The queer community is often celebrated as a haven of acceptance, a place where individuals can express their identities freely without fear of judgment. However, in conversations with queer individuals across different backgrounds, a new and complex reality emerges—one in which inclusion is not always guaranteed, and where the definition of queerness itself sometimes feels somehow restrictive.
One particularly striking conversation I had was with a close friend, an openly gay man. Despite his deep connection to the community, he has often felt detached, even uncomfortable. His discomfort doesn’t come from external homophobia but from within the spaces that are supposed to be safe. One night in a queer bar in Kosovo – a place that should have been a refuge – he was harassed by a fellow queer individual. He described it as a moment of painful realization: even within this so-called safe space, certain expectations had to be met to truly belong.
Over the years, I’ve encountered similar stories from others around the world. Many have shared unspoken rules that dictate queer social circles – rules often tied to pop culture, language, and aesthetic expression. If you don’t align with the most current references, music, or trends, it’s easy to feel like an outsider. I myself have encountered this pressure to use a specific slang, express humor in a certain way and to engage with particular cultural markers. While these elements are meaningful for some, they create an invisible code that others may find exclusionary.
Eric Knee’s (2019) study, “Gay, but not Inclusive: Boundary Maintenance in an LGBTQ Space,” published in Leisure Sciences, explores how certain LGBTQ+ spaces perpetuate exclusivity. Knee examines how boundaries are enforced, often leading to the marginalization of individuals who do not conform to specific norms within the community. This research highlights the paradox of spaces intended for inclusivity becoming sites of exclusion due to internal gatekeeping practices.
Similarly, The Roestone Collective’s (2014) article, “Safe Space: Towards a Reconceptualization,” in Antipode, challenges traditional notions of ‘safe spaces’ within the LGBTQ+ community. The authors argue that while these spaces aim to provide refuge, they can inadvertently reinforce exclusionary practices by establishing rigid definitions of safety that do not account for the diverse experiences within the community. They advocate for a more nuanced understanding of safety that embraces the fluid and intersectional nature of identities.
Beyond pop culture, troubling patterns emerge. There is, at times, a sense of irony or even hostility toward women and heterosexual – even toward allies who have long supported queer rights. Bisexual and transgender individuals have shared their experiences of feeling invalidated or pushed to the margins. Some bisexual people recounted being told they were “not queer enough” if they were in opposite-sex relationships. Others described a persistent belief that bisexuality is just a stepping stone toward being “fully” gay or straight. Trans individuals, too, have expressed frustrations about feeling fetishized in certain spaces or, paradoxically, excluded from conversations about queerness.
To better understand these experiences, I conducted an anonymous survey, inviting people from different backgrounds to share their stories. Initially meant to focus on the Balkans, the survey quickly spread out to other regions, including the UK, Italy, and the United States. This expansion reinforced an important truth: the queer experience is shaped by local contexts, but the desire for true belonging is universal.
“It brings us together, but it can also feel incredibly catty and bitchy if you don’t conform or aren’t up to date with whatever new trends have taken over the pop scene.” (Anonymous respondent)
The responses painted a complex picture. While many participants emphasized the joy of finding community, others voiced concerns about exclusionary behaviors within queer spaces. One respondent noted how queer pop culture is a double-edged sword: “It brings us together, but it can also feel incredibly catty and bitchy if you don’t conform or aren’t up to date with whatever new trends have taken over the pop scene.” Another reflected on how queerness is often treated as synonymous with whiteness, making it difficult for queer people of color to feel fully accepted: “In London, I often feel the need to minimize my cultural and religious identity. It’s as if queerness must exist separately from these aspects of myself, and any attempt to queer these boundaries is frowned upon.”
There was also discussion around body image and desirability politics. “Gay spaces include only eye-pleasing bodies and exclude normal or fat bodies,” one participant lamented. Another shared an experience of being mocked at a queer disco for being “too feminine” by other gay men, highlighting the persistent policing of gender expression even within LGBTQ+ circles.
The cultural norms within queer spaces are also shaped by media and entertainment. I have personally never watched RuPaul’s Drag Race, nor do I know how many boyfriends Madonna has had—but these should not be the criteria for proving one’s queerness. The expectation to consume and engage with certain pop culture staples as a form of legitimacy within queer circles can be alienating. As Fiona Buckland discusses in Impossible Dance: Club Culture and Queer World-Making (2002), queer club culture has historically been a site of resistance and identity formation, but it also comes with its own hierarchies and unspoken rules about who belongs and who does not.
Documentary films and media reports also highlight instances where members of the LGBTQ+ community have faced harassment within their own spaces. Reports of exclusion in queer clubs, online spaces, and activist circles are numerous, reinforcing the idea that queer communities are not immune to internal biases. For example, the documentary Paris is Burning (1990) sheds light on the racial and class divisions within queer culture, showing how Black and Latinx queer individuals often create their own spaces after being excluded from mainstream gay culture.
Yet, despite these critiques, most respondents remained hopeful about the future of queer spaces. They envisioned a community rooted in intersectionality, one that values diversity in all its forms. “An ideal queer community is one that truly listens, leads with love, and makes space for everyone,” wrote one participant. Another emphasized the importance of moving beyond rigid labels: “Queerness should be about fluidity, not about fitting into another set of standards.”
Though I was surrounded by people who, in theory, shared my experiences, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t “performing” my queerness correctly.
As I delved deeper into these discussions, I was reminded of my own experiences navigating queer spaces. There were times when I too, felt the pressure to confor – to dress a certain way, to adopt a particular lingo, to align my tastes with the dominant queer aesthetics of the time. I remember the first time I attended a pride event and felt oddly out of place. Though I was surrounded by people who, in theory, shared my experiences, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t “performing” my queerness correctly. It was a jarring realization: even in spaces that champion individuality, there are often invisible expectations.
Ultimately, belonging is not just about identity but about how we treat one another. If queer spaces are to truly be safe, they must be places where all identities are honored, where diversity is celebrated rather than managed, and where no one is made to feel like they have to prove their queerness to fit in. The fight for queer liberation should be about making room for everyone, not just those who fit the mold.
Feautered Image: Daria Buriakova via Scopio
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