<\/p>\n
Why Andy Cohen, Jesse Tannenbaum, and Mae Martin are the most important voices in entertainment right now. Securing the future of queer representation\u2026<\/strong><\/p>\n I can think back to 2008, when\u00a0No on 8<\/em>\u00a0was unfolding in real time. Whether you were in Canada or the United States, it was impossible to avoid the images from the NOH8 Campaign by Adam Bouska and Jeff Parshley\u2014faces taped shut, a silent but defiant refusal to accept erasure. For many of us, it was the first time queer visibility felt loud simply by existing.<\/p>\n I was growing up in Sudbury, Ontario then, and like many queer kids in small towns, I ran away as soon as I could. Not because I didn\u2019t love where I came from, but because I couldn\u2019t yet love who I was there. The culture around me was only beginning to grasp that we weren\u2019t different, that our lives weren\u2019t a phase or an aberration. And still, everywhere I looked\u2014television, film, reality shows\u2014I saw nothing that resembled me. Queer characters were tokens. Storylines were cautionary. Being visible felt dangerous.<\/p>\n That absence kept me away from home, and from myself, for nearly fifteen years. My story isn\u2019t exceptional; it\u2019s shared by countless people who learned to survive by shrinking. What\u00a0is<\/em>\u00a0exceptional is that, after decades of progress, we are once again watching institutions quietly backpedal on inclusion. Which is why it matters\u2014now more than ever\u2014to pay attention to the people inside the industry who are still moving the needle forward.<\/p>\n These are not just entertainers. They are architects of visibility. In 2025, three stand out not because they are loud, but because their influence is undeniable.<\/p>\n The stakes remain high. During the 2008\u201309 broadcast season, only about 2.6% of series regular characters on television were LGBTQ+, and even now progress proves fragile. In 2025, GLAAD warned that roughly\u00a041% of LGBTQ+ characters<\/a>\u00a0on television are unlikely to return the following year due to cancellations and shifting priorities\u2014an alarming reminder that visibility, once gained, is never guaranteed.<\/p>\n Currently we see this with the cancellation of\u00a0Boots<\/em><\/a>\u00a0on Netflix, as\u00a0Heated Rivalry<\/em><\/a>\u00a0got picked up. In a world where both should be able to exist, only one could hold the space.\u00a0<\/p>\n When Andy Cohen debuted\u00a0Watch What Happens Live<\/em>\u00a0in 2009, he became the first openly gay host of a U.S. late-night talk show. It wasn\u2019t framed as activism\u2014it was framed as inevitability. His queerness wasn\u2019t a storyline or a provocation; it was simply present. As Cohen has said repeatedly, media only works when \u201ceverybody gets to be represented,\u201d not as a category, but as part of the culture.<\/p>\n Before his on-camera success, Cohen shaped Bravo from behind the scenes, helping usher in shows like\u00a0Queer Eye<\/em>and\u00a0Project Runway<\/em>\u00a0at a time when openly queer talent was still considered a risk. Under his leadership, queer presence became normalized rather than spotlighted\u2014woven into the fabric of the network rather than treated as a special episode.<\/p>\n Cohen\u2019s advocacy has also been tangible. In 2013, he refused to co-host the Miss Universe pageant in Russia in protest of the country\u2019s anti-gay laws, taking a public stand that reached far beyond entertainment media. In 2019, GLAAD honored him with the Vito Russo Award, recognizing his sustained contribution to LGBTQ+ visibility.<\/p>\n Today, as the face of\u00a0Real Housewives<\/em>\u00a0reunions and a New Year\u2019s Eve co-host on celebrity.land, Cohen continues to bring queer presence into millions of homes. His power isn\u2019t just visibility\u2014it\u2019s infrastructure. He is not just seen; he is embedded. And that is what makes him a powerhouse.<\/p>\n Jesse Tannenbaum does not appear on screen, but his fingerprints are everywhere.<\/p>\n As the lead casting director for\u00a0Survivor<\/em>,\u00a0The Amazing Race<\/em>, and\u00a0Big Brother<\/em>, Tannenbaum has quietly reshaped reality television from the inside. After taking over\u00a0The Amazing Race<\/em>\u00a0casting in 2017 and\u00a0Survivor<\/em>\u00a0in 2019, his work earned multiple Emmy nominations for Outstanding Reality Casting, including the first-ever nomination for\u00a0Survivor<\/em>\u2014a rare acknowledgment of casting as creative authorship.