’s beautiful voice.
I keep coming back to her performance in Rumour Has It/Someone Like You, where Naya manages to convey Santana’s anger, bitterness, fear, passion, and love in the space of one song (well, technically two). And she does it all while dancing in heels and delivering some of the best vocals of the show.
“Don’t forget me / I beg
I remember / you said”
I won’t forget you, Naya. Thank you.
