Introduction
As Butler (2024) explains, specific proponents of the ‘anti-gender’ movement and related Right-wing politics portray ‘gender’ (and thus, queerness) not only as dangerous, but downright destructive. This projection of harmful narratives onto the queer community—especially trans people of colour—creates fearful ‘phantasms.’ These are built and sustained by conservative politicians, organisations, and segments of the general public. As such, queer and trans people are essentially scapegoated as agents of destruction, responsible for the conservative fear of the instability of colonialist and heteronormative norms and assumptions that continue to uphold patriarchal, white supremacist ideals and powers. This is a false narrative that continues to popularly circulate in conservative media circles today: that queer people cause harm simply by existing. This phantasm serves to shift blame away from corporations, governments, and historical injustices, redirecting it onto the queer community. It is a gross generality that holds no truth. In essence, this phantasm is a cruel stereotype. The real harm being done is the very proliferation of this phantasm.
Being queer is, in itself, not a crime. I need no reference for this. It is not harmful, as queerness does not harm others. It is only destructive in that it attempts to break down the harmful and performative thinking that reinforces such stereotypes, alongside long-standing gender norms and ideas that continue to pervade and restrict society. This is not harm, if harm is the act of hurting another—rather, it is liberation, and liberation for all, not just queer people.
But, if one was to hypothetically think about these destructive qualities that queerness might have, and what surface it could possibly inflict harm upon, the only tangible conclusion that one might come to is the self. It is important to reiterate here that queerness in our reality is not harmful in itself. But if we were to subvert the narrative and stereotype that conservatives seem to be so fond of throwing around—that to be queer is to destroy, but, as Butler (2024) explains, also takes up the mantle of creativity and creation typically reserved for the divine (which, in itself, is a blasphemy)—then we could play into and reframe this as such: queerness dismantles and destroys harmful structures, not people, and reconstructs liberated selves and communities.
Act I: Self-Destruction
Queerness can act as a form of self-destruction, one that allows us to create new selves, identities, and dreams. All of these are born from the flesh we leave behind. Self-destruction, in this context, can be understood as a violent reaction to the social and gender norms imposed upon us that simply don’t fit, resulting in a dissonance that cannot only be felt but must be acted upon. Self-destruction could take many forms. It could mean breaking down modes of normativity in how we present ourselves, or verbally cutting the link to who we once were by refusing given names and pronouns. It could even mean socially ending relationships with queerphobic others who do not serve us. While these acts may disrupt conventional norms, they are deeply affirming and life-sustaining. Destruction is often thought of as a bad thing, but what if it’s actually a step towards liberation—for ourselves and others?
Turning to ancient myth, we can see historically that destruction is a force that is often not embodied in isolation, nor in purely harmful intentions. Rather, destruction is typically cyclical in nature, balanced out by concepts of rebirth, life, and transformation. From a plethora of gods such as Shiva in Hindu mythology, responsible for the destruction of the universe to make way for the regeneration and rebirth (and thus, transformation) of a new one, and the giant Ymir in Norse mythology, whose death and destruction allowed the Norse gods to create the world, to figures like the Ouroboros in Ancient Egyptian and Greek mythologies and the Phoenix in many mythologies—the cyclical nature of destruction is a process integral to myth and, by extension, to the people whom once held it dear (and possibly, those who still do). Like the Ouroboros, whose self-devouring act creates life anew (Hornug, 1982, 1999; Reemes, 2015; Soliman, 2022; van der Sluijs & Peratt, 2009), or Shiva’s dance of creation and destruction (Donatowicz, 1996; Kaimal, 1999; Narayanan, 1986; Srinivasan, 2004), queerness moves beyond binaries, perpetually recreating the self in ways that liberate rather than harm. If heteronormativity finds its phobia in such a cycle that promises change, then surely it is the job of queerness and queer people to embody it.
Act II: Deconstruction
If queerness is a process of self-destruction, then, it is also a process of deconstruction; of mentally dismantling the way we think and act and understand, of questioning, of coming to new realisations about the world around us and who we are. Deconstruction calls for new ways of thinking, especially in how we view ourselves in relation to systems like heteronormativity and colonialism, to ablism and racism, to masculinity and femininity. It requires us to look internally, to examine, to turn over, to test, to hypothesise, and most importantly, to question; to hear and feel dissonance, to act upon it, and then to try and understand it. To deconstruct is to take apart the walls we have built ourselves up with—those vile and ancient concrete blocks of prejudice and discrimination, of societal norms and expectations—and see what is hiding beneath.
Act III: Reconstruction
With deconstruction comes the ‘divine’ reconstruction. It’s a rebirth, a return, a reintroduction to the world and to who we really are. To reconstruct means to rebuild, repair, or restore; it could mean all three at once. It could mean anything for taking on an entirely new identity to simply feeling more comfortable in our bodies, using whatever methods that might entail. Reconstruction speaks to the idea of queerness as different ways of living and existing as a human being, whether that be a reference to the future or to the past. There is cultural proof of this in the slang term that some trans communities use to describe someone who may be trans but not realise it yet or be in denial: an “egg” (Lavery, 2020). The ‘egg’ metaphor literally embodies the idea of rebirth, from the cracks appearing in the shell when experiencing conflict in terms of their identity to the hatching of the trans person themself. Even given the controversy that surrounds the terminology, the fact that trans communities themselves have deemed this moment of coming out worthy of such a metaphor clearly speaks to the regenerative and birth-like nature of trans identity, and brings to light an important aspect of reconstruction: the people around the self.
