Content warning: This article contains queerphobic and censored transphobic slurs.
When I first realised I was gay, I refused to say the word aloud.
I would look in the mirror, open my mouth, and I’d swallow all the nervous spit built up only to tuck my head away shamefully. For several months I exclusively told myself I was “homosexual” because it was the one phrasing the kids at my school didn’t use as an insult.
Now, it’s not uncommon for me to toss a slur or two into every couple of sentences I say. I tend to do this exclusively in queer circles, and absolutely away from professional or family environments. I like to spice it up a bit, not just the typical ones you’d expect like homo, queer, f*g, but some classics too, sprinkling in a “fairy” and a “poof” when you’re digging for something more colourful to express your exasperation.
It’s a delicate act and a consistent discourse as to what measures we take before saying slurs. The first barrier is deciding which terms fall under this banner. The next is deciding who gets to say them, and who gets to hear them. Then there’s intention.
How much fire do you have in your heart when you speak that word?
When we dig into the trenches of intersectionality, we find a beautiful kaleidoscope of a historically problematic lexicon with a variety of intonations. The concept of slurs is a fascinating one, because the severity of a slur changes so drastically depending on its context: who is saying it, who is receiving it, how do these two groups identify, who is around to hear it, do these parties know the context, and what is the intent?
Take this string of hypotheticals and wear it like a pearl necklace: everyone in the LGBTQ+ community gets to say “queer”, and so does everyone else, as long as it’s said without malice on the tongue. My parents don’t like to because their context for the word from when they were young is one that’s inherently derogatory, yet my context suggests it to be a purely objective term, referring broadly to the umbrella of non-heterosexuality. “Queer” is one of those infamous ‘reclaimed’ slurs, though that also depends on who you talk to.
I can say “f*g”, and whilst I can also say “f*ggot”, those terms come with different weights. One can be a fun jab at another queer who expresses love for their same-sex partner, but the other always holds a little heavier in the heart. We don’t use that one as often.
With a precursory consent check, I can say “d*ke” to some femme-aligned individuals. Drag queens love this one, which gets optically messy when they’re aligned with the traditional identity of ‘men dressed as women’. Bulldagger, which is a shortening of the phrase “bulldagger d*ke”, follows a similar set of rules. What does surprise me is how few people my age know what “bulldagger” means. For reference, a “bulldagger” refers to a very butch lesbian, and is another one of those ‘classic’ terms.
I wouldn’t dare use the word “tr*nny”, with the bitterness it harbours in its heart. However, “tr*nny chaser” becomes a much more viable phrase, since it flips who the insult is directed at. Bisexuals have gotten away with a lot, including the privilege of the most expansive dating pool, but they also don’t have any specific slurs for their identity. If anything they hold the simultaneous burden of having these words thrown at them, but also an internal guilt as to whether they truly get to say the words too. Doesn’t it sort of make you sad that they don’t get properly included?
For queers, slurs are a way for us to bond. Reading, our beloved pastime that invokes curatorial insults at others, is our way of building connection. We recognise the ways in which we’re isolated by society and we flip them, we laugh at them, and we choose to not set those parts of ourselves aside, but rather cherish and uplift them.
Of course, in all of these scenarios, my (well-meaning) friends and I will do a quick little check that the other person is okay to hear them before we speak these words into existence. You’d be surprised how well a joke can land even after you light up the runway for landing.
Reclaiming slurs can feel transcendent when it’s done right.
Not every community will be as willing or ready to perform this act, and there is no monolithic approach to how we address slurs. However, without our slurs, we lose our history. The queer community is built on the blood and bones of decades of institutional and personal resistance. We persist in the face of active language repression by both conservative legislators and tone-policers. We absorb invective hurled at us out of passing cars to thicken the skin we carry under our dresses.
When I call myself and my friends “f*ggy” for looking, dressing, or acting a certain way, I do it for the boy in Year Nine who heard his friends call him a “f*g” behind his back and, afraid to speak up, went home to write poetry. Yeah, sometimes I’m so gay that it necessitates a bit of a more descriptive label. That’s my freedom calling. That’s the part of me that is so deeply ingrained in my bones that its remnants will be the last to dissolve when my body is finally collapsed and incinerated.
Besides, there’s no greater joy in life than calling a well-intentioned straight man “fag” and watching him squirm. That’s what I call reparations.
