At least once in your life, you have found yourself saying, “clock it,“ “body tea,“ “oh the shade,“ “you ate,“ but has it ever occurred to you to understand how this lingo came into existence?
To most of us, it‘s a trend – social media lingo. We hear it every day, so we just incorporate it into our lives without a second thought. However by doing this, we are unconsciously erasing the culture – erasing the people who created it.
For example, the gesture of tapping your middle finger and thumb together, sometimes with a snapping sound or, preferably, silently, originated in Black and Latinx LGBTQ+ ballroom culture during the late 20th century. Ballrooms were spaces created by queer people of color as a means of expressing beauty, gender play, confidence, fluidity and community pride in a world where this was very illegal, where simply existing could get you killed.
Within that culture, the finger tapping was born and held significant meaning. It served as a silent applause to show admiration for someone‘s fashion, music or dance performance without disturbing their moment. It was a way to praise someone‘s wit, like a way to say, “Yes, you did that!“ But most importantly, it came from a place of necessity and creativity. One of the key parts of the ballroom was gender play and fluidity, often represented through long acrylic nails. The nails made it difficult to applaud someone in the ballrooms, so the finger tapping was an elegant alternative – a solution born from style itself.
This gesture was part of a language of nonverbal communication, along with the use of fans, facial expressions, and other signals. This allowed members to express approval, shade or critique with elegance and precision. It was their language, their code.
But in today‘s world, we have seen this gesture evolve – twisted, really. The finger tapping has gone from an applause to a visual of saying, “I caught that. I see that.“ It shifted from being a celebratory means of expressing admiration to a way of calling attention to something someone must have said or done, in a much more shady way than humorous. The context got lost somewhere between the ballroom floor and your TikTok feed.
When we say “gentrification“ of Black queer culture, it refers to the process by which cultural expressions rooted in black and queer communities are adopted, then stripped of original context and mainstreamed. This comes with a cost, as there is no direct credit or respect for their origins. The people get erased while their words live on.
How is it possible to credit a lingo you don‘t even know the origin of? A valid question because you cannot pause mid-conversation to say, “Shout out to the Black queer culture for this.“ But what you owe them is respect and education. Learn where it comes from. Acknowledge it, even if just to yourself.
The culture hasn‘t been gatekept; it‘s expressive, it‘s love, it‘s art, it‘s community. But what happens when you don‘t respect them and strip away their origins? In a way, you strip their value, their evidence of creativity and survival. You take what they built from pain and pride and turn it into nothing but a punchline.
We often get caught up in using this lingo, but we don‘t stand up for them. We immerse ourselves in the culture but feel deterred by it. We indulge in the practices but never raise a glass or voice to them. But why? Why use the words of the people you refuse to see? Why strip their language of meaning until it becomes unrecognizable, like a game of telephone that ends in erasure?
Black queer culture can‘t be gatekept because that would symbolize hiding in a world where they should be free. They showcase this lingo freely because it aids acceptance and shows pride in themselves. But now, because of mainstream culture, we‘ve taken it and made it into something it‘s not. We change meanings, use cases, and often become fearful of the very community that birthed something beautiful. We‘ll say their words but cross the street when we see them coming.
How do we love queer expression but marginalize queer lives? This opens a pattern of consumption without empathy. Ballroom and drag language – „serve“ „werk“ „slay“ – have become marketing lingo for brands that have historically stood against queer people of color. Brands that wouldn‘t let them through the door now profit off their language. But when times come to speak up for this marginalized group, we all go silent, black and white, neutral.
We forget how we have incorporated their culture and, in fact, made it ours. We take their aesthetics and make it a trend. We steal from them and call it ours. And because of that, the originators are erased, pushed to the margins of their own creation.
Maybe the question isn‘t just why we use their words, but why we can‘t love the people who gave them to us.
Loving them and their culture means accepting them. It‘s learning more about this culture and where it comes from. We should give credit where credit is due, support queer creators and not turn identities into trends or just aesthetics for an Instagram feed.
Black queer culture isn‘t just about the words or gestures; it‘s survival. It‘s a language born out of pain and pride. And using it means we owe them a responsibility – the responsibility to see them, to protect them, to stand with them. The culture is too beautiful to gatekeep, but we should remember to…..
Never dance to the rhythm of a song when you avoid its blues.