v.w.l | Issue 12, Fall 2026

CONTENT NOTE: This essay discusses Queer coding throughout history and in modern media through both an academic and personal lens. There is discussion of historical and modern queerphobia, and also a reflection on the ways Queer creators can use coding to tell an intentional story.

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It’s fall 2018 and I haven’t watched Steven Universe (2013-2019) yet, so my partner takes it upon themself to remedy that. We binge the seasons that have come out—I’m not prepared for how Queer the show is. I’ve identified as some version of Queer since elementary school; the moment the language was in my hands, I knew it was mine. That said, I’d been very aware of the abysmal offerings of Queer representation, especially anything that related to me. So getting to “Alone Together” (S1E37) and seeing Stevonnie, a Nonbinary and intersex character, I was awe-struck. In this episode, Steven and Connie discover they can fuse together to be Stevonnie. With every other fusion using she/her pronouns, it becomes obvious very quickly that Stevonnie is an outlier using they/them. That was the moment I understood how important representation really is.

Queer coding has a complex history, rocky present, and uncertain future. You’ve heard it before slung around social media to describe this-and-that show. It’s a buzz word that’s come to mean almost anything from queer-baiting to headcanon to half-baked scraps of characterization and plot development. Really though, coding is about getting a message across through subtext; often this means the audience must work to find hidden meaning. It’s a phantom in certain words, phrases, and gestures. The “that feels a little…?” of certain scenes. Coding in media allows things like Queerness to haunt the narrative—whether that’s to reach beyond censorship or explore the undefined.

If you didn’t know, Hollywood’s history of rigid moral standards for what’s considered acceptable for the screen has had an immense impact on what we’re allowed to consume, setting the stage for early uses of Queer coding. The Hays Code of the 1930s-1960s looked to establish guidelines restricting the portrayal of controversial topics including the handling of crime, allusions to “immoral” sexuality, interracial relationships, cursing, and political or religious criticism. Formally called the Motion Picture Production Code, the Hays Code censored Queerness as “not fit” for the big screen—something taboo, immoral, and monstrous. It was instated by Motion Picture Producers and Distributors of America (MPPDA) and headed by presbyterian William Hays, limiting representation and complex story lines in film. Productions created by MPPDA member studios, (as in, all the studios with the funds to actually make things), were functionally required to obtain a certificate from MPPDA before release. With little room to be explicit, filmmakers could only leave hints and hope the audience would notice the right glances and get the strong sense of “that’s kind of Gay.” Anything too explicit would have to be cut before the certificate would be issued.

The Hays Code’s most enduring legacy is a media system in which private corporations are trusted to define the boundaries of public morality. Although the Code was rebranded into the MPA ratings system in 1968, audiences today still easily accept that a small, largely unaccountable group may determine which stories, identities, and ideas the public should consider. Our media landscape continues to privilege the worldview of those who profit from controlling the limits of representation. This restrictive, imposed social contract extends beyond film into the world of television networks and streaming services. Streaming in particular allows companies to erase Queer shows even after their run such as netflix’s erasure of She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018–2020) and HBO max’s of Infinity Train (2019–2021), both originals on their platforms. I imagine the ghost of William Hays takes a shot every time a boardroom tells a Queer showrunner “that’s not suitable for kids.”

Many cartoons into the 2010s struggled to bypass disney and cartoon network’s narrow range of tolerance. Rebecca Sugar, showrunner of Steven Universe, has talked openly about their consistent battles with cartoon network throughout the show’s run. Airing before the Obergefell v. Hodges decision legalized Gay marriage, Ruby and Sapphire’s relationship was a no-go at the start. Sugar aimed to make the character Garnet, the physical representation of Ruby and Sapphire’s relationship, a loveable staple of the show to possibly open the door for them. Ruby and Sapphire’s existence was hidden from network executives until their reveal episode, “Jail Break,”(S1E49) where the two sing about the strength that comes from their love. From negotiations to concessions to eventually being canceled, Sugar fought to include increasingly explicit representation throughout the show’s six year run. Even as Queer stories have become more visible, they remain vulnerable to corporate interests and the insecurity of streaming platforms. The persistence of censorship continues to limit Queer storytellers even as the window of tolerance inches open.

Under the Hays Code, Queer coding often made characters legible only as sinister, isolated, or doomed. For Sugar, coding is used to carve open a space for characters that wouldn’t have been allowed otherwise. In both instances, what’s left unsaid was at the discretion of private corporations. But what can be possible when ambiguity is an artist’s choice and not an executive mandate? What is Queer coding when it becomes more than a survival tool?

