Accidentally Queer: Growing Up Misunderstood in the 90s

By Josiah Ranen

Growing up in the Kansas City Northland, a homogenous area of mostly white suburbs at the time, I spent much of my teenage years up against the lockers, accused of being gay—even though I wasn’t. I was a small, short and skinny geek, who exuded very little masculinity even though I desperately wanted to be seen as such.  Looking back, it’s almost comical how little people in the 1990s actually understood about what “being gay” meant. To most kids back then, it had nothing to do with who you were attracted to and everything to do with how you walked, talked, or dressed. It was a time when identity was defined by stereotypes, and high school was an unregulated arena of judgment.

The truth was that there wasn't a single gay kid in my high school, at least none who were out of the closet.  For “alpha male” straight kids, there was this constant paranoia that all the “beta males” were secretly plotting to give them “the ole stiff one-eye.” They said it as a joke, but the insecurity underneath was real. Masculinity was fragile, and any crack in the armor—any hint of softness—was treated as contamination.

In my case, my supposed crime was simple: I liked to sit with my legs crossed. That one posture, apparently, was all it took to brand me as gay. Real straight men, I was told, sat with their knees miles apart, taking up as much space as possible—as if heterosexuality required a minimum radius.

And then there were the other absurd “rules.” An earring in your right ear made you gay; your left ear was still safe. Speedo swimwear was gay, but long trunks were straight. Even the way you held a pencil or the tone of your laugh could be incriminating. Masculinity had a manual, and I hadn’t read it.

At fifteen, I was still a virgin, which was another strike against me. My awkwardness around girls—something nearly universal among teenage boys—was interpreted as “proof.” of my gayness. 

 I remember one afternoon in particular: I had heard the word queer used to mean “odd” or “different.” That’s what the dictionary said, after all. So in an effort to own my uniqueness, I once said, “I may be queer, but I’m not gay.” I thought I was being witty. Instead, I had just handed my classmates a new weapon. The teasing intensified, and the shoves into lockers became a daily routine.

My bullies were not always the Jock's as is often depicted in 90's movies. The few friends I had were jocks. Hoping to help me avoid these bullies, they insisted that I not engage in certain behaviors and were horrified when I asked how any of these innocent behaviors could make you gay. While conceding that I was not gay, they warned me that my behaviors were defiantly gay. And you would not find them standing up for me when I was labeled gay by all the stoners, grunge and goth kids who formed the bulk of kids who bullied me.  Smarter kids forming their own circles would make teasing remarks and the slackers  shoved me around physically. 

Although I laugh now, it wasn’t funny then. The bullying chipped away at my confidence. Every hallway felt like a gauntlet. But with time—and distance—I’ve come to see something meaningful in it. Because the truth is, the 90s taught a whole generation of straight kids like me what it felt like to be ostracized for something you didn’t choose. We got a small, bitter taste of what actual gay kids endured tenfold.

That experience planted empathy where ignorance once lived. It helped create a shift. America didn’t become less homophobic overnight; it changed because people started to realize how cruel and stupid that kind of labeling was. Many of us who’d been falsely accused grew up with a clearer sense of how unfair it all was—and how needless. We learned that real strength has nothing to do with posture, clothing, or what ear you pierce.

What annoyed me more was the grownups, teachers and parents who were always  telling victims things like “sticks & stones,” Just ignore them"  “bullies are deeply insecure & really just need a friend,” etc. How do you ignore them when they tripped you or slammed you into a locker? What are you supposed to do when they say "you got something on your shirt" and then flick your chin when you look down as they yell "psych!"

 I really did try to befriend someone who I had seen bullying another kid. I had noticed this bully always sat by himself, and he seemed friendless. He looked particular sad that day. He had never bullied me before so I followed my mom's advice and approached him. So I sat down at his lunch table and said, Hows it it going? You look a little down. Are you having a bad day? You can tell me about it." This was the worst advice my Mom ever gave me. This kid Dave then proceeded to scream at me for five minutes straight, before telling me to "get lost loser you are such a dork" and never approach him again. Except he then proceed to follow me around every time he saw me, hurling insults like "faggot" and "pussy". So yes, I was called gay  and emasculated for sitting the wrong way, wearing the wrong thing, or saying the wrong word.

Don’t get me wrong — I don’t really care for queer culture, and I’m not particularly interested in identity politics. I’m not an ally in the “rainbow alphabet,” and you won’t find me marching in any parades. I take a dim view of anyone who puts their sexuality front and center — not just those who are gay or lesbian, but also the straight guys who constantly feel the need to prove how straight they are by bragging about how many women they’ve “banged.” Personally, I'm all for letting people live their private lives and exercising their rights under the constitution and I'm all in for toleration.  

But there is a reason America is less homophobic today. Because all the straight kids who were falsely accused of being gay and bullied as such began to have sympathies for actual gays. It is definitely true with me. And if these bullies had never mistaken straight kids for being gay, I and many others would be quite homophobic. 

Today, I can cross my legs in peace, wear whatever I want, and know that no one’s opinion changes who I am. But beneath the humor is a lasting truth: the bullying that once humiliated me ended up teaching me compassion. It made me more aware of others who were struggling quietly under harsher labels. Maybe that’s how progress works—not always through grand movements or sweeping policies, but through small personal awakenings.