Coming Out Against Biased Language

By Jeff Sapp | Curriculum Specialist/Writer, Teaching Tolerance

May 18, 2004

    When I came out over a decade ago, I believed I was entering a march for civil rights that encompassed generations of people working for justice.

    I came out late, in my mid-30s, and I realized that everything I knew about being gay had been fed to me by conservative, Republican, evangelical, white, heterosexual men.  How can someone who is not me name me?

    As a self-identified nerd, I began my coming-out process by reading everything I could get my hands on about gay and lesbian people that was written by gay and lesbian people.  Language became relevant for me in ways I hadn’t experienced before this.

    The book that had the most impact on me was Eric Marcus’ Making History:  The Struggle for Gay and Lesbian Equal Rights from 1945 - 1990.  In its pages I learned more about the struggle for equality. 

    I read about The Mattachine Society, The Daughters of Bilitis, the Atlanta Lesbian Feminist Alliance and other early organizations.

    I read with great respect about Sylvia Rivera, the drag queen considered by many to be the founder of the modern-day gay and lesbian civil rights movement because of the Stonewall riots.  I was riveted as I read about Larry Kramer and ACT-Up.

    These people were my cornerstone, my models.  And I was ready to join them, feeling time was urgent since I had come out so late in life.

Vocabulary Lessons

    I have always believed that language matters.  Naming always is political.  I was taught this from day one in the gay and lesbian community.

    Am I queer?  Gay?  Homosexual?  A sodomite?

    I chose “queer” because I loved the political nature of it; I loved reappropriating it as a positive self-designation.  I knew “queer” was more inclusive.  It was a better word.  It’s the first vocabulary word I struggled with, and I felt good to have learned and defined it.

    Later I would fret over what term I would choose for the man I love and live with.  Lover.  Husband.  Boyfriend.  Partner.  Each term is incredibly  loaded.  I like “partner” because it states that he and I are complete equals.  Language matters.

    But there were other terms to learn.  Straight-acting.  Bitch.  Rice queen.  Oreo.

    I wasn’t prepared for the racist, sexist, misogynistic language I would hear from gay men.  I was a white male of privilege who took complete joy in self-identifying as queer because it helped deconstruct white male privilege.

    Still today, every day, I am coming out in a heterosexist  society.

    Like when I asked the credit card company if I could add my partner to my account.

    “Your partner?  Your business partner?  Well, no, we don’t do that.”

    “Not my business partner,” I replied.  “My life partner.”

    She had a pregnant pause and puzzled look as I watched her process this.  It usually takes from 5 to 10 seconds and in my mind I am actually counting - one-thousand-one, one-thousand-two, one-thousand-three.  At 7 seconds, she gets the “Oh my god, he’s gay” look on her face.

    “Oh.”

    Naming is important.  Language matters.

    The more politically active I became, the more it distanced me from much of gay culture.  All civil rights - not just gay civil rights - are my civil rights.  The use of words like “rice queen,” “bean queen,” and “dinge queen”  remains incredibly offensive to me.

    “Oh relax, Jeff.  You take things too seriously.”

    But it is serious.  Can we be a liberator and an oppressor at the same time?  Can we demand not to be called vile names at the same time we’re calling names?  Does one cancel the other out?  Isn’t it important that our words and our actions are congruent?

The Men Beside Me

    I have spent the last decade working toward the end of homophobia in K-12 schools.  I fear, though, that my real work has been combating sexism and misogyny in my own gay community.  I’m angry that wounded, insecure gay men consider anything feminine to be negative.

    “Don’t be so queenie.”

    “No fats, femmes, or flamers.”

    I knew I’d be working for social-justice issues, but I didn’t realize it would be with the gay men I had as friends, men I dated, men who stood beside me for causes of justice.  I get exhausted at the hyper-masculinity and hyper-patriarchy of gay culture.

    Likewise, gay activist groups sometimes have a difficult time achieving racial diversity.  I know why.  Why would anyone want to participate where they don’t feel safe?  Gay culture is as racist as the rest of society.

    Being a gay activist certainly takes efforts.  But it takes more effort - and more thought, more compassion, more bravery - to do the critical work of looking at our own beliefs.

    So many of us were terrorized by language growing up.

    “Sissy.”

    “Faggot.”

    “Wimp.”

    How is it possible that we do not vigilantly and carefully craft our words so they heal and liberate rather than wound and categorize?  Language really matters.

    I keep thinking about the tenacious embrace of non-violent activism in the Civil Rights Movement, how they had classes to teach everyone how to sit at white-only lunch counters and take the abuse so as to allow it to reveal the hatred in racism.

    Where is my class?

    I’m afraid I learned that the white men dance at the disco tent and the Latinos dance at the salsa tent at a segregated Pride Festival.  I learned my vocabulary in dating advertisements - “No fats, no femmes, no Asians.”  I learned to reduce people to body parts in the weight room at the gym when I heard phrases like “no pecs, no sex.”

    I want a new vocabulary.