Our theme for the month of June is “confessions.”

I love the word faggot. Is that a confession? You’re supposed to be sorry about things you confess, right? They’re supposed to weigh on your heart and partaking of the act makes you feel better. Maybe this isn’t a confession. Regardless, I love the word faggot.

I remember learning what it meant as a junior in high school. We were putting on Shrek the Musical, and one of the props the show required was a bundle of sticks, or faggot. The staff member in charge of overseeing props couldn’t stop laughing as she said the word, and it made the most visibly Queer of my friends angry. As I caught up with him later, I asked why. “It’s British slang for a cigarette,” he said. “They used to roll gay men up in carpets and light them on fire.” Though I know now the claim is likely an urban myth, I still remember the way his voice trembled. I remember feeling deeply that a faggot was not something I wanted to be.

There wasn’t a specific moment where that changed, only a slow realization that labels, especially ones that pertain to identity, are meant to be descriptive; they provide comfort to an individual, not buckets to sort everyone into. The word is a slur, certainly, but what word describing Queer folks isn’t? The Slur Song, a tumblr shitpost turned dance-track, is based off an HR training course listing all the slurs you aren’t allowed to say at work. It’s a reclamation and celebration of slurs which emphasizes how ridiculous many of the words used for the Queer community are. It’s also a genuinely well constructed song that’s hard to stay still when you hear. Embracing a slur goes a long way towards removing its power to hurt you.

It’s invigorating, too, that it’s not a word that’s going to be sold on a t-shirt in the Target pride collection. Faggot, thus far, is a word which has resisted rainbow capitalism, with its pastel colors and “how do you do fellow kids” attitude. This is, I think, partially due to straight people’s ongoing discomfort with the word. “Oh I’m a faggot,” I say at lunch one day, bemused by the startled, deer-in-the-headlights looks on my straight co-worker’s faces.

Last February, in the incident that inspired me to complete the image for this post, my friend Steve had a bunch of people over for an informal gathering. I grabbed a faygo out of my trunk before heading in. Upon entering, Steve was an excellent host, showing me where to put my coat, and offering a wide variety of beverages. “No thanks,” I responded to the offered drinks, holding up my can of Faygo. “Ahh, you’ve gotta cool fag,” he responded. I immediately started laughing. Steve (a straight man) was mortified. “I was trying to shorten it to sound cool,” he began. “Steve,” I interrupted, “I understood exactly what you were doing, and I need you to know that there’s no hard feelings, and more importantly, I’m going to refer to faygo as ‘a cool fag’ for the rest of my life and I’m sorry you can’t.”

Faggot is only for me and my fellow Queers, and on top of everything else it’s pleasing to say, the “F” starting softly in the front of my mouth, bouncing off the back of my throat making the hard “G” sound before coming to a concrete conclusion in the front with the “T.” I don’t blame folks who don’t claim it, the word has caused a lot of harm, and I don’t say it lightly to anyone without having a conversation about it first. Faggot doesn’t have to be for everyone, but it works for me. For now at least.

Happy Pride ️‍

Sam Tuit

Sam Tuit graduated from Calvin in 2021 with a degree in film and media. He lives in Grand Rapids and works as an event coordinator. In his free time, he loves trying new things, cooking for others, and having nuanced conversations about the stories our society is telling.