Independent studios offer an alternative to mainstream corporations. Australian-based Glitch Productions is one such studio. Queer showrunners have found their way to Glitch for increased autonomy over their stories, including Dana Terrace, creator of disney’s The Owl House (2020-2023). Glitch’s most viral project, The Amazing Digital Circus (2023-2026), is headed by Trans animator and writer Gooseworx. The show is nine episodes long and follows six humans stuck within the digital world with their artificial intelligence ringmaster, Caine. Jax is “the funny one,” a classic tumblr-favorite archetype of a traumatized emo boy who makes it everyone else’s problem (said as a Jax fan). We learn about his relationship with a previous circus member, Ribbit, in the finale that released in theaters this summer.

There is a scene where the two sit on Ribbit’s bed and are genuinely vulnerable with one another. Jax talks about his relationship with his mom who would impose masculinity on him in the absence of his father. He says he told her something “deep and personal,” resulting in him being degraded. When he realizes how much he’s shared with Ribbit, he pulls away, but she pulls him back. She takes off her bowtie and places it around one of Jax’s ears. He blushes. They settle in a moment of softness. Then the doorbell rings—Jax jumps off the bed and throws the bow to the ground. The outside, the public eye, has brushed against what must be kept private. Jax recedes into himself, cutting off his friendship with Ribbit and others in an effort to disappear the vulnerability, the brief (possibly gender-related) euphoria. But he never forgets. This decision follows him the entire show, shaping his interactions with the other circus members and warping his own self-perception.

Several other moments in the show seem to prod at Jax’s gender experience. His seething rage when forced to wear a maid outfit, coupled with his “ironic” wearing of the same outfit in his subconscious mind in the finale. Ribs he makes at other Queer characters in the show that feel like perhaps he’s a little too in-the-know. Telling another character he is not “a little chicken fetus in an egg,” a coded term for a Trans person who has not yet figured it out. And that’s just it—Jax is a person who seems to reject Queerness and vulnerability at every turn. The ambiguity, the absence, the rejection is the core of his character: the phantom. If this isn’t explicitly Trans representation (it’s not), then what is it representing?

I’ve had my throwing down the bow moments. I have always known I was Queer, and yet, that didn’t stop me from policing the parameters of how Queer I could be. Bisexual was a safe enough term for me in school while Trans was the word plastered in outraged headlines about Caitlyn Jenner. During high school, I went to a writing camp out-of-state for the summer. I was a rising sophomore surrounded by mostly upperclassmen. As happens, I found myself in a group of other Queer people and we bonded over our experiences. After the camp, one person invited me to a Dungeons & Dragons discord server. One where everyone had their pronouns next to their usernames. When I tell you that I introduced myself with he/him pronouns on a “whim,” then left the server in the next twenty-four hours, I see Jax’s face. I put on the bow. I threw it to the ground. I didn’t try different pronouns until three years later.

That same year, I admitted to my diary that I was Nonbinary (not Trans). I spent the rest of high school denying it. Summer of 2020 with the world on fire and nothing to do but think, I realized I was a Lesbian for the first time. My cousin told me I wasn’t, that the boys I had dated in the past were proof I wasn’t. I rejected myself again in the face of external expectations of who I could be. Jax’s possible Queerness is coded because who he is right now is someone who threw down the bow. Not yet Trans, not yet Queer, but at the precipice of something that cannot yet be defined—that he is trying very hard not to define.

This is not Hays-era Queer coding. This is not “we weren’t allowed to say Jax is Trans, but here’s what we could do.” At a studio that will happily “say Gay,” there’s no censorship imperative for the coding around Jax’s character. What I see in Jax is a mirror of my experience as a Trans person and how those experiences have tied into my inability to be vulnerable, to face myself. He’s Not-Trans in the way I was Not-Trans.

Stevonnie was special to me in high school. They were the first character I’d seen use they/them pronouns. Even in the years I couldn’t claim those pronouns for myself, Stevonnie’s existence was a gentle maybe one day. Seeing explicit Queerness on screen is a major aspect of self-discovery and visibility for the community—it’s extremely important. But Jax was representation I didn’t know I needed. The Amazing Digital Circus uses coding as a genuine storytelling device rather than a necessary survival tool, and it’s all the better for it. Abstraction, complexity, the unknown—maybe the nebulous things that haunt us may be explored through coding in the hands of uncensored Queer artists.