We were excited young film-makers, sitting in one of our first pitch sessions, a panel of executives lined up against us. They had flicked through our script, looked at our mood boards and praised our song choice for the sizzle reel (Man! I Feel Like A Woman). Then the question dropped: “Which one of you is the alphabet person?”

I realised I was the only one holding my hand in the air. Then the guessing game began, as the executives ran through the letters – LGBTQIA+ – until they landed on one that gave them some understanding of who I am.

In this day and age of diversity, Australia is making great strides as a country in promoting and celebrating our differences, but in other ways it feels like it sits frustratingly behind the curve. It might have to do with how we label ourselves.

While diversity sometimes relies on labels to facilitate communication, those labels are also historically loaded. Each letter of the LGBTQIA+ rainbow denotes something in particular for the communities represented by them, but also comes with derogatory associations imposed by others.

But what if we start to rethink these labels – or even start to look at others?

Bakla is a Tagalog word that denotes the Filipino practice of male cross-dressing, denoting a man that has “feminine” mannerisms, dresses as a “sexy” woman, or identifies as a woman. It is an identity built on performative cultural practice more so than sexuality. Often considered a Filipino third gender, bakla can be either homosexual or heterosexual, and are regarded as one of the most visible LGBTQIA+ cultures in Asia – an intersectional celebration of Asian and queer cultures.

Vonne Patiag: ‘Tagalog does not categorise people with limited gendered pronouns, and English can be constricting.’ Photograph: Christina Mishell/All About Women

The bakla were renowned as community leaders, seen as the traditional rulers who transcended the duality between man and woman. Many early reports from Spanish colonising parties referenced the mystical entities that were “more man than man, and more woman than woman”. Even today, many bakla in the Philippines retain high status as entertainers and media personalities.

When I was eight years old, on my first and only trip to the Philippines, I met my older cousin Norman. He had shoulder-length hair, wore lipstick and eyeliner, and would walk around in heels. His father affectionately called him malambut (Tagalog for “soft”); his siblings called him bading, but he told me he was bakla. He wasn’t an outsider; he was part of the family – my family – and being an eight-year-old who liked to sing karaoke and play dress-up, I didn’t give it a second thought. But on returning to Australia, I told all my friends about Norman and they scoffed – the early seed of masculinity training at play – and when I asked my parents what the word meant, my mum replied, “it just means … bakla”. It didn’t translate directly to English.

Later, I learned that many people problematically mistranslate bakla to “gay” in English. As an identity not tied to sex, the word does not correspond directly to western nomenclature for LGBTQIA+ identities, sitting somewhere between gay, trans and queer. As Filipinos moved to countries such as Australia and the United States, the bakla were mislabelled as part of western gay culture and quickly (physically) sexualised. Even worse, the word can sometimes be heard in Australian playgrounds, used in a derogatory way. When I was younger, we were banned from calling each other “gay”, so the boys accused each other of being “bakla” instead. It was quite confusing to my ears when hearing the word used in a negative way, its meaning truly lost in migration. I even made a film about it.

As my mother often explains when speaking about the differences between her inherited and migrated cultures, westerners point with their fingers, but Filipinos point with their lips in a general direction. Similarly, Tagalog does not categorise people with limited gendered pronouns, and English can be constricting.

Bakla and similar identities, such as hijra in India and the Native American concept of two-spirit, hint at the striking fluidity that can exist in humanity, often suppressed by the western identities pushed upon them. We are seeing more intersectional (queer and ethnic) groups rise up in Sydney alone, and hearing more and more conversations about non-labelling, so perhaps the next generations of the queer community are moving towards a fluid sense of self.

As someone who is often mistakenly identified (the result of an apparently unisex name), I can only see this non-labelling as a positive. By undefining ourselves, we free ourselves from the performative aspects of our respective queer cultures, and can embrace the intersectional diversity Australia has to offer.

• Vonne Patiag will be appearing at the All About Women festival at the Sydney Opera House on 10 March