I, Joan: Musings on Historical Transness and its Depictions

I was invited to watch I, Joan at the Globe Theatre by my friend. 

As a non-binary Black historian, I was intrigued. I enjoy historical media, and Horrible Histories played an embarrassingly large role in my choice to pursue a history degree. I hadn’t done a lot of medieval history in university, so I pounced at the opportunity to explore that time period through art, and my interest was further stoked by the discovery the play had been written by a non-binary playwright, Charlie Josephine. Hopefully, I accepted the invitation.

Privately, though, I was sceptical. I had heard rumblings about it on social media but disengaged; well aware of the state of transphobia and trans exclusionary radical feminist discourse, I wanted to protect my peace. What I understood was that many disagreed with the play due to the premise - how dare Joan of Arc be trans? This is a consequence of the liberal leftist woke snowflake media, who see fit to defile beloved figures of feminist history for their snowflake, liberal rainbow agenda.  

Needless to say, I wasn’t in this camp: again, I am a Black non-binary historian. I truly didn’t believe it was a stretch to make the argument that Joan of Arc could be explored through the lens of a trans narrative, despite what many detractors protested. The marketing of the play focused specifically on Joan being non-binary, which made sense, but left me feeling, however, like that was the only statement the play was going to make. The poster of Joan binding their chest did nothing to quell those fears and I became growingly worried the play would be a hamfisted, poorly-executed exploration of Joan of Arc. Had the playwright been inspired to write this play because they knew that Joan bound her chest to disguise herself as a man? Was that alone the springboard off of which I, Joan was launched? 

When Joan slid down the curved stage of the globe wearing a binder that said ‘pride began with an uprising’, I felt like my anxieties were not totally unfounded, and might, in fact, be fully realised. Immediately I had questions: Was the playwright trying to draw a link between the Hundred Years’ War and Stonewall? How on earth did Henry V’s efforts to exploit French divisions in the 15th century compare to queer people of colour fighting cops in the streets of 1960s New York? I barely had time to turn the questions over in my head, as Joan, played by non-binary actor Isobel Thom, launched into a soliloquy about queerness being “pure magic,  waxing poetic about the divinity of transness, and warning us that “shit was about to get spiritual”. 

I braced myself. 

The play unfolded. I took notes on my phone. I paid rapt attention to the costume design, the words, the dance, in order to soak up all the trans historical majesty I had been promised. 

I left feeling…a type of way. 

There were moments that offended my historian’s sensibilities. Despite my self-confessed snobbery, I was encouraged to have an open mind, even managing to look past my frustration at the lack of chainmail and swords. (After the play, I learned that the playwright called all of that “naff”. I did my best to ignore the fact that Josephine admitted that they had the budget for horses but including them would “upstage” their writing. Take from that what you will.)

The ending of the play brought equal dissatisfaction, leaving me with several incomplete thoughts. The first was a sadness at the fact that mullets were beginning to be associated with non-binary culture. The second was that trying to create a culture of non-binary identiy around white western non-binary people was a mistake, and I had never felt so alienated from those I shared an identity with.

Overwhelmingly, however, the thing I felt most strongly was that desire and means should not preclude one from doing what is necessary in order to deliver on one's promises.  Kate Malby wrote that “if you promise…theatrically nuanced ways of exploring sex and gender, you need to deliver on that nuance.” I can’t help but feel like that nuance was sorely missed, and how an opportunity to make a poignant statement about nonbinary-ness was unachieved. 

Josephine asserted that Joan being non-binary felt “obvious and natural”; this didn’t translate into what was displayed on stage. There were moments in which I felt that we glimpsed a spark of something profound. In the first act, Joan pondered their transness and felt the breadth of their gender when talking about the breadth of God’s love, and how through the expansiveness of God and nature, they felt themself “full of God''. Joan instructed their companion, Thomas, to look up into the night sky and understand that God is everywhere; She wasn’t limited in her love, and so those who loved Her and existed in Her world needn’t be limited either. Some may have cringed at the use of ‘she/her’ pronouns for God, but as cliché as it can be, it felt fitting there - why limit God if we’re learning not to limit ourselves? It certainly spoke to the experiences of many non-binary or gender non-conforming people who want to explore the expanse of ouridentities and expressions. I felt it even spoke to non-white and non-western understandings and explorations of gender non-conformity; how it was through people’s deities that they felt freedom to be, exist, and love with little consideration of the strict rigid structures many of us battle against now. Joan of Arc, a patron saint, being translated for modern audiences in this specific way, this dynamic of understanding and finding comfort in oneself through the expansive omnipresence of love and nature, didn’t feel offensive or even misguided. It felt raw, and honest and powerful. It moved me. 

It was a disappointment that was really all that was said about it. Joan’s nonbinary identity felt like both an afterthought and the only thought. There were several moments regarding Joan’s gender identity which felt incredibly hollow: Joan’s army of six eclectically dressed soldiers loudly correcting the King’s use of female pronouns by yelling that Joan’s pronouns were “they!”; the trans flag stitched on the back of Joan’s jeans (yes, jeans); the clip on mullet and the removal of that mullet revealing the non-gendered Joan in a way that was supposed to feel reverent but was, instead, very funny. The only real other link between Joan’s transness and Joan of Arc was their breastplate being treated as a binder; they would stroke hand down their flattened chest and admire themselves, and it was obvious that they were, indeed, not a girl. In fact, Joan thrice cried, “I am not a girl!” at which point the audience erupted with cheers. (I instead opted to write in my notes, I feel like I’m in a Tumblr post. Those who are familiar with ‘and then everyone clapped’ posts might understand what I mean.)

There were other moments which undercut the potential of I, Joan’s mission entirely. For some reason, Joan dipped in and out of a blaccent, using clunky and misplaced ‘bruv’s and ‘innit’s. When Joan told the Catholic church to “hush their gums”, I felt as if I might ascend out of my seat and meet God myself. There was also an uncomfortable link drawn between Joan’s execution and the police state and mass incarceration, which felt not only unnecessary but offensive and forced. As the murder of Chris Kaba looms over me as I write this, I cannot find a way this parallel could be justified.

These distractingly delivered statements, the purposeless anachronisms, and clear contempt for the historical material in aid of “keeping one foot in mediaeval France and one in 2022” might have been forgivable if the main statement of the play, Joan’s transness, was solidly delivered and executed. What we received instead was Joan being referred to as “a beast” for being “not quite a woman”, and once referring to themselves as an “ugly, mannish brute”; pink, frilly dresses raining from the sky, and Joan being forced into one by the English; Joan breaking the fourth wall at the end of the play to cry, “fuck your historically accurate! The writer refuses to kill another trans person in the name of historical accuracy”, and then said decried murder taking place anyway, quite literally laughable. All of these, and countless more mishandled, awkward attempts to establish Joan’s transness and make it mean something just left me feeling bereft.

There are ways we can tell non-binary historical stories that have depth, are moving, and feel real. There were actually things the play could’ve done in order to make the story it was attempting to tell feel grounded and poignant. Maybe if Josephine had not limited Joan’s nonbinary identity to rejecting femininity, to show the expansiveness and fullness of life and gender outside of the boundaries of placing oneself on the feminie-mascline spectrum; maybe expanding upon Joan’s fullness of God and how it relates with their gender identity. Maybe employing the lesson ‘show, don’t tell’ might have fostered the nuance I craved. 

Ah, well. We move!