Why being a queer ally goes way beyond using the correct pronouns

For queer folx, finding allies in their siblings and friends, a sense of acceptance stems from how engaged, empathetic and supportive they are, particularly in times when performative acceptance can feel unsafe and alienating

Coming out, as most queer folx will have you know, is not a one-time event. It does not end with a carefully orchestrated conversation where you name your identity out loud to a bunch of people, and then await their acceptance or rejection of it. Instead, our acceptance is defined by sustained access to active allyship as we explore and express our unique ways of being queer, where people around us remain engaged and empathetic to its realities, even as it runs contrary to cis-heteronormative experiences. On the other hand, there is performative acceptance that is marked by systemic disappointments and daily heartbreaks, despite the people around us announcing themselves to be accepting allies. Such performativity effectively alienates us from spaces important for us to thrive, like those offering educational and financial opportunities, social acceptance and community, and the safety of home environments too.

My own coming-out journey began with getting curious about my lack of focus on sexual intimacy and attraction in relationships, which seemed central to the romantic pursuits of most others my age during my teenage years and early 20s. Even as I explored aromanticism and asexuality through a series of interviews with internet strangers who identified as “aro-ace”, people around me would nonchalantly ask when I planned on getting married and to whom. A few years later, when I told my friends in intimate conversations that I also identified as bisexual and agender, few seemed to know how these identities coloured my everyday experiences that they took for granted. Fortunately, for me, I found a strong ally in my older cousin, Jyothi Ganesh (she/her). “It was the first time I had heard of the word ‘queer’. I started learning more about what it meant by avoiding making assumptions and asking [you] questions about things I didn’t know. I slowly became more cognisant of what I said and how I said it,” she says, reflecting on the time since I came out to her.

As a 33-year-old digital marketing professional currently based in Mumbai, Jyothi turned to pages on social media like Gaysi Family to understand the LGBTQIA+ identity and queer experience better. This translated to her offering me deep emotional support and advocating for me in various circumstances, such as when someone may have said something ignorant or asked intrusive questions. “I used to find it hard to explain to others, but since I am better-read and aware today, I am able to articulate myself [in these situations],” she says.

Forming chosen families

Often, a queer person may not choose to come out in certain spaces for fear of backlash and judgment. Respecting their choice and agency to share their identity on their own terms and timeline is a crucial boundary to uphold and an exercise in building trust. Vrindha Pari (she/her), is a 31-year-old public health researcher from Chennai specialising in improving the quality of healthcare provided to queer folx and postpartum mothers, both of which overlap with her own identity. “I identify as queer, bisexual and poly, although my reality and choice is that I am in a monogamous relationship. While I accept the pronouns based on the gender assigned to me at my birth, I feel subtle shifts in my gender expression based on the way I feel on a day-to-day basis,” says Vrindha. Her biggest ally is her best friend, Surabhi (she/her), whom she refers to as her “soulmate”. After meeting in college 15 years ago, they have been through thick and thin together. “From not knowing who I was to the shame spiral to embracing my identity as a queer person, Surabhi has been by my side. This has been an important bond, as I have kept my queer identity hidden from my natal family and the workplace,” explains Vrindha, throwing light on the kind of people who constitute a queer person’s chosen family. 

Thirty-year-old Surabhi, a therapist from Mysuru, shares that she has noticed people focus on the queerness of a person as their whole identity, instead of seeing them as an individual who also identifies as queer. “They pose a lot of analytical questions about the [the queer person’s journey]”—how they came out, how they deal with their queerness—without asking if it is okay to ask these questions or not.” 

Siblings as one’s foremost allies

Many other queer folx report finding their early allies in their own siblings. For Dhruvi* (she/they), a 27-year-old queer, non-binary arts professional in Mumbai, their older sister created a safe enough space for them to talk about their date with a woman, encouraging them to explore their feelings. “We stand up for each other and hype each other up with affirmations and positive messages before social gatherings [at home],” shares Dhruvi about the bond she has with her sibling. In the face of other people’s ignorance about queerness, Dhruvi’s sibling shared that they mostly disengage as “it is exhausting to make someone understand something that they aren’t ready to.” They don’t believe that it is a dinner-table conversation as it is often triggering for both siblings.

Tan (they/them), a 28-year-old queer-trans comprehensive sexuality educator found allyship in their younger sibling, Himanshu (he/him). “Tan has always wanted me to learn as much as I can about queerness, explaining that it was important for me to be aware. I would often ask lots of questions and they’d suggest content to watch, books to read, and topics to look into,” shares Himanshu, echoing a sentiment of non-judgmental curiosity about queerness. “My best friend came out to me as bisexual in high school, but we never discussed it in further detail, However, I was able to deepen my understanding of the history, politics, and misconceptions associated with queerness through my sibling,” he adds.

“Although he’s my younger brother, he is fiercely protective of me and has also helped my family understand my identity. He’s someone I can talk to when I’m struggling with queerphobic systems, and we usually try to meet during festivities, so that I don’t feel left out. Knowing that he has my back keeps me sane and happy,” says Tan, elaborating on what emotional support looks like for a queer person.

Allyship beyond support

For others, allyship comes from new friends they make along the way. P (they/them) is an indigenous person from northeast India and identifies as trans non-binary as it is the only vocabulary they’ve found for themselves, however limiting they might find it. Their biggest ally has been their friend Anj (she/her), and her partner, Am. After experiencing burnout and having a meltdown in recent times, P has experienced a massive skill regression wherein their cognition, comprehension, and articulation has taken a severe hit. 

“Although I have known Anj for only over a year, she and Am have helped me understand tough situations at work. There have been days when I have been barely functioning, and Anj has even helped me with drafting emails,” P explains. To them, Anj and Am’s acceptance looks like never being misgendered and consistently holding space for P’s grief and struggles as they navigate the city and social life in Bengaluru. “When there was a need, they have supported me financially too,” adds P.

Anj, a 28-year-old freelance writer, has had a deeply reflective journey on queerness even before she met P and identifies as pansexual herself. “I began to become curious about my own body and physical intimacy at a startlingly young age. Long before I had the vocabulary, I was grappling with various forms of attraction to people around me and trying to figure out [what was going on with me], all while being entrenched in a strongly heteronormative society. By the time I had gathered what sex was, what gender might be, and and what it meant to be attracted to your best friend, I was on my way to college with a tentative grasp of my evolving sexuality and carrying the crippling baggage of trauma,” she recounts, about how the journey of queerness is rarely linear. In fact, it requires a young person to engage in intellectual labour, just to come to terms with who they are in a society that is always telling them how to be. 

When Anj met P for the first time in Goa, she was excited as they “exuded an aura of acceptance, inclusion, and freedom”. As P revealed more about their identity, choices, and personal philosophy, Anj describes feeling “like a toddler seeing the world in its true magnitude for the first time”. It pushed her to start reading more accounts of queer people’s lived experiences, studies, and even Twitter threads, all while questioning her own convictions about queerness. “I used to think of it as a detached microcosm that our society ought to aspire to, but soon realised that [queerness] carried the same messy humanity that we see all around us. P’s polyamorous life and notions of freedom prompted me to examine my own choices and set off on my own self-exploration. I no longer expect to ever know enough, and try to prioritise curiosity and empathy in all my interactions,” clarifies Anj, explaining what it means to be queer as well as an ally. 

At the end of the day, both ways of being entail holding space for individuals, in all their messy glory, to express themselves as authentically as they are, and seeing each person as the ultimate expert of their own lived experiences.

*Names changed to protect privacy. 

Curated by Gaysi Family | Illustration by Mia Jose

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