In the reading, “Losing Home,” Eli Clare treats words the same way he treats people— with incredible patience and a need to understand their nuance. It seems at times as if Clare’s unrelenting curiosity about a world that has betrayed him is almost un-human— that one should not want to analyze an environment that abused them. Yet, Clare’s words have a healing power in the way that they are treated with such grace. I think Clare dissects words in this chapter to show how words, and the bodies to which they are ascribed, are deeply multi-faceted. This is significant as it shows how the ever-evolving nature of language can allow for reflection, acceptance, and healing— especially in queer spaces.
This chapter in particular centers around the exploration of three words that all relate to Clare’s experience of “losing home.” They are: “Queer. Exile. Class” (Clare 31). Clare’s description of “exile” is poignant: “Let me return now to exile. It is a big word, a hard word. It implies not only loss, but a sense of allegiance and connection– however ambivalent– to the place left behind, an attitude of mourning rather than of good riddance” (Clare 35). Too often, words are thrown around without paying attention to their meaning. People often assume that everyone knows a word to carry the same definition. Clare takes the time to break down and show that “exile,” something that often has a larger-than-life, sometimes “mythical” feel of casting out the “bad guy,” can actually imply allegiance and grief. To say that a person has been exiled may not just imply anger and wrongdoing, but also a profound sense of loss. Language is a way of attempting to convey unique experiences in a universally comprehensible way— so it is no surprise that one word can have various connotations.
Humanity has a tendency to categorize words, people— bodies. If a word like “exile” can have a whole host of implications, what does that say about race, class, or queerness? This ambiguity allows space for healing. This way, “queer” does not imply solely joy or pain. It is evolving, encompassing the experiences of each person to which it applies, in the same way “exile” does. There is altogether universality and individuality in language. Clare’s analysis of language allows people to subvert their categories and accept that their bodies exist at once in many different spaces. This chapter pushes us to allow ourselves grace— if language has copious complex meanings and descriptions, and we define ourselves with language, then so do we. Accepting this can be a comforting, healing thing.
I like your take on this! Clare’s carefulness around words is interesting, because of the power words have in marginalized communities, as you touched on in your first paragraph. He labels himself with so many words; many of which have been reclaimed by marginalized communities. Sedgewick stressed the importance of the word “queer” being attached to the first person, and Clare argues the same thing, but in a more understanding way. While Sedgewick’s claim, to me, sort of came off as saying the only context in which the word “queer” has/should have meaning is when applied to oneself, which I think dismisses the pain words like that can cause when they come from someone else. I think Clare addresses this pain, though, as he addresses the abuse he faced as a child.
I love this perspective! One of the things that stood out to me most in Clare’s writing is the emphasis on the structural assumptions integrated into both community and language. We often focus on the many perspectives and intentions associated with a person’s actions, but in conversations like this, language is frequently ignored. When thinking of the connotations behind words like “redneck” (just as an example) Clare breaks down the variety of uses and intentions behind the word. I enjoyed your thoughts on the way we choose to categorize our words- language is truly a reflection of the larger ways we regard our place in the world alongside others.