On 'Queer', and on Family
Feb. 12th, 2008 07:45 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pantryslutMy father still cringes every time I say the word. Fifteen years I have been calling myself that, and he still says, every time, "when I was growing up, that was the last thing you'd call yourself. When I was growing up, that was an insult." And I have explained to him the theory, the reclaiming, the lack of a better term. I used to do it every time. Now I just say, "I know."
He is viscerally disturbed by the term. My sensitive social worker father can barely stand to hear the term. Once or twice I'm sure he's said, "I wish you wouldn't call yourself that." So I give him other words, too, or we just talk about specifics instead of identities and labels. I am not one of those people who eschews labels, but I understand that they're complicated and provisional, and that language is for communication, and sometimes these things communicate things you don't mean. That's really his motivation in mentioning it. And I understand. Sometimes code-switching is in order, and compromise.
And I still keep calling myself queer. And he understands that too.
And I understand as well: I cannot erase his history with the word. It's valid and it's unchangeable. He owns it. It's his. I am right to acknowledge it as a touchy term, and it is OK if he never moves beyond that.
*
Sometimes these days, I feel like such a grown-up. I just read an old rant of my brother's (if you're reading this, hi), and I recognized both the style and the tone. These days, though, I usually do not write such rants down. They energize me when I speak them face to face, or over the phone -- my brother and I are really good at trading flashy opinionated remarks about certain things -- but to write them down these days just seems to tire me out.
I wondered this morning, after reading the rant, whether this was in part a gender thing as well as or instead of an age thing. I have spent a lot of time in my life being the big scary dyke, and since you all know that I am actually just a big softie with a sharp tongue :), this has sometimes distressed me. And I have learned to moderate and measure my tone, and speak compassionately, and tone down my sharpness sometimes. Sometimes. Because I like to be heard, you know. I don't like to be written off as the angry one.
And I do think it's in part a gender thing, but it's also me, getting older. I am more patient than I look. (Sometimes patience and stubbornness are two sides of the same coin, and while not everybody believes I am patient, everybody knows that I am stubborn.) I have a big heart, and I have my father's impulse to help people.
Which brings me back again to my father, and my mother too. My father shoots first and regrets later. He likes the sparkle of wit and rhetoric. My mother is more considered, but pointed and relentless in her insightful critique. My family in general is verbal, expressive, emotional; irritable and cranky and often charmingly so (except when they're not :) ); they favor truth-speaking over tact, but they also favor compassion over scoring points.
I love them all, and I love you too. In my blunt, cranky, tactless, queer, soft-hearted way.
He is viscerally disturbed by the term. My sensitive social worker father can barely stand to hear the term. Once or twice I'm sure he's said, "I wish you wouldn't call yourself that." So I give him other words, too, or we just talk about specifics instead of identities and labels. I am not one of those people who eschews labels, but I understand that they're complicated and provisional, and that language is for communication, and sometimes these things communicate things you don't mean. That's really his motivation in mentioning it. And I understand. Sometimes code-switching is in order, and compromise.
And I still keep calling myself queer. And he understands that too.
And I understand as well: I cannot erase his history with the word. It's valid and it's unchangeable. He owns it. It's his. I am right to acknowledge it as a touchy term, and it is OK if he never moves beyond that.
*
Sometimes these days, I feel like such a grown-up. I just read an old rant of my brother's (if you're reading this, hi), and I recognized both the style and the tone. These days, though, I usually do not write such rants down. They energize me when I speak them face to face, or over the phone -- my brother and I are really good at trading flashy opinionated remarks about certain things -- but to write them down these days just seems to tire me out.
I wondered this morning, after reading the rant, whether this was in part a gender thing as well as or instead of an age thing. I have spent a lot of time in my life being the big scary dyke, and since you all know that I am actually just a big softie with a sharp tongue :), this has sometimes distressed me. And I have learned to moderate and measure my tone, and speak compassionately, and tone down my sharpness sometimes. Sometimes. Because I like to be heard, you know. I don't like to be written off as the angry one.
And I do think it's in part a gender thing, but it's also me, getting older. I am more patient than I look. (Sometimes patience and stubbornness are two sides of the same coin, and while not everybody believes I am patient, everybody knows that I am stubborn.) I have a big heart, and I have my father's impulse to help people.
Which brings me back again to my father, and my mother too. My father shoots first and regrets later. He likes the sparkle of wit and rhetoric. My mother is more considered, but pointed and relentless in her insightful critique. My family in general is verbal, expressive, emotional; irritable and cranky and often charmingly so (except when they're not :) ); they favor truth-speaking over tact, but they also favor compassion over scoring points.
I love them all, and I love you too. In my blunt, cranky, tactless, queer, soft-hearted way.
