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In my younger years, I was called a faggot. I did not consent to this. A kid in gym class swung a three-foot metal pole at my head, and the teacher didn’t care when I reported being bullied. I grew older and connected with mentors who’ve since passed on their own lessons to me about moving through the world being irremediably and obviously gay. Being a faggot is not synonymous with being a gay man, however. Many gay men do not identify as faggots – and some faggots do not identify as men. We’re a diverse bunch like that. But regardless of our internal identities, it’s a word we’ve all heard.

“I was called faggot growing up. I hated it because I knew those jocks were right. I hated they could see the thing I was trying so hard to hide,” a friend shared with me early in my transition. “Calling someone faggot, for me, is basically saying, ‘I can see what you really are. The thing you’re trying to hide.’”

Isn’t that why we hate the word? Because people see us, and sometimes they hate what they see, so we try harder than anything not to be seen at all? Because being called “faggot” means we’re failing to convince our oppressors that we’re their equal? Because invisibility feels safer, and we’re exhausted from living in constant fear?

There are certain images the word “faggot” evokes – images of brutality, of discrimination, of vitriol; images of disease, of stigma, of suffering; images of loneliness, of brokenness, of heartbreak.

In those same images though, I see something more.

Survival. Perseverance. Strength. Determination. Triumph. Authenticity. People who call themselves faggots exhibit courage beyond measure. We have stared Death in the eyes and refused to blink. We are more than deviant sex behind closed doors. We are a tribe in which membership has nothing to do with our genital configurations or our blood, and everything to do with the capacity of our ever-expansive hearts to love one another in the face of great and divisive adversity.

In embracing my faggotry, I embrace my resilience. Owning this aspect of my identity is an expression of gratitude – both toward my former self for making my way through Hell alive, and toward those strong-willed fighters who came before me for the contributions they’ve made to the world I live in today.

Being a faggot means living in a way that feels right to me as a priority over what’s expected. It means being seen for the rawness of my humanity rather than the mask I so often wear. It means taking struggles and obstacles by the horns and hacking my way through them without reservation. It means surviving a part of my identity I once believed could only result in my death. It means being a whole human being whose sexuality, whose existence, requires no apology.

This word holds the same meaning regardless of who is saying it. It is the intent that changes. The intent is what we respond to. The intent is where its power comes from.

Jocks in high school: “I see what you really are. I hate you. I don’t want you to live, faggot.”

My partners: “I see what you really are. I want you. Don’t hide from your authenticity, faggot.”

Me: “I see what you really are. I love you. There is nothing shameful about being a faggot.”