Animating Queer Futures: Why We Refuse to Ask Permission Anymore
There’s a particular thrill in building something the world hasn’t seen, especially when it’s the sort of thing you’ve craved your whole life. For me, venturing into indie animation as a queer, BIPOC founder isn’t about following in anyone’s footsteps—it’s about torching the blueprint, standing in the ashes, and inviting my chosen family to help paint what comes next. Let’s be honest: nobody’s going to hand us the stage, let alone the microphone. So we build our own theatre.
I had the chance to walk through these convictions—sometimes with a wry grin, sometimes with outright defiance—in a conversation with Joanne Lockwood, host of the Inclusion Bites Podcast. Joanne is a force: an inclusion architect, an endlessly curious interviewer, and the sort of person who doesn’t let surface-level answers slide by. Her background in disrupting norms with purposeful inclusion work and creating platforms for authentic belonging made this more than just an interview; it was a mutual invitation to push further.
More than [INSERT_VIEW_COUNT] people have already watched our interview on YouTube, with many more tuning in via Spotify and Apple Podcasts.
If what follows stirs something in you—encouragement, debate, or your own ideas—drop your thoughts in the comments below. I genuinely want to learn how you see the future we’re queering up together. I read every single one.
Redefining Studio Power: The Audacity to Be “Gayer, More Colourful Disney”
There’s a tongue-in-cheek audacity to wanting to become, as I say to anyone who’ll listen, “a gayer, more colourful Disney.” The ambition behind that line is both a wink and a war-cry: the big houses aren’t coming for us, so it’s up to us to build what we want to see.
What fuels this? It’s knowing, as so many of us do, how formative stories were for us as children—growing up with Disney’s polished narratives, all while never quite seeing ourselves reflected back. Joanne put it simply: “We can all criticise Disney and other corporates for their stance, but we have to recognise they operate in territories all over the world. Some of those territories—it’s illegal to be queer in any shape or form...They’re trying to toe this middle line.” She’s right. The constraints are real.
But constraints breed creativity—and, in our case, outright rebellion. If the industry closes DEI doors, lays off LGBTQ and BIPOC staff, and continues to sanitise narratives out of fear, then our answer isn’t to ask politely for a seat. Instead, we set our own table. This isn’t about taking something from anyone else. It’s about filling the hungry parts of ourselves and our communities that mainstream media still finds inconvenient.
Authenticity at the Source: Storytelling as Lived Experience
It’s easy for a studio, even with the best intentions, to slip into tokenism: add a queer or BIPOC character here, celebrate a “first” there, and pat themselves on the back with a press release. That’s not enough, and frankly, it’s why most “diverse” output doesn’t ring true. If you want something authentic, you have to start from the soul of the thing—the team, not just the pitch deck.
Joanne spotted this straight away: “Your talent is through a queer lens as well. Not just a straight director with a queer character, but you’re telling the entire story queer first. That’s the power, isn’t it? By the people, for the people.” That phrase cuts to the bone of what we’re doing. From our scripting process to our casting, there’s intentionality in putting the right hands on the reins. When a character is Filipino, we cast a Filipino actor—could I find someone cheaper? Perhaps. But why would I, when authenticity is the point?
The same applies for our trans characters—like Oleander, voiced by a trans person of colour, with room in the creative process for notes, corrections, and lived expertise to shape how the story unfolds. It’s not just about avoiding mistakes or cultural mishaps. It’s about breathing genuine life into a narrative, allowing those who’ve been “othered” to finally tell their own jokes, own their silences, and control their revelations.
Funding the Revolution: Why Indie Isn’t Code For “Free Labour”
You learn quickly, when you’re funding an indie venture, that the romance of “DIY” wears off when it comes to paying the bills. It’s easy from the outside to assume everyone in indie is here for the passion—and to an extent, that’s true. But I’m crystal clear that passion doesn’t pay the rent, and I’m allergic to perpetuating the “work for exposure” trap that plagues animation and the broader creative community.
I refuse to be a business that reluctantly acquiesces to exploitation simply because it’s the norm. “For pre-production or even production, they’re not paying their screenwriters or their voice actors…Indie animation gets a bad rap because we’re—‘Oh, you want us to work for free?’” Joanne probed.
My philosophy is cut-and-dried: We pay everyone—but not myself. The sacrifices I ask of others, I make tenfold myself, funnelling every pound directly into the hands of our artists, animators, and writers. Is it always market rate? I wish, and that’s my Kickstarter goal. But even now, people are getting paid, including those historically locked out or bypassed by agents and “mainstream blend” demands. That’s not a virtue; it’s the price of admission if we’re serious about changing the status quo.
Still, I run into the chicken-and-egg problem every founder knows: How do you get experience without already having experience? For so many marginalised creatives, that question is doubled—they face structural gatekeeping at every level. So, every paying gig we can offer becomes a CV builders, a real line in the credits, a piece of showreel that opens more doors—not just for this project, but for their whole careers.
Ownership and Unapologetic Messaging
I don’t intend to sand down my politics for broader appeal. The idea that I’m supposed to dilute the work or make it “presentable” for global distribution is nonsense. As Joanne succinctly put it, Disney has jurisdictions where “You’re going to have to cut that bit out and change that word.” I’m not interested in that game.
