What’s Really in a Name? written by Stef Newell illustration by Shay Suban, layout by Jenna LaFleur CW: verbal abuse/slurs “Weird.” That was the word they started with. “You are a weird kid.” “You act weird.” And thus, with no less than a phrase, my years as the weird kid began. I didn’t want to be weird. Who would? Nevertheless, the “weird kid” period of my life dragged on for five prepubescent and debilitating years, starting at the age of six. By the time I hit middle school, I had grown to hate the very word “weird” so much that hearing it in a completely normal context could make my stomach turn. Although I never really did find out what about my neon-pink nails, long hair, and sparkly bracelets was so “weird.” Funnily enough, often the words we don’t understand can cut deeper than the ones we do. No wonder it hurt so much when they started to call me “gay.” I had absolutely no idea what “gay” meant, but by the way they said it, I knew that it was bad. I had never put any time into thinking about who I was attracted to; I had been rather preoccupied with cutting all my t-shirts into crop-tops and stealing my mother’s clip-on earrings. Regardless, I had been designated as liking boys. When someone finally explained it to me, I was so relieved. Now that I understood, I knew I could tell everyone that I wasn’t gay. I could say I liked girls, and I would be like all the other guys, and we could all be friends, and I’d finally be part of the group. It’s never that simple, though. To my dismay, nobody seemed to care what I said. I was not gay because of who I said I was. I was gay because they said I “acted gay.” Who I claimed to be was irrelevant because apparently they decided who and what I was. This idea tortured me for years. How could I love myself if I had no say in who I was? Slowly, I came to realize this would not do. I could not and would not live in the shackles of ideas and words that were thrust upon me by people who probably didn’t even know my
name. Nobody is the sum of their criticisms, and everybody deserves to have a say in who they want to be. Unfortunately, as kids grow, so do their vocabularies, and right when high school hit I became “the fag.” I guarantee I heard that word ten times a day all four years I walked the halls of my conservative religious Southern school. At some point, I began saying that fag was just short for “fagulous” and lord were they right; I was one fagulous piece of work. And for once, I didn’t care that not everyone liked me or agreed with me, because for all that they tore me down with their words, I built myself up with my own. This concept is nothing new to queer people. Words are powerful—so powerful that the reclamation (like in the case of the words “queer” and “dyke”) or transformation of a single word can completely change someone’s condition. Was I weird or was I unique? Was I a fag or was I the most fagulous kid in school? You may say it makes no difference, but to me it was night and day—shame and pride. My identity was no longer a circumstance molded and lorded over me by ignorant high schoolers, but a facet of my day-to-day life that I found beauty and pride in. Choosing a preferred name is the ultimate example; it is reclaiming and reaffirming oneself. What word is more important to you than your own name? There is no greater way to put your foot down and challenge the brands and labels that have been put on you. There is no greater way to say, “this is me…because I say so.” For all the slurs and names society has given us as queer people, do we not deserve to give ourselves just one – our designated preferred name? Is it too much to ask that in this world of clamorous bigotry we have just one word to call our own? I think not. So what’s really in a name? Absolutely everything.
“For all that they tear me down with their words, I could build myself up with my own.”
06 | OutWrite, 2018