Queerness as reconstruction reaches far beyond the self; it reverberates throughout the wider community as well. From forming new bonds of queer kinship in the context of chosen families and ballroom houses, to forming new (often online) communities and reconstructing queer identities in safer spaces than heteronormative realities can offer, community is an integral part of such a process. Such communities, both physical and virtual, not only act as emotionally supportive environments that can replace a normative familial structure if one’s family is not supportive, but can act as an outwardly identity-affirming collective that can firmly ground a reconstructed identity in a shared reality. Reconstruction is thus not a process that belongs solely to one individual; it’s a process that is inherently social, as our identities are too, and so, community building and interpersonal relationships are key to reconstructing identity.
Cycles of Becoming: Iterating the Self and Subverting Time
Understanding queerness as a cycle of (self-)destruction, deconstruction, and reconstruction in this manner also disrupts heteronormative concepts of the role and place of destruction itself. As previously mentioned, queerphobic Right-wing politics and conservatives understand queerness (particularly transgender people) as tangential to destruction and therefore, harm. But queerness as destruction opposes this, as this cycle of self-destruction and reconstruction of queer identities is not inherently about causing harm, but as a mode of care. On a political activist level, we know that fighting for queerness and other intersectional identifiers and identities is a display of care—as Butler would put it, much like feminism, queerness in politics is “a politics of alliance” (2024, p. 135). But reconstructing our identities—whether through pronouns, name changes, or other acts—is more than a personal transformation. It is rooted in radical self-care and communal affirmation. Queerness may be destructive in terms of ripping apart barriers, social norms and old ways of living and being, but at its core, its destructive nature is based in care for self and others—for our future selves, and for the right for our old selves to also be recognised.
Queerness itself is also a process. As many scholars have remarked, queerness is not static, but temporal. It if fluid, unfixed, ever-changing, much like our own selves and our identities. So if we understand queerness as a critical process of always becoming—a constant cycle of self-destruction, deconstruction, and reconstruction—then queerness, like our selves, is inherently iterative, changing in response to internal, external, historical, social, material, and other present factors. As Muñoz argues, “queerness is not yet here” (2009, p. 185); it is something we must keep working and dreaming and feeling towards, for our selves, our communities, the people who are not yet here, and the people that we left behind. In order to get to a queer future, in political terms and otherwise, we must keep going, we must keep iterating, and, yes, we must keep destroying—not people, but archaic ideas that are better left in the past (if anywhere at all).
Queerness also disrupts normative understandings of time, as scholars like Halberstam (2005), Freeman (2005, 2010), and Edelman (2004) have discussed in their conceptions of queer temporalities, erotohistoriographies and reproductive futurism, respectively. If queerness has the capacity to destroy, and yet, is also a process of always becoming—of iterative selves—then it destroys the idea of a single, linear self; for how can a self be singular and static in relation to time which is always moving and passing, let alone the societal norms and relationships that change and develop over time? As Butler describes, “we are never fully formed, nor are we unconditionally self-forming. This may be another way of saying not only that we live in historical time but also that it lives in us as the historicity of whatever gendered form we assume as human creatures.” (2024, p. 32) Therefore queerness and, by extension, the ability to see beyond the binary, allows us to see, understand, and feel this destruction of an assumed static relationship between the self and linear time—rather, queerness enables multiplicities, fragmentations, and iterative selves throughout and relating to time itself. We can understand queerness as a destructive temporal act, reacting to the present and the past, and radically transforming itself (and our selves) for the future that is yet to arrive. In the shifting currents of queer time, identity emerges as a series of evolving selves, freed from the expectations of linear progression.
The Closer: Regarding Hypotheticals
In order to do that, we need to understand that queerness as a cyclical process of destruction and care cannot just be a hypothetical, regardless of how I introduced it at the beginning of this article. We must destroy in the present in order for regeneration to take place—else, it may not ever arrive. We must fight back, as we always have, against the oppressive structures and norms that threaten the destruction that doesn’t resolve in care, but in eradication. We must fight back against cruel, transphobic legislation that affects healthcare access. We must fight back against the banning of important literature in schools. We must fight back against the movements that aim to paint queer people as agents of harm. We must fight, and fight, and fight, not merely for liberation, but survival. This resistance is part of a larger cycle of activism; it is a testament to queer resilience and the constant reassertion of a future free from harm.
So, is queerness harmful? Does it harm people? The answer is a resounding no; queerness, as an abstract and yet bodily-felt concept, cannot cause harm on its own. But can it destroy? Yes. I hope it does so, and continues to do.
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