When I take the rare second to think about my queerness, it appears perched prettily atop a pile of unopened books, DIY lampshades, and rings upon rings of ambitious embroidery. It’s one among many WIP projects in the cluttered room of my mind. In Pokémon terms, you could say I’m a Vulpix forever scheming to become Ninetales.
Step one on this journey was to discard black and blue shirts for colour. That was somewhat achieved with three fruity T-shirts I bought in 2022, but now I’ve switched back to hand-me-down greyscale.
Step two was getting a tattoo, some would say a prerequisite if you want to upgrade from gay to queer. I wasn’t sure I could tolerate the pain, so instead of a shoulder-sized sunflower, I opted for a daisy tucked into my elbow crease.
Step three was earrings, but one of the piercings never healed, and now I walk around with a teardrop opal in one ear, always slightly off-kilter. Step four will be skirts, saris, and boots (the house down), but even in my imagination, that is at least a year away.
Why do I need these external markers, though? Why are they so deeply enmeshed with the picture of the person I yearn to become?
‘Blue was my way of saying where I stood’
Among the most obvious symbols of queerness today are tattoos, piercings, and hair colour. They’ve become so central to LGBT+ self-expression that a fluid colleague told me that young people these days feel the pressure to present ‘queer enough’. (She has umpteen tattoos and an impressive collection of funky oxide earrings, so she’s quite complicit.)
Much has been said about how bodies are the first battleground where queer people fight for agency. Growing up, our hair and clothes become points of contention both at home and in schools. Naturally, bright hair dyes, ink, and piercings become objects of rebellion against the hetero world. I choose to grow my hair out from time to time simply because I enjoy playing with it, but I can’t deny that there is a pleasure in witnessing my father’s now-helpless disapproval.
For journalist Ekta Sonawane, hair was about more than queer self-expression.
“I dyed my hair blue. And then I kept dyeing it blue. For two years straight, it became my default—my first choice, always. It wasn’t just about colour; it was how I asserted my commitment to Ambedkarite politics. Blue was my way of saying where I stood—and who I stood with,” they wrote in Queerbeat.
Seated around the living room table one evening, my friends discussed what their first tattoo would look like. They wanted it to have some meaning and get it designed by a specific artist. I sat there looking at my daisy—it had been an easy choice. I wanted a thing of beauty, one I could never regret. Tattoos hold special meaning for many queer people too—a Pune-based ex-colleague had lavenders and thorns going around her arms—but I want to cover my body with unserious scribbles.
Tattoos, hair dye, and piercings also become queer people’s refusal to treat our bodies as god-gifted temples to house pristine souls. In the face of the global panic against what trans people choose to do with their bodies, bodies become playgrounds for queer folks. It’s really not that serious, is the idea.
If only this had allowed me to defeat the terror that is presenting queer publicly.
Also read: Dear queer community, biphobia is not cool. Stop rolling your eyes at bisexuals
Fear behind the flair
I remember writing an unbearably emo poem in 2019, where I compared my homosexual inclinations to a fungus that “blooms in the dark”. (Yes, it was titled ‘Fungus’, and yes, you’re homophobic for asking that question.) Perhaps my desire to dress in gleeful deviance comes from a desperate need for a receipt of having ‘come out’ into the light.
Then again, queer culture is a river of objects gushing out from the US. Whether it is makeup, reality TV, Drag Race, or Pride sponsorship, LGBTQ+ identities have become undeniably merged with consumption.
Yep, it’s my resistance to the American capitalist psyop that’s stopping me from serving nonbinary tea. That has to be it; I’m too woke to invest any active effort in presenting queer. Wouldn’t that be neat, if it weren’t such a lie?
A dear friend, confused at my seeming torment at the inability to tackle gender, asked what was stopping me from wearing something as simple as eyeliner in public, or even an innocent nail polish. It’s a fair question. If Ayushman Khurrana can do it, what excuse do I have?
I stumbled along, offering explanations of potential harm. Once, a man at a signal saw my opal earring and did a mock hijra clap, leering. I turned to the traffic light over the shoulder of the Rapido driver, counting my seconds to safety.
My friend answered that the harm I was so wary of was meted out to women and trans folks every day. If I want to partake in the euphoria of presenting queer, I’ll have to pay the price with male privilege. It’s a simple enough choice; who would take the cheap comforts of patriarchy over gender euphoria? Perhaps all it’ll take is getting used to fear.
(Edited by Saptak Datta)