<\/p>\n \u201cI wanted to stop looking for archetypes and focus on what makes each person unique and special,\u201d Tannenbaum has said of his approach. Under his leadership,\u00a0Survivor<\/em>\u00a0moved away from rigid templates\u2014the jock, the villain, the token gay contestant\u2014and toward emotionally complex people with lived experience. That evolution coincided with CBS\u2019s 2020 commitment that 50% of reality casts be BIPOC, beginning with\u00a0Survivor 41<\/em>, a season widely credited with expanding both storytelling depth and audience reach.<\/p>\n When CBS rolled back parts of that diversity initiative in 2025, Tannenbaum was unequivocal. \u201cFrom my perspective, nothing\u2019s changed,\u201d he said. \u201cI\u2019m still shooting for having a really diverse cast because I think everybody needs to be represented.\u201d Recent seasons reflect that stance, featuring multiple queer and nonbinary contestants whose identities are integrated naturally rather than isolated for spectacle.<\/p>\n What distinguishes Tannenbaum is not just who he casts, but how he articulates the work. He speaks about casting as emotional architecture, assembling a \u201cdiversified group\u201d by asking a deceptively simple question:\u00a0Who\u2019s missing?<\/em>\u00a0The result has been moments rarely seen on network reality television, from queer contestants finding solidarity to players openly discussing disability and neurodivergence on air.<\/p>\n For queer viewers\u2014especially those who grew up watching\u00a0Survivor<\/em>\u00a0and wondering if there was space for them\u2014representation in decision-making positions .<\/p>\n For me, that question has been personal for as long as I can remember. As a gay Canadian,\u00a0Survivor<\/em>\u00a0has been part of my imagination since I was eleven years old\u2014something I daydreamed about daily, even when the possibility felt purely hypothetical. For years, geography and identity made that dream feel unreachable. Now, with Canadians eligible to play and with casting that actively reflects queer lives, voices like Tannenbaum\u2019s quietly transform fantasy into something more grounded. Not a guarantee, not a promise\u2014but a credible sense that someone like me could one day be allowed to chase that dream without being reduced to a storyline.<\/p>\n Tannenbaum is the MVP because he understands that changing who gets seen fundamentally changes who believes they belong.<\/p>\n Mae Martin operates in the in-between spaces\u2014between comedy and drama, music and television, certainty and self-discovery.<\/p>\n After\u00a0co-creating and starring in\u00a0<\/a>Feel Good<\/em><\/a>, widely regarded as one of the strongest depictions of nonbinary identity on television, Martin could have stayed safely within that lane. The series resonated because it refused to reduce its protagonist to a lesson or a symbol. As one critic noted, it portrayed a nonbinary character as fully human\u2014messy, funny, insecure, and evolving. Martin has spoken openly about still \u201cworking it out\u201d in real time, allowing uncertainty to exist onscreen rather than forcing resolution.<\/p>\n In 2025, Martin expanded their creative reach with\u00a0Netflix\u2019s\u00a0<\/a>Wayward<\/em><\/a>, serving as creator, writer, and star. The series features a trans character whose gender is understood through relationships and behavior rather than exposition, a choice Martin has described as deliberately resisting the urge to turn identity into a plot device.<\/p>\n Alongside their screen work, Martin released their debut album\u00a0I\u2019m A TV<\/em>, a project rooted in vulnerability rather than branding. Calling themselves a \u201cchronic oversharer,\u201d Martin has said that music offered a way to tell the truth without the pressure of landing a punchline. Across stand-up, television, and music, the throughline is honesty without spectacle.<\/p>\n What makes Martin a dark horse is their refusal to be easily legible. They do not flatten their identity for comfort, nor do they perform it for approval. For younger queer audiences, Mae Martin represents permission: to be unfinished, to evolve, and to exist without explanation\u2014and still be seen.<\/p>\n Visibility doesn\u2019t arrive all at once. It\u2019s built quietly\u2014through decisions made behind cameras, through stories allowed to be complicated, through people in power who understand that inclusion is not a moment, but a practice.<\/p>\n