LGBTQIAPK. Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Transgender/Transexual, Questioning, Intersex, Asexual, Pansexual/Polyamorous, and Kinky.
That’s right. There are new letters. It’s an expanded acronym designed to be even more inclusive of gender identities and sexual orientations. It takes up two lines on my page, and it does some heavy lifting. The beauty of that acronym is that it’s shared. It binds us together into a community that’s big enough to speak up and be heard.
That function saved many of our lives in the 80s when the willful silence of Reagan’s administration during the AIDS crisis would have exterminated our community if not for loud protests from well-networked and organized groups like ACT-UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power).
Our acronym works because when one is in trouble, there are many to help. But we’re losing sight of its significance.
People in and out of the LGBTQIAPK community are using the term “queer” as shorthand for our diverse community. “Queer” instead of non-binary. “Queer” instead of trans. “Queer” instead of asexual. “Queer” instead of gay, even. You get the point. The motivation there is questionable. It might be laziness. Or it might be something more positive; a drive to feel closer to one another, for all to sit at one table. On an individual level, it might be a means to avoid discussing our identities with curious strangers.
I sat next to Roxy at Twist, Seattle’s Queer Film Festival. She’s a 56-year-old, self-described “butch lesbian.” We went into that term, “butch.”
“I’m actually non-binary,” she said. Roxy only just discovered the term and began using she/they pronouns a year ago. When she wants to avoid a conversation about intersectionality, she often just says she’s queer. “My partner usually tells people she’s gender-queer,” she confided, “which doesn’t avoid much.”
Yet, the term “queer” can be homogenizing. When it’s used for a collective (i.e. “the queer community”), it doesn’t give us much room to be different — and we are different. Our experiences vary greatly. It’s important to recognize that, because our need for the network of support we developed in the 80s is the same.
According to Human Rights Campaign, last year 29 trans people were murdered; this year, the tally is already at 22 — and these are only confirmed homicides, and do not take into account trans individuals who are currently missing. To call us all “queer” is to equate the trans experience to, for example, the gay experience. The problem with that is that gay people aren’t being murdered at the rate trans people are. Saying “queer” instead of trans erases the specificity our community relies on to rally behind a group that needs support.
We did and do not come together because we are all the same. It’s important to remember that our sameness is not our point of commonality. Our point of commonality, the genesis of our alliance, is fighting to survive a strong and deadly heteronormative current. The symbol of that alliance? Our acronym. Thanks to our acronym, not a single sentence is written without each of us present. Thanks to LGBTQIAPK, we all sit at one table in full appreciation and recognition of our diversity in sexual orientation and gender identity. “Queer,” on the other hand, forces us to share a seat. It imagines a sameness in experience that, frankly, doesn’t exist. It behaves like the trans or non-binary or intersex experience can be likened to the gay experience when the they are each unique.
The acronym is better. But it’s also true that we seldom have a conversation with a heterosexual person without them bringing up how long the acronym is getting. The skeptic will wonder: By adding more letters, are we forgetting that we need to be understood when we speak up? Are we making indigestible alphabet soup? They’ll think it’s the last thing we need.
But “queer” muddies the water. In fact, it’s “queer” that makes us hard to understand. It isn’t a show of solidarity as much as it is a disservice to our mission of equal rights and equal treatment.
In ditching LGBTQIAPK for “queer,” we are silencing a minority of important experiences and turning our backs on the letters of our acronym which most need our support. When did we forget that, for us, silence = death?