The first few times anyone called me "queer," I reacted badly. Not for the reasons one would imagine. Every person who said it meant to be inclusive: "because we're queer," "queer people like us," "most of us are queer," etc. And it was only ever used in reference to me after I had mentioned anything that indicated not being straight. I knew there was nothing wrong with it, but I still automatically shied away from hearing it. And that's not because I grew up hearing the term used as a slur (thankfully, I only learned it had been a slur through witnessing the ongoing arguments online for or against using it). But instead, I felt like it couldn't possibly fit me, no matter what type of feelings I had.
Longevity was one issue. Most folks I know who fall under the LGBT umbrella have been identifying as such for much longer than I have. My two best friends in high school were bisexual girls who openly dated each other. One of my siblings dated girls and boys in high school. Many coming out stories that I read, either in works of fiction or personal accounts, talked about "always" knowing who they were and knowing that they weren't straight. In contrast, it wasn't until 2020, the year I turned 24, that I felt like I "knew" who I was, and even then it took several months after this realization to tell anyone, because- really? THAT'S me? Is this really what it feels like? Why would I have gone so much of my life feeling a different way? Surely I'm making this up, trying to belong to something that doesn't really fit. If this is who I really am, shouldn't I have realized that sooner?
Another issue is the label I landed on to describe myself- aromantic (or grayromantic/arospec if we want to get technical, which I really don't). I've seen enough discourse to know that A is a rather neglected part of LGBTQIA. Asexual characters rarely appear in works of fiction, and I can count the number of confirmed aromantic characters I've become acquainted with on one hand. There are few openly aromantic and/or asexual people in the public eye. And there has been so much debate and discourse that I don't want to get into, that I frequently questioned if it was right to call myself queer, despite the fact that there's literally an A in the acronym. Did I belong here, really? I'm just a person who rarely feels romantically attracted to anyone and never wants to do anything about it (ie, start a romantic relationship) when I do. This is a far cry from what the public sees as the typical LGBT experience, with its emphasizing on "loving whoever you want." What about the people who don't love anyone, or who love them in a different way other than romantically?
And as if that isn't confusing enough- there's also the matter of sexual orientation. I thought I'd be able to talk about it here, but my brain is putting up a big ol' block preventing me from writing about it, so I might, eventually, if I get the courage, make a separate post about it (or maybe I won't, because I don't owe anyone information about myself). Suffice it to say, this is what had me the most confused, because I may be aromantic, but I'm not asexual. And I wasn't sure if anyone would understand that. Two things at once? Truth be told, I don't separate my identity like that. I'm just a person with my own unique experience of the world, like every other person on this planet. I resist labels as much as possible, unless they're 1. human, 2. woman, 3. writer/singer/creator, in that order. Because I don't like the idea of putting myself in a box that only exists to explain my existence to others, who will then catalogue me the way they find most convenient, or the way that comes closest to what they understand.
So... with all that being said, why reject the word "queer?" "Queer" is literally the least label-like label I could possibly use. It covers all the bases. But I couldn't get over the impostor syndrome, gnawing at me. I had this idea of someone interrogating me, finding all the ways I fail to check certain boxes, telling me I can't use this word because, somehow, I don't fit a certain mold. I've had this feeling regarding every aspect. You can't be aromantic, you've had crushes before! (Never mind my time in college, frustrated that all my friends were finding partners with such ease and I couldn't seem to find one, turning down every opportunity for a date because I just didn't feel the way they felt, wanting the idea of a relationship but shying away from putting it into practice, trying to make myself feel a certain way for friends because I thought this was how I was supposed to feel...) You've only ever considered dating/doing other things with men, how could you be into anyone else? (Never mind how heterosexuality is normalized in society to the point where I couldn't have considered being anything else even after knowing that other options existed, or that, as an arospec person, "wanting to be in a relationship" looked completely different for me, anyway...)
One day, a friend used the word "queer" and that triggered that crisis all over again- the questioning and wondering "do I fit in?" So I went and looked up "queer impostor syndrome" on google. What I found was an article that put my worries to rest with one sentence:
"The actual impostors will NEVER feel impostor syndrome."
And you know what? That's true. And you know what else? There's no right way to be queer. There's no right way to be me! I can only live my own life the way that comes naturally to me, and I'm not trying to be some sort of perfect example of, well, anything. Real people aren't like that. Real people are complex and confusing and beautiful and they are so layered and they are the best. They do bad things and good things and exist in every way that's possible to exist. I'm just another person. I'm here... I guess I'm queer, and I'm one of us.
Sidenote: last night I went to my first ever Pride event, a Zoom meeting between queer library workers, and we chatted and made crafts (I colored in my Sparks coloring book and showed it to everyone and they really liked it, though no one had heard of the band!), and I didn't feel like I didn't belong or I had to prove anything because NO ONE ASKED. Of course, I knew logically that I didn't have to pass any tests to be there or anything, but it was very refreshing and relieving. It was like: do you feel you fit in? Good, we're happy to have you! Which is how every inclusive space should be! 10/10 would make crafts and discuss books with this group again.
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