I’m queer, not gay. It matters.

My mouth tightened the moment I saw the headline, "I’m Gay, Not Queer. It Matters." As a Black, queer person living in America, I immediately wondered if the author was white and cisgender.

Turns out, he was.

The terms “gay” and “queer” are not synonymous. When someone says “gay” to me these days, I think of cisgender. What comes to mind are people who say they’re “woke” but are silent as transgender people across the country are attacked. I think of being locked into acting how the heterosexual society wants our community to act.

I think of palatable.

Queer is often associated with describing the LGBTQ+ spectrum, an umbrella term of sorts. The word “queer” for many has been reclaimed — from a derogatory slur to a word of empowerment. This reclamation began after the 1969 Stonewall Rebellion, where our community fought against police raiding the Stonewall Inn, a place of gathering for queer people. Over time, the word has come to be a term of inclusion for many. It is a term that describes how many people live outside of the binary of male and female, and how sexual orientation and identity can be fluid over time. The word has transformed into a statement of empowerment, of “potential and a future, not something that is stagnant.”

Queerness is also an emphatic no to the cisgender, male-centric, ableist, White, inflexible way we've been taught that we "must" live from a young age.

My own evolution from calling myself gay to calling myself queer has been integral to who I am today. When I was outed in sixth grade by a classmate as the only gay person in my Catholic middle school, I remember the fear that I'd be physically assaulted. I'd seen how queer people were talked about in newspapers. I'd heard about the violence we experience at higher rates than our straight cisgender peers. When friends asked me at my locker at the end of that day if I was indeed gay, I breathed deeply and said "Yes." I'm fortunate that my friends accepted me and shielded me from interactions with the person who had outed me.

I didn't have the term queer at the time. To label myself as "gay" seemed safest. Due to society, due to my own internalized fears, over the coming years I didn't give myself the chance to explore what it meant for me to be a human being who was interested in guys yet still wanted to explore all facets of attraction. It seemed like the best option at the time.

I wasn't confused. I was simply bound by the rigidness that the word "gay" holds.

From seventh grade through the beginning of college, I wasn't as fortunate around safety. No matter how I tried to make my gayness palatable, that didn't stop the bullying. Being the epitome of a model minoritized person who followed every rule to fitting in with straightness and whiteness didn't stop me from experiencing suicidality and two suicide attempts due to discrimination. Being "gay" didn't save me.

When I experienced further racism and discrimination in medical school and residency, that's when I adopted the moniker "queer." I realized I was never going to be accepted fully by people determined to strip me of my fundamental rights as a human being. Yes, I could understand where they came from, their upbringing, why they reacted to my sheer presence the way they did, and the multitude of other factors that led to their actions toward me and my community. However, that did not mean I was going to lay down and get walked all over.

"Queer" has become one of the most elegant and powerful words I use to describe myself.

It has been a word I have reclaimed for myself.

Telling people I'm queer comes with a certain gravitas. A certain "do not come for me unless I send for you." The word is a rose with thorns — one that combines a gentleness with the passion of someone who has had to fight to survive. When I say I am queer, it means I am here to battle for our community's rights while wearing gold eye glitter as armor. To be queer in America means that I will also bring the softness of someone who years ago envisioned a world where we all were frolicking and got along.

To be queer, to me, is to hold onto that hope while dealing with the realities of now. At its core, being queer means being free to express myself however aligns most with my internal sense of self — and that is a power that many people fear and try to control.

By calling myself queer, I no longer let anyone dictate how I should label myself or try to have me "fit in" to a society not built for me.

After all, I'm queer, and not gay. It matters.

Photo courtesy of Chase T. M. Anderson

Chase T. M. Anderson, MD (he/she/they), is an assistant professor in child and adolescent psychiatry at the University of California, San Francisco, and Medical Director of The Muses Program for Minoritized Youth. You can follow them on Instagram, X, and BlueSky.

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