Star Crossed Identities: Queer Communities and Astrology

Enter a room full of queers, and you will probably encounter a variety of zodiac-induced self-proclamations–– “I’m a Virgo, Capricorn rising, angular Mars—you’re gonna get it full force,” “I’m Saturn ruled,” “I can’t tell a story like a Libra tells a story!” Paradoxically, the queer reluctance to box oneself into an identity is underscored by David Halperin’s definition of queerness–“an identity without essence.” The queers believe all identities to be not fixed, but as fluid and dynamic. This perception holds not only for different people but within the same person at different times as well.

Most queers know when Mercury is in retrograde and they know when not to reach out to their Pisces ex; they know their Big 3— their sun, moon, and rising signs. If you bring up Geminis, they just might dramatically slide down the wall and break into loud sobs of rage, longing, or regret.

Why do queers, then, who reject all essentialist theories of identity, (those expressed through binary oppositions – male/female, gay/straight) allow a mere zodiac sign assigned to them at birth such a privileged position within their circles?

Astrology is often, much like the queer community, fundamentally misunderstood by those outside the community; it is either perceived as pseudoscience or fortune telling, neither narrative truly capturing its nuances. When one approaches astrology with a more emic perspective, it can be understood as the now widely utilized spiritual tool that helps many find meaning and purpose.

People who “believe” in astrology may not all share uniform belief systems, but they do share confidence in a world in which astrology is possible. They trust that a complex symbolic system correlated to planetary motions can effectively guide one’s spiritual development and help reveal one’s true self.

Though starry-eyed and idealistic, it may be wholly inane, given the political atmosphere of institutionalized violence, mass incarceration, and governmental monitoring; the idea that celestial bodies and stars, rather than governmental organizations, employers, or landlords, may influence our collective destiny subjugates our earthly worries to the motion of the cosmos.

It is hard to imagine a world in which a person’s zodiac sign determines their social status, financial security, or personal safety— where Aries are most likely to make it big in Hollywood because of their tenth house or where Tauruses are systematically denied employment due to their South- lunar- node -induced lethargy. Astrology’s intervention in identity seems ideologically hollow.

Diwakar (he/him), Associate Secretary of SNU Queer Collective, lets out a hearty laugh when I ask him if he believes in astrology. “I think astrology is largely explained by the Barnum effect. I think people will accept almost any bogus personality feedback, and astrology plays the personal validation card well.” he shrugs. “Despite my belief, I do know a lot about astrology, I must admit!” Diwakar continues, “I know my Big 3 and I know which planets are in retrograde. Good enough to keep up with my friends who talk about astrology.”

Kevin Mutta (they/them), a student of English at Ashoka University, describes themself as a “pretty faithless person.” However, Co-Star, an astrology-themed social media app, is the first thing they check every midnight. “I do follow astrology to a very large extent,” they say, showing me their tarot deck with which they do readings for themself and their close friends. In a moment of doubt over a relationship, they turn to a tarot reading: “What the cards were saying was not necessarily the best thing ever, but just looking at them gave me so much reassurance.”

Ray Baveja (they/them), who recently graduated from Ashoka University with a Major in English and a Minor in Creative Writing, takes on astrology as a much more casual endeavour– “I occasionally scroll through astrology accounts on Twitter, and I have Co-Star; I check it once in a while”.

“These are the kind of things you would hear from a therapist, and they’re very comforting to people,” says Ray, referring to the language and vocabulary used in astrology apps like Co-Star. The app’s direct and soothing messaging nearly sounds like a mentor giving you life advice. In addition, the horoscope’s over-familiarity and assertiveness distinguish it from the majority of other astrological media.

“The men I have seen engage with astrology are either queer or labelled ‘softboy’, which is interesting because it implies astrology almost comes naturally to women, without any label,” observes Ray.

Astrology necessitates reflection and an awareness of emotions—two things that are typically associated with femininity. Thus, it carves out a safe space that is largely free from male interference for women and queer individuals, argues Mohan Rajagopal.

Anecdotally, socially, and individually, the evidence for a queer astrological propensity seems – much like astrological logic – to be universally evident or even celestially fated.

“In the Obama years, people liked astrology. In the Trump years, people need it,” explains Aliza Kelly, co-founder of the astrology-themed dating app Align. Astrology injects a sense of assurance into a political environment characterized by fear and the perils of state violence. It presents a resolutely relational and anticipatory frame — not necessarily optimistic, but an understanding that good things can still happen despite the sense of impending doom.

