An Advocate.com exclusive posted December 10, 2003 

“Queer.” 

A coworker of mine thus proclaimed her orientation last summer. My discomfort was apparent as I shifted in my chair. The Atlanta humidity combined with my unease. Queer was not a positive self-identifier for me; it was the taunts and insults of a youth spent in the South, the derogatory term reserved for people unable to construct a closet for themselves. 

My coworker, apparently sensing my unease, began a diatribe about the encompassing nature of queer. It was, after all, the truly universal euphemism for non-heterosexuals, she argued. Gay and lesbian were trite, bisexual and transgendered needlessly complicated. I no longer needed to veil my orientation in restrictions. Open my mind, I was urged. Don’t hate queer! Why GLBT my way through life when there was something far simpler? 

This conversation occurred as I interned for an international human rights organization. As a 24-year-old gay graduate student from Oklahoma, diversity was uncommon in a life of term papers and research. Nearly all my out peers were white. The men and women of this group neatly divided themselves into camps of gay and lesbian. Certainly there were the few odd bisexuals, but some gays and lesbians seemed to consider even this an aberration. I knew not even one “queer” person. 

But my coworker challenged me. Was I queer? Did I find substance in pansexuality rather than homosexuality? As I considered these questions, a stunning realization hit me: I hated queer. 

I hated it for what it meant, for its very definition. Queer was judgmental in its all-accepting embrace. Although I had no prior experience with a queer person, my feelings were set. There was no need to alter my thought on sexuality. 

I considered myself an activist, always tolerant. I did, however, draw the line at queer. Sure, if others identified as queer, I was not one to protest. But I would never self-identify in that manner. No strong argument in defense of reclamation would convince me; reclaiming faggot was bad enough. 

I first took steps to come out in 1994 during my sophomore year of high school in Texas. A lesbian friend provided the incentive to out myself, albeit secretly. She and I passed notes and knowing glances and spent late nights at a local bookstore in search of our culture. These activities continued until, inevitably, rumors began. Soon the knowing glances were directed at us as we walked the halls. “Faggot,” “dyke,” and ultimately “queer” were the slurs thrown at us by peers. I quickly retreated into the closet, hoping to forget my brief liberation. 

College marked further repression as I became active in Christian student ministries. This fear only ended when I became willing to disregard the opinions of others. I finally and proudly stepped from the closet a few weeks before graduation. I soon met other gays and lesbians and happily left a small town for a bigger small town to attend graduate school. 

My life, however, was interrupted a year ago by a call from my parents. In halting tones, they detailed the suicide of a young woman from my undergraduate university. Her suicide letter blamed her lesbianism and the shouts of “queer” from others for her decision to kill herself. I immediately recalled my high school experience. The homophobia of one Southern town left an indelible impression upon my life. Queer had no relevance for me. 

But while pondering these events, something unforeseen happened: I reclaimed my past. I slowly embraced the pain of years gone. High school jeers and the suicide of a friend became memories I could accept; what was once painful now gave me strength. 

Through this I realized the power of queer. It is no longer the pejorative term of police raids. It is now the chant of a movement united. Accepting queer at long last, I finally accept myself.

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