Queer is not a bad word. It's our unifying path forward

Queeries is a column by CBC Arts producer Peter Knegt that queries LGBTQ art, culture and/or identity through a personal lens. 

We need to talk about the word "queer."

I know very well that some of you have a complicated relationship with it. Not everyone has embraced it as a positive term; maybe it was the pejorative that still haunts you from your time in the closet. But given everything that's going on right now, I think the time has come for us to set aside any of those those kinds of grievances for the greater good.

No matter how you identify, if you care about the well-being of all LGBTQ people, embracing "queer" and all that it stands for has never felt more necessary. Because leaning into it allows us both to be free from the expectations of others and to unify as a force of truly authentic individuals. And these things all seem crucial in battling the full-fledged war that is currently being waged against the lives and livelihoods of LGBTQ people. 

There's obviously a lot to unpack here; I should perhaps start with my own relationship to "queer." It's a word I haven't always felt comfortable identifying myself with — though perhaps not in the sense you'd expect. It took me a really long time to feel like I earned the right to identify as queer, which I've long considered a badge of honour in one's pursuit of a genuine sense of self.

It was the activists and academics of the late 1980s who reclaimed the word as a deliberately provocative and politically radical alternative to what they saw as more assimilationist movements (namely, "gay" and "lesbian"). It then grew to become an inclusionary umbrella term to describe a broad spectrum of non-normative sexual or gender identities. With the word "queer," everyone is invited — it's really just up to you how you go about embracing the invitation. 

In her new book The Big Reveal: An Illustrated Manifesto of Drag, the brilliant drag queen (and serious queer history buff) Sasha Velour writes about discovering "queer" in her college years, and how much it brought her new personal freedom.

"Queer as an identity (or non-identity) opened up a space for me to exist outside expectations (particularly my internalized ones) about binary sex and gender, and allowed me to play with how I could look and who I could be," Velour writes. "For me, being queer meant that I didn't need to fit into binary ideas of sexual attraction or gender. If you are queer, you don't allow body parts to determine how you dress or act."

I admit, my own relationship with queerness has been a journey. Like Velour, I only knew "queer" as a dated slur until I was in university, which is where I first saw it sandwiched between two other words full of glorious potential: "New Queer Cinema." This essentially served as my gateway into understanding the word's reclamation in various contexts, and to meeting people who exclusively identified as "queer." But when they would ask me how I identified myself, I'd just tell them honestly: "I guess gay? I kinda thought that was my only option."

Despite knowing that it was no longer my only option, "I guess gay?" continued to basically be my answer to that question for the next decade or so, as I allowed both my body parts and society's expectations determine too many elements of my personal expression.

It took me a long while to fully understand that this instinct was the result of coming of age during an era of limited and exclusionary acceptance of LGBTQ people. Basically, those who had enough of the traits that deemed them eligible to be assimilated into mainstream society (the big ones: being cis-passing, gender conforming, white, able-bodied, and/or wealthy) were joining en masse. I'm not proud of the way my young adult self didn't know whether to aspire to be like the assimilationists, or to instead follow the true queers to the land of authentic selves.

It was only a few years ago that a series of events in my personal life and the global cataclysms of 2020 just kind of broke me open, and I stumbled upon a comfort with the identity that had been there all along. "I guess gay?" was gone; "queer" was here.

By finally owning that identity, I found a freedom in everything from how I presented myself (did I want to paint my nails pink and wear magenta "women's" cut-off shorts I bought for $6 at Urban Planet? Why not!) to caring significantly less (though, admittedly, still a little bit) about what mainstream society — the straight or gay versions — thought of me. 

But some people in the LGBTQ community have done quite the opposite of following this path. I'm thinking specifically of those who are taking an aggressive stance against the word "queer" as of late — the people who are calling themselves "LGB activists" in their Twitter handles and who have decided to fully align themselves with right-wing extremists in their attacks on trans people and drag queens. To them, they want a new world order where only the "LGBs" who assimilated are allowed to exist. "Queer" is simply too inclusive a term for their fascist pursuits. 

I brought these specific people up to Ms. Velour when I had the pleasure of interviewing her for this column's sibling of sorts, a talk series I host called Here & Queer. Given Sasha's seniority in earning her queerness (and just her general brilliance), I felt her words could speak to this matter better than mine:

"I have nothing nice to say about them, "she replied. "This isn't a new term. In the 80s and 90s, it was reclaimed to be an activist term — to encompass the whole community, to stand up against discrimination for trans people and to see us as an entire community. So what they're saying by not wanting to be called queer is they don't want to be seen as part of the same community as trans people."

"It takes a queer person who understands all the beautiful things this community advocates for. Freedom for all people. A new version of society that would have equality and opportunity for many different kinds of people. The full, inclusive, intersectional nature of the LGBTQ community. That's what makes us so strong and beautiful."

"And if you're missing out on that? You don't understand glamour, darling."

What these people are also missing out on is the opportunity to use the power of your visible queerness to create space for queer people who need it much more than you. We're seriously living in an era where domestic terrorists are violently attacking people outside a school board meeting that was voting on whether to recognize Pride month. Where events featuring drag queens reading children's books in libraries are routinely being met with similar energy. Where the Human Rights Campaign has declared a state of emergency for queer people living in the U.S. for the first time in their 40-year history (Canada, I'm sorry to say, does not seem far behind).

So if you're an LGBTQ person who is not terrified that their rights or even lives are being threatened, the least you can do is actively show your solidarity with those who do not have that privilege. This goes for straight allies, too: fly that flag for us (the updated, inclusionary version please), literally and figuratively, in any space it might matter.

It often doesn't take much. Earlier this year, I was riding the train to visit my family for Easter. I was simply wearing pastel pink nail polish (in honour of the holiday, of course) when a queer-presenting teenager got on at one of the many small-town stops that particular train makes along the conservative stretch of Eastern Ontario. They sat down in the seat beside me, seeming stressed or upset for reasons I'll never know. But they immediately seemed to calm down when they looked at me and noticed my nail colour.

"I love your nails," they said to me.

"Thanks, I love them too!" I responded.

We didn't say another word to each other, but I could tell they felt safe to be who they were for the rest of the ride. Now we just need to figure out how to come together so more queer people can feel that safe for the rest of their lives.