+ Follow
AI-Generated Image 

Language can bruise — and language can heal. The story of the word queer is one of both those things: for centuries it meant “strange” or “odd,” then it became a vicious slur used to humiliate people for who they loved or how they expressed gender, and over the last few decades parts of the LGBTQ+ community deliberately picked it up again — like a broken object someone decides to fix and turn into art. The word shows how meaning is not fixed; it moves with history, politics and pain. In the 1500s queer simply meant odd or peculiar, but by the late 19th and early 20th centuries it had become a label of contempt for men who didn’t fit rigid ideas of masculinity. That turn toward insult is what made the word a wound for many who lived through decades of harassment, arrest, and social exclusion.

So why would anyone deliberately reclaim a slur? Reclaiming is both a political act and a practical one. In the late 1980s and early 1990s — especially during the AIDS crisis and the rise of direct-action activist groups — younger activists wanted language that rejected assimilation into mainstream respectability politics. Groups like Queer Nation shouted slogans such as “We’re here! We’re queer! Get used to it!” to refuse shame and to insist on visibility and solidarity across lines of race, class and gender. Choosing queer as a banner was a way to say: we will not be defined by polite, limiting labels, and we will use even the words that once hurt us to show power and unity. Over time, queer also entered academia as queer theory, where scholars used the term to critique fixed categories of gender and sexuality and to study how norms are made and enforced. That double life — activism on the streets and theory in universities — helped queer move from insult to umbrella term for many people.

Today, queer is used in several ways at once, and that is part of what makes the word both useful and contested. For some people it’s an umbrella label — a warm, inclusive way to say, “I’m not straight and I don’t fit narrow gender boxes.” For others it’s a political identity: not just about who you love, but about who you stand with and how you want society to change. For still others — especially people who prefer specific labels like gay, lesbian, bi, or trans — queer feels too broad or too vague. And for many younger people, queer is freeing: it allows fluidity, exploration, and refusal of binary thinking. Media guides and civil-society conversations have begun to normalise the letter Q in the acronym LGBTQ precisely because it captures that openness.

But words carry their histories inside them. For older LGBTQ+ people, queer often still means the years when the word was used to hurt them — when it accompanied beatings, job loss, police raids, school bullying and public disgrace. For someone who survived a time when “queer” was almost always shouted as an insult, being asked to describe themselves as that word can reopen old wounds. Studies and interviews show a real generational split: younger people often embrace the reclaimed term, while many older adults either prefer not to use it or feel uncomfortable hearing it used casually. That discomfort is not stubbornness or refusal to change; it is memory and trauma. So when older people push back against the modern casual use of queer, they are often protecting themselves from language that once marked real danger.

There are practical and ethical ways to navigate this split. First, listen. If an older person in a community says they dislike the word, don’t argue; ask what language they prefer and use that. At the same time, respect that younger people and scholars may want language that resists assimilation and captures a political stance. Context matters: a classroom, a scholar’s essay, a Pride march, a family dinner — all call for different sensitivity. Also remember that not everyone fits neatly into generational boxes: some elders reclaim the word, and some young people avoid it. Treat people as individuals rather than assume their position based solely on age.

Finally, what can we learn from this word’s journey? First: language is living. Words pick up scars, healing, and new meanings as people use them in different times and places. Second: reclaiming a word can be an act of resistance, but it doesn’t erase the harm the word once did. Reclamation is not a mandate; it’s an option offered by some to some. Third: empathy matters. When a younger person wears queer like a reclaimed flag and an older person recoils because the same flag was once a target, both positions are real and deserve respect. We can make space for both: honoring painful histories, respecting personal preferences, and allowing language to continue shifting without erasing the people who lived through its worst uses.

Language will keep changing. People will keep choosing what to call themselves and what to reject. The healthiest path is small and steady: listen more than you speak, ask what someone prefers, and remember there is no single correct label for everyone. Words like queer teach us that identity, memory and politics are braided together — and that the simplest kindness we can offer each other is the dignity of letting people name themselves.

.    .    .

References:

Discus