By Dr. Laura McGuire
We started out as the GLB community. Letters were rearranged in the 1980s, and we soon became LGB. The 1990s brought us to LGBT, and now, in 2019, we are LGBTQ, LGBTQ+, LGBTQIA, or even LGBTQQIP2SAA. Whew! The fact of the matter is that we are ever expanding and searching for the right acronym to represent the plethora of identities that fall under the queer umbrella. We bond these letters together to represent a common, shared experience between each—one rooted in oppression, shame, and marginalization, but also in uniqueness and resilience. Queer, which means “different,” has been reclaimed by many within our community because, at the core of existence, we are different. We—whether gay, lesbian, bisexual, trans, pansexual, asexual, and so on—know what it’s like to have to explore and exist in our identities outside of societal norms and systems. There is beauty and comradery in this process, and over time, we have evolved to welcome more and more members into our fold. But as we continue to expand our acronym, where is the line? How do we ultimately decide who is queer and who isn’t?
Two communities that are often in the crossfire of these conversations are our allies and the kinksters. “Allies” are straight and/or cisgender individuals who stand for LGBTQ rights. They see and recognize the current and historical prejudice against the queer community and, even though they don’t personally identify as LGBTQ, they stand alongside those who are. We, in the LGBTQ community, love and appreciate our allies, and admit that standing up for what’s right can come with great responsibility and takes much strength. However, it does not mean that you face marginalization in the same way as an LGBTQ-identified person: being an ally does not put you in danger of losing your job, being evicted from your home, or be kicked out of your family just for being your authentic self. You may receive rude comments or eye-rolls because of your allyship, but constant and genuine danger is never a threat. There are no crime statistics on the number of allies who are assaulted because of their identity—mostly because that isn’t a common occurrence. On the other hand, what is incredibly common is physical and sexual assault against LGBTQ people, especially trans women of color.
Kinksters, people who belong to the kink community, are also individuals who straddle the questionably queer line. “Kink” is most often defined as any sexual act outside of conventional, aka vanilla, sex. This can include fetishes (anything from erotic fantasies, to dressing like a certain character, to inanimate objects) as well as BDSM (Bondage, Domination, Sadism, Masochism) and much more. Some consider polyamory—or having multiple sexual/romantic partners—as kinky too. The common tie here is that kinky people want more than simple, straight-forward sex. This is not better or worse than vanilla sex and relationships, but it can cause certain obstacles. Finding a kinky match in a partner makes dating all the harder; becoming comfortable with what turns you on can be an internal battle; and finding and embracing like-minded individuals is another form of chosen family.
In all these ways, the kink and queer communities do have some shared experiences. Like me, you can also belong to both communities. Where these identities differ, however, is in terms of the amount of safety and privacy that is inherent to each. While kinky people are often looked down upon or labeled as “weird,” they rarely face an immediate danger from the vanilla community. Kinsters are not the victims of hate crimes. There are no statistics on kinsters being killed for who they are. There isn’t even a common slur that is hurled toward kinky people.
I once had a fellow kinky friend who shared with me how connected he felt to the queer community because he also had to hide who he truly was at work. He couldn’t discuss how he Dommed someone this weekend, the same way a gay man often doesn’t feel safe revealing his dating life to his co-workers. That comparison made me halt his conversation. LGBTQ people are not marginalized or in danger because we want to discuss the graphic details of our sex lives in public—in fact, we often feel like we are having to constantly dodge those types of invasive questions. Refraining from deeply personal conversations at work is a reasonable boundary. The difference for queer folks, however, is that while a straight female co-worker can constantly mention her husband and children, me mentioning my girlfriend or wife in the exact same way could make me a target for violence, harassment, and termination.
My personal opinion is to be a part of the queer community means that you are not afforded the same rights as straight and/or cisgender people. You may think twice about holding your partner’s hand in public. You’re constantly forced to field questions about your relationships and preferences in order to maintain safety. You know that accepting your queer identity means that there are places in the world to which you may never be able to safely travel. But, in spite of all that, who you are is so visceral, so important, and so vital to your existence that you must embrace and live as your authentic self. That is the queer experience.
