Are korra and asami gay

"The Legend of Korra," which was recently released on Netflix, ends with a romantic moment between its female leads, a moment that changed LGBTQ+ representation in cartoons forever. In the content set post-show there isn't really anything definitively saying whether or not Korra and/or Asami realized that they are only attracted to women (sometime post-book two) or if they are attracted to men and women.

The Nickelodeon cartoon's legendary finale sealed the romance between Korra and Asami. We asked queer animators about the doors that moment opened for LGBTQ+ representation. In a scene immediately following a wedding, the gesture seemed to be romantic in spirit. But because the moment was ambiguous, fans wondered—did this make Korra and Asami a couple? This week. However, Asami tells Korra that, “Before we go, there’s one last thing I want to do on our vacation.” And kisses her.

The Legend of Korra: Turf Wars – Part One also broke new ground by revealing that Korra isn’t the first LGBTQ+ avatar: revealing that Avatar Kyoshi of the Earth Kingdom was bisexual. On December 19, , "The Legend of Korra" made history. As I like to joke, it also made me bisexual. The final shot of the "Avatar: The Last Airbender" sequel showed the series' heroines, Korra and Asami, facing each other, holding hands as they gazed into each other's eyes.

Even without a kiss, the sequence felt decidedly non-platonic, and seemed to clearly parallel "Avatar's" romantic conclusion. Days later, the series' creators confirmed that "Korrasami," as fans dubbed the relationship, was canon , and that both characters were bisexual. As a fan, I was thrilled to see my two favorite characters end up with each other — a possibility I hadn't even dared to entertain given the dearth of LGBTQ characters in cartoons at that point.

I was a year-old queer woman who had barely come to terms with her sexuality, and "Korra's" finale struck me deep to my core.

Now, as the series arrives on Netflix on Friday, it's worth remembering just how groundbreaking the moment was. If you watch "The Legend of Korra" now, with knowledge of its finale, you'd be hard-pressed to miss Korra and Asami's love story, even if you didn't notice the signs the first time around. That kind of obliviousness is familiar to me. While it was easy to write off any instance of queer sentiment at the time, my crushes on female classmates or habit of searching out "am I gay?

My attraction to multiple genders wasn't something I knew how to grapple with. I knew precious few bisexual people in real life, and much of what I had heard about bisexuality suggested that it was little more than a pit stop before coming out as gay a harmful and false stereotype. As a result, I felt like my attraction to different genders was contradictory, rather than complementary, and that being bisexual meant that I'd be faced with scrutiny at every turn.

Suspicious of my own feelings, I didn't think I'd be able to weather the pressure. Up until that point, I had never seen a bisexual character on television before, and showrunner Bryan Konietzko's note after the finale — "Despite what you might have heard, bisexual people are real! Crucial to my connection was the fact that the two women had fallen in love after each had her own relationship with Mako, the series' initial leading man.

While Korra and Asami didn't get the on-screen kiss that each woman got with Mako earlier in the series, it still felt like the series weighed all of these partnerships equally. If two characters that I loved so dearly could fall in love even after meaningful relationships with men, maybe my attraction to men, women, and nonbinary people wasn't wholly incompatible at all. It took a full year of college — and another full rewatch of "Korra" alongside my roommate, to boot — for me to come to terms with the fact that I wasn't straight.

My coming out happened in staggered waves over the course of the following year, as I came out to friends with embarrassing PowerPoints and my family with an even more embarrassing cake. It felt euphoric.

Konietzko remarks, of the

It also mirrored a larger transformation. Shows like "Steven Universe," which premiered in , pushed major advancements in LGBTQ representation through earnest, empathetic storytelling. It centered characters like Garnet, the literal embodiment of the love between Ruby and Sapphire — two female-coded characters who get married in one of the series' most notable episodes — and Stevonnie, who is both nonbinary and intersex.

Other shows, like Cartoon Network's "Adventure Time," made it clear that members of its main cast were queer. While finally coming out to those close to me was the biggest step, I was still terrified that people wouldn't see me as queer enough. Outwardly, I enthusiastically embraced my queer identity, trying to fulfill every possible stereotype I was aware of by chopping most of my hair off, keeping my nails short, wearing more flannel, and talking a lot about how much I loved Hayley Kiyoko.

After being very publicly out for two years, I finally internalized the messages that I was preaching. Graduating college, I had a clearer grasp on who I was. My bisexuality started to feel like just another rote facet of my identity: one that I cherished, but not one that I felt like I needed to constantly defend to myself or others. At 22, I started to grow out my hair.

Part of this was because I was floating from internship to contract job to freelance assignments in New York, and didn't want to spend the money to keep it short.