Beyond sticking rainbow pins on backpack straps and donning pride flag t-shirts, queer people have been communicating their queerness through clothing for decades. Queer identities are expressed to their communities with clothing through a technique dubbed “queer signaling.” This comes from a long tradition of gay people nonverbally communicating (or “signaling”) their queerness to others through specific stylistic choices. Because openly identifying oneself as queer was not safe (and still isn’t in many parts of the world due to the disproportionate violence queer people face), the LGBTQ+ community has historically relied on more subtle visual signifiers to clue others into their sexuality.

Incorporating specific flowers into fashion has been a mode of queer signaling for many decades. Violets, often pinned on lapels, were used to indicate lesbianism in the 1900s because of their frequent reference in Sappho’s poetry. Similarly, green carnations were worn by queer men after being popularized by the well-known gay author Oscar Wilde. In the 70s, a person wearing a bandana or handkerchief in their back pocket was a way to communicate not only queerness but also their sexual preference as a top or bottom, depending on what pocket they placed it in. These fashion-based signals, while different today, remain embedded in queer culture as a way to safely identify oneself with clothing.

Today, there are many different ways that queer signaling manifests in fashion. The stereotypical “bisexual uniform” consists of Doc Martens, cuffed jeans, and probably a septum piercing. Masc lesbians often don a carabiner and femmes are known for their funky earrings. Clara Livingston ‘23 (they/she) notes that certain items in their closet “feel really queer,” like overalls, carpenter pants, and beanies. Specific articles of clothing like these are used so frequently for signaling that they’ve become intertwined with the idea of queer identity. While these ways of dressing have stemmed from a tradition of building a sense of community and belonging amongst LGBTQ+ people through fashion, the creation of standards that one has to meet to “look gay” can be incredibly ostracizing. Sophie O’Clair (they/she), is a sex educator and activist whose self-proclaimed style goal is “to look like a gangly teenage boy with cool shoes.” They acknowledge the pressure that people face to look a certain way in order to be recognized as queer by people within the LGBTQ+ community. “I am a femme-presenting person but also use they/them pronouns. If I want people to use my pronouns, I have to dress incredibly “gay” to even be considered as such and possibly get referred to in the right way,” says O’Clair.

A quick search for “how to dress gay” on TikTok produces a mass amount of content with stylizing tips to “look gayer.” While videos like this can be helpful for people trying to communicate their sexualities to their community when they can’t outright say it, it also ascribe a certain aesthetic to gay identities. This aesthetic also often manifests in media on skinny, white, femme bodies, further associating gayness with a singular look rather than representing the diversity and difference within the LGBTQ+ community. Making these signals norms within queer fashion creates a hierarchy of standards that queer people have to meet to be “gay enough.” This is not to say that queer fashion cannot be liberating: for many it is. “I also think dressing gay enough is part of feeling like myself and feeling good in how I present myself. It means I’m not dressing how I did in high school when I was trying to fit into a very cis/heteronormative feminine environment,” says Livingston. O’Clair echoes this sentiment: “I will be in Carhartts, bulky Doc Martens, a crop top, and bright pink long acrylics. Being queer allows me to take bits and pieces of different styles that I love and mash them up [...] it’s liberating and euphoric.”

You wear the dress; the dress does not wear you. This aphorism, often used when talking about fashion outside of a queer context, still applies here. A shirt is not intrinsically “gay” because it is associated with queerness; it is “gay” because you’re wearing it. Essentially, queer fashion has no dress code. As O’Clair puts it, “the beauty of being queer is not having any labels or boxes to fit into.” Queer fashion is meant to empower and connect the community, not define and pigeonhole it. Queer signaling remains a safe mode of communication, but the styles that emerge from it are by no means binding. Remember: queerness is undefinable, so dress as authentically as you love.