In Love and Gratitude for my Queerness

I’m a total sucker for love, even though I’m sort of awful at it. I love the capacity within us to utterly fall for another human being, to risk being seen in all our terrifying vulnerability, to bravely attempt to cradle the vulnerability of another—I love it. And I especially love the infinite number of shapes and forms and embodiments that love can take.

I get to swoon over both of these people. Tell me I'm not lucky.

I get to swoon over both of these people. Tell me I’m not lucky. (And no, this picture is not super relevant, but I just couldn’t help myself)

Which is why I found myself grinning like an idiot this morning as I had a text conversation with a friend about the wonder and beauty of owning the full range of our queerness. The conversation developed in response to this article, which implores gay men to explore beyond heteronormative and cisnormative understandings of male attraction. The author writes about falling in love with a trans man, and coming to understand that his sexuality was separate from acts of sex and that the former was not determined or limited by the latter.

I am so very on board with this idea, not just for gay men, but for all people and certainly for myself. It is why I proudly and gratefully identify as queer. For me, my sexuality isn’t rigid or binary or static. But it is beautiful. And always an adventure. And always a gift. It is queer.

I was a late bloomer in a lot of ways. I was in my twenties when I got into my first relationship. I got my curves at 22. I didn’t come out until I was 25. I’m still learning how to flirt. But embodying and understanding queerness is the one way that I think I have been ahead of the curve. Queerness has always made sense to me. The hard part was coming to terms with a world where queerness didn’t make sense to everyone else.

I often identify as bisexual. This makes sense because I am attracted to both women and men. It also makes sense because bisexuals are often erased within queer communities and naming and claiming is an important part of visibility. But it is not quite the whole story. I have been attracted to transmen. I have been attracted to those who are genderqueer. I am decidedly not straight, nor am I exclusively gay. I am queer. My sexuality, my whole way of relating to the world, naturally transcends and disrupts boundaries others consider normative. This is not always an easy way to be, but it is an amazing way to be.

My queerness doesn’t mean I don’t see gender or sexuality or that I’m indifferent to them. On the contrary, I love gender—the whole spectrum of it. When I find myself most attracted to people, a big part of that attraction is the degree to which they own and embody their own gender identity and sexuality—whatever that may be. I love maleness and femaleness and genderqueerness each in a vast array of iterations. I love sex as an expression of love and the capacity to seek pleasure and intimacy from one another in a diversity of ways. I am grateful that I was born into a self that couldn’t sit still with one-dimensional articulations of sex, sexuality, gender, or love.

“Queer” is a hard word for a lot of people. As I have learned how to be an LGBTQ activist, I have also learned to be careful about when and how I use the Q-word when I’m speaking with political or public voice. I try never to identity someone else as queer without their permission. I honor the gravity of the word and the weight it carries from past oppression and hate.

But today I am celebrating my own queerness, and my gratitude for the freedom to personally identify as “queer.” I love that this word allows me to claim my place within a larger community, while speaking my own intricate truth. I love that it allows for the reality that sometimes I feel much more attracted to men than women, and other days I feel much more attracted to women than men, and that I can be surprised daily by my own capacities for love and attraction. I appreciate that it compels me to remember our history and the violence and hate endured by LGBTQ people who have come before me and the hate that happens even still. I have hope that on that inevitable day when some angry person throws the word “queer” at me like a knife, it won’t conjure for me a sense of disgrace and fear and powerlessness. Instead it will remind me of the best within me—the God-given ability to love boundlessly.


The beautiful world I belong to.

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