Spoken Before Knowing

An Autoethnographic Vignette on Queer Indigeneity, Naming, and Cultural Disconnection.

I didn’t arrive at my identity through discovery.

It was spoken to me—before I had words for it.

In the playground, in the house, behind teachers’ eyes.

Blak.

Fag.

Said like they knew something about me I hadn’t yet learned.

Said with fear, sometimes anger.

Other times, just certainty.

This was the 1980s, the 1990s.

Fear and trembling in small-town N.S.W.

Wiradjuri, but not raised in culture.

Queer, but without a name for it yet.

The world knew how to name me before I could name myself.

And their names didn’t come as invitations.

They came as warnings.

Later, much later, I started to understand.

Not just the words, but what they carried.

Not just who I was, but what we could survive.

Relational Commentary & Annotations

“I didn’t arrive at my identity through discovery. / It was spoken to me—before I had words for it.”

This line introduces the central tension of the vignette: identity not as self-discovery, but as imposition. Indigenous and queer identities are often subjected to premature categorization by external forces. Bonilla-Báez (2022) refers to this as a form of epistemic rupture, where one’s understanding of self is fractured by language imposed by others. It also recalls Anzaldúa’s notion of borderlands identity, where people live within “a third space” of contradiction and complexity.

“In the playground, in the house, behind teachers’ eyes. / Blak. / Fag.”

The repeated encounters with naming across different contexts—home, school, social spaces—demonstrate how identity is socially reinforced through repetition and emotional charge. The terms Blak and fag are not neutral—they’re loaded markers of otherness. Henningham (2021) explores how such names often emerge within settler spaces as tools of social regulation, especially when queerness and Indigeneity intersect.

“Said like they knew something about me I hadn’t yet learned.”

This moment captures the premature and performative certainty of social labeling. Naming here is not recognition, but projection. This aligns with Coe’s (2023) work on digital Indigenous queer spaces, where individuals often encounter others naming them before they’ve had the chance to self-define.

“This was the 1980s, the 1990s. / Fear and trembling in small-town N.S.W.”

The historical specificity matters. These decades were marked by heightened homophobia and racial marginalization, particularly in regional Australia. The setting provides a geopolitical context for the shame and silence surrounding both Indigenous identity and queerness.

“Wiradjuri, but not raised in culture. / Queer, but without a name for it yet.”

This captures a double dislocation—from both community and language. Indigenous scholars like Whitinui (2014) note that not being “raised in culture” creates internal conflicts about legitimacy and belonging. Similarly, Bishop (2021) emphasizes the impact of institutional erasure of queer Indigenous presence in education and social discourse.

“The world knew how to name me before I could name myself.”

The tension between social legibility and personal sovereignty is at the core of many autoethnographic narratives. Names become tools of domination rather than understanding. Anzaldúa (1987) describes this as the violence of being “named into silence,” where language marks but does not reflect.

“And their names didn’t come as invitations. / They came as warnings.”

A haunting line—names as threats rather than affirmations. Bonilla-Báez (2022) refers to the way naming can foreclose futures by defining who is allowed to belong and who is marked as deviant.

“Later, much later, I started to understand. / Not just the words, but what they carried. / Not just who I was, but what we could survive.”

This revised line deepens the piece’s relational core. The shift from “what I could survive” to “what we could survive” transforms the vignette from an individual account of survival into a collective act of remembrance and resistance. This “we” speaks to kin—literal and metaphorical. It invokes other Indigenous, queer, and culturally displaced voices who’ve endured similar violences and misnamings.

Rather than simply reclaiming a personal narrative, the speaker now anchors themselves within a lineage of survivance (Vizenor, 1999)—a living, ongoing form of survival that includes others, honors ancestors, and extends toward future kin. This aligns with relational Indigenous epistemologies (Chilisa, 2012; Kovach, 2009), where knowing, healing, and narrating are inherently communal.

Powis (2012) offers a useful frame for this moment, calling it a “score of survival”: an embodied act of remembering, witnessing, and sustaining. In this sense, the speaker not only survives but helps compose a song—fragmented, difficult, and real—for others to find themselves in.

“What we could survive” is not an ending—it is a gathering point.

References

Anzaldúa, G. (1987). Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. Aunt Lute Books.

Bishop, M. (2021). Don’t Tell Me What to Do: Indigenous Autoethnography and Academic Resistance. PDF

Bonilla-Báez, V. (2022). Stepping into Self-Recognition: Dismembering the Self to Heal and Reclaim My Family’s Silenced Indigenous Identity. PDF

Chilisa, B. (2012). Indigenous Research Methodologies. SAGE.

Coe, G. (2023). A Space to Vent: Cultivating Indigenous Queer Digital Communities Through Relations of Care and Support. ResearchGate

Henningham, M. (2021). Blak, Bi+ and Borderlands: An Autoethnography. Social Inclusion, 9(4), 189–197. PDF

Kovach, M. (2009). Indigenous Methodologies: Characteristics, Conversations, and Contexts. University of Toronto Press.

Powis, T. (2012). Songs from a Resting Place: An Autoethnographic Score. PDF

Vizenor, G. (1999). Manifest Manners: Narratives on Postindian Survivance. University of Nebraska Press.

Whitinui, P. (2014). Indigenous Autoethnography: Exploring, Engaging, and Experiencing “Self” as a Native Method of Inquiry. Journal of Contemporary Ethnography, 43(4), 456–487. SAGE