This halo of negativity began to dim somewhat in the 1970s, when the word was reclaimed by activists and academics. Not only did its deliberate looseness make it a welcome alternative to the rigidity of “gay” and “lesbian,” it also turned the alienating force of the slur into a point of pride. (Though it is still considered offensive by some.) A manifesto distributed at New York City’s Pride parade in 1990 by Queer Nation, a prominent and controversial gay-rights group, put it this way: “When a lot of lesbians and gay men wake up in the morning, we feel angry and disgusted, not gay. So we’ve chosen to call ourselves queer. Using ‘queer’ is a way of reminding us how we are perceived by the rest of the world.” It was a radical word for a radical time. Protesters and advocacy groups — particularly communities of color — took it up to gather support for the fight against the AIDS crisis and for gay rights. “We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it” became a popular chant.

Academics saw queerness as possessing revolutionary potential. Eve Sedgwick, a professor at Duke who is considered one of the founders of queer theory, described queerness as an “open mesh of possibilities.” David Halperin, a founder of an academic journal on queer studies, describes queerness as a practice, one that is an “exhilarating personal experiment, performed on ourselves by ourselves.” Writing in 1995, Halperin bemoaned the dilution of what he felt was a subversive word. “There is now a right way to be queer ... to invert the norms of straight society,” he scoffed, referring to clothes, haircuts, piercings, even diets tailored to gay and lesbian buyers. “How can queer modes of consumption count as resistant cultural practices?” Eight years later, the hit makeover show “Queer Eye for the Straight Guy” debuted on Bravo, literalizing Halperin’s concerns. Each episode culminated in a lavish shopping trip that distilled gay culture down to clothes and hair products — and it was all done in the service of straight men.

Increased acceptance of queerness has only led to increased commodification. Every June, the month of most gay-pride celebrations, companies like Netflix, McDonald’s, Apple, Salesforce and Walmart spend tremendous amounts of money to include their branded floats in the parades. This year, Andrew Jolivétte, a professor at San Francisco State University, told The Guardian that the city’s event was no longer a symbol of progress. Instead, he said, it felt like a prolonged commercial: “Gay Inc.” In the same article, Isa Noyola, a transgender Latina activist in San Francisco, remarked on the paradox that the same companies championing gay rights have contributed to the gentrification that has made the Castro one of the most expensive neighborhoods in the country. “It’s ironic to walk alongside tech companies that have displaced us,” she said.

The radical power of “queer” always came from its inclusivity. But that inclusivity offers a false promise of equality that does not translate to the lived reality of most queer people. Anti-trans bathroom laws and the shooting at Pulse, the gay nightclub in Orlando, are the latest reminders that equality has yet to arrive. Seen this way, such a sunny outlook can, in fact, be counterproductive. DarkMatter, a South Asian trans performance-art duo, highlights this observation — the way visibility and acceptance can actually lead to erasure — in their works. In one, called “Rainbows Are Just Refracted White Light,” they intone, “Rainbows are just a trick of light, they make us forget the storm is still happening.”