Further, sociologist Robert Wuthnow’s data shows that people who believe in astrology are more likely to feel marginalized, to be associated with the counterculture (as defined in the 1970s), and to be women. Indeed, astrologers such as Deon Mitchell explain how astrology provides healing for individuals who have been let down by mainstream health and wellness systems. “There’s kind of this push in our society to be as helpful and productive as possible, and we don’t really take enough time and think about what we need. This is especially true for Black people, queer people, the disabled, and other oppressed groups.”

Astrologers like Johanna Hedva, Chani Nicholas, and Alice Sparkly Kat often posit astrology as a lifeline for queer people, people of color, and those dealing with chronic disease and disability; this reflects the idea of astrology as an auxiliary shelter.

The pathologization of queerness makes queers hyper-visible as a twofold opposite, while also eliminating the social functioning of queer people. As a result, fear of an established identity carries lingering anxieties about being entrapped in labor or desire, which prescribes what queers should or must do and where they belong. Astrology offers a prescription to soothe these anxieties, through a unique “seekership” spirituality.

A “seekership” spirituality, is one that affirms who we are and what gives us identity, purpose, and meaning to our existence while also providing a sense of agency and control. The “seeking” freedom allows people to construct their own, individualized spiritual narratives based on lived experience, as opposed to being tightly bound to one religious ideology and its long-standing customs. Contemporary astrology offers a qualitative shift from unquestioned belief to a more open, questing mood that is the result of a deep hunger for self-transformation that is both genuine and personally satisfying, especially for queers.

It is important to keep in mind that, when it comes to queers and astrology, modern astrology is not merely a lucrative industry. As Theodor Adorno puts it, astrology is increasingly becoming a “culture industry,” one in which the mass creation of commercial media encourages passive consumption. From horoscopes in the twinned domains of romance and finance, to personalised birth chart readings, sandwiched with astrological memes, astrology’s consumer base is rapidly expanding, thanks to social media and digital platforms.

Numerous astrological apps, such as Co-Star, Sanctuary, and Pattern, have been developed in the last few years with venture capital funding. For subscription fees and in-app purchases, these applications offer individualized and algorithmically generated astrological insight. As the vast amounts of wealth pouring into astrology increases, the boundaries between corporate power and independent astrologers are blurring; the incorporation of astrology into a potential billion-dollar market as writer Erin Griffith dubs “Big Zodiac,” seems imminent.

Diwakar believes that the glut of astrology apps and the spike in sponsored horoscope listicles suggests that even astrology has fallen prey to capitalism. “Astrology is increasingly individualizing and commodifying self-care, and this can be particularly worrisome for queer people, as it exploits them to over-consume. It is no different from rainbow capitalism!” he asserts.

Along with the rapid growth of venture capital-funded astrology apps, a small group of queer astrologers continue to advocate for the potentially transformative potential of astrological practice.

Younger astrologers today are sensitive to gender identity and social justice issues, and are creatively applying astrology to encourage social change; there is a growing movement known as “queer astrology.” Queer astrology draws inspiration from queer theory, which is all about questioning, criticizing, destabilizing, undoing, and making the monolith of heteronormativity non-linear.

So, what does queer astrology entail? “Queer astrology means being receptive to the hidden singularity and multiplicity in a given birthchart’s spacetime. All types of generalizations, including those in astrology, offer simple solutions. But none of us are known for our simple solutions. Each of us is open, varied, and complex. Queer astrology provides non-reductive readings of who and where a person is in life– after all, each chart is infinitely unique and non-binary,” explains Clarisse Monahan, a Soho House astrologer.

Throughout history, astrology has been adapted to and evolved within the cultures in which it exists. The communities and sociality scaffolded through astrology have always played a major role in its adaptation and reinterpretation to the current cultural milieu. Yet another adaptation of the astrological movement by trans and queer people has ignited its contemporary resurgence.

The surging Big Zodiac may suggest that the language of the stars has fallen prey to capitalism, increasingly isolating and commercialising alternate forms of spirituality. However, for some, it does the opposite. For queer and trans people, it gives a language to experiences that contemporary society tends to consolidate under just one meaning. It enables them to imagine a world that sustains and cares for their lives.

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