We create queer, BIPOC-centred stories for the communities that demand and deserve them. “If you don’t want to see it, you don’t have to,” I tell funders and distributors alike. Our approach to monetisation is as grassroots and uncompromising as our art: sponsorships (hello, Toon Boom!), Kickstarter-driven funding, merchandise, and a potential Patreon.
It turns out being uncensored, making “just for us, by us” narratives, is a competitive advantage in a world where the biggest players are paralysed by controversy. Our pilot for Poison Us is a ten-minute (and, yes, possibly up to fifteen minutes) masterclass in that ethos, with further episodes and other projects ranging in length—but always intentional, always hand-drawn, at 24 frames a second, no shortcuts. We’re not waiting for Netflix or Amazon to rescue us. We release on our terms—YouTube, early screenings for VIP backers, TikTok teasers—so no boardroom exec can pull the plug or demand we rip the heart out of our stories.
Creative Process: Why We Obsess over Details (and Bring in the Right Co-Writers)
It’s tempting to over-romanticise the grind of hand-drawn, 2D animation—“a labour of love” only hints at the truth. Every background, prop, and flash of movement is crafted by real artists. There’s no stock animation, no corners cut. Even the tarot cards in Poison Us are bespoke.
The creative process isn’t just about production values, though. It’s also about responsibility—particularly when projects touch on cultures not my own. Take our upcoming Manslaughter Project: it features deer woman, a figure significant to Indigenous communities. I won’t advance that script without the partnership of an Indigenous co-writer—it’s not just about sensitivity; it’s about basic artistic integrity. If I can’t secure that authenticity, the project pivots or gets shelved. That’s leadership for me: refusing to compromise the vision or the respect owed to other people’s stories.
Standing Up to Backlash, Not Just Headwinds
Let’s be candid: we are not building in a vacuum. Joanne’s pointed commentary on the current political climate—where DEI is facing a concerted backlash, rightwards social tides are rising, and economic safety nets are being slashed—isn’t just context, it’s the reason why our work is urgent. When right-wingers decry “agendas” or when funders shy away at the whiff of “controversy,” we keep going anyway.
There’s risk, of course. My face landed on a white supremacist website back when I was a journalist. As I told Joanne, “What else am I going to do? Compromise my morals?...For a lot of us, we have nothing else to lose.” We’re working from a position of necessity, not comfort. We didn’t choose the margins—the margins happened to us.
I’ll admit, Joanne’s attitude here is galvanising: “If you lay low, what you’re doing is you’re copping out...We, as in marginalised communities, have a responsibility to say, hang on a minute, I’m not going to lay low, I’m not going to hide. I’m here whether you like me or not...” She’s right. Sometimes spite is as powerful as hope.
Identity, Visibility, and the Intimacy of Representation
The conversation was as much about the art as the lived complexities that drive it—the emotional calculus of walking into a boardroom or a classroom as the only person of colour, or navigating spaces as visibly queer or trans. And sometimes, it’s not about the declarations or the external world, but the small, precious moments of validation—a sir from a stranger in a grocery queue, the right pronoun flung your way by accident, the joy of simply being unremarkable, even for five minutes.
“Sometimes I wish I didn’t look the way I do—not because I don’t like who I am, but because I don’t like the attention,” I reflected. Yet this, too, is ammunition. For every uncomfortable glance, for every time our joy disrupts the neat expectations of others, we’re affording hope to the ones watching from the wings.
Joanne put it into perspective: “Most people are more worried about themselves than they are about other people...they’re too busy getting on with their own life. All I have to do is just get on with mine.” This is the paradox of being out and proud—you’re both spectacle and background, eruption and everyday. And the joy is in both.
Hope, Justice, and the Wicked Pleasure of Outlasting Our Critics
So, why keep going? For me, it’s an intoxicating mix—yes, hope, but also justice, and let’s be honest, a dash of spite. I keep living, keep creating, for all the reasons the world told me not to. “We already know we’ve got to work twice as hard to prove that we can do it,” I mused. Then there’s the other side: we do not want what they have, at least not on their terms.
It’s about building spaces and stories that are ours—uncensored, unbowed. We do the work for each other, buoyed by the micro-validations, the unexpected allies, the knowledge that even when our effort feels futile, it’s being watched by someone who will take it further, who will be bolder, or softer, or more themselves because we refused to sit quietly.
You can call it chaos, or vindication, or even good trouble. For me, it’s the only way forward. And if a future generation looks back and says we left the ceiling stained with our refusal to disappear—like Michelangelo, but a little queerer, perhaps a little messier—I’ll count that as a win.
So, what will you do with the spaces denied you? Will you wait to be given permission, or will you, like us, build and animate your own future, frame by painstaking frame—never apologising for the palette you use, the family you choose, or the noise you make?
Let’s keep painting on the ceilings no one else imagines. I’m all in.
If this conversation resonated, challenged, or even rankled you, let’s talk about it in the comments below. As I said: I read every single one.