On Being a Black & Queer Child

The only person who has ever called me a faggot is a family member who I once saw as an important fixture in my life. It was a moment that not only shocked me but scarred fifteen year old me deeply. After that day, a chasm settled deeply between us, and our relationship never recovered. This moment established a significant shift in how I thought about myself and what value I had amongst family members and my community in general. It was a moment that boldly communicated to me that my worth amongst others was contingent upon my ability to fit the desires others had for me. It was this mindset that led me through many of my formative years, but it is also the understanding that I have watched many people who are both Black and Queer navigate in adulthood.

In a recent conversation with my mother, she said, "We need to talk about your personal life..." Her comment caught me off guard because it came after a long discussion about my career aspirations, friendships, and financial goals in the new year. At that moment, I thought to myself—she clearly wants to ask about my love life and doesn't know how. I paused briefly and considered how I would respond. I asked her, "Are you asking about my love life?" My mother responded, "I guess so." For a mother who is both Ghanaian and staunchly Christian, my queer identity has always been a difficult subject for her to address without discomfort. I have had to learn that discomfort is hers to carry and not my own—an understanding that has better served me as I continuously decide to show up in the world as my full self.

After I asked what inspired the inquiry, she calmly but honestly shared that she hoped there was a change. The feeling of shock replaced the confusion that preceded it, and anger quickly followed. In navigating my relationship with my mother, I have learned not to expect her beliefs to change, but she has quietly expected or hoped that my queerness would. For many of us who are both Black and queer, we have had to learn to make peace with family members who struggle to understand our identities that don't fit within the gender binary or the heteronormative ideas they are accustomed to.

My experience is not uncommon for many people who exist at the intersection of being Black and queer. Often, non-queer Black people struggle to understand how deeply entrenched queerphobic mindsets and rhetoric are deeply ingrained within Black American culture. This lack of awareness can often lead to interactions that intentionally and unintentionally exclude queer folks from Black spaces. It is the religious beliefs, cultural prescriptiveness of queerphobia, and the need to hold and maintain social capital that often makes many Black people feel justified in the marginalization of folks who are both Black and queer.

As a child, I had to learn to find my own sense of safety and confidence to live confidently at this intersection, because I learned quickly that no one was concerned for my emotional safety in this way. With Ghanaian parents, growing up in the South, and growing up in the church, I learned quickly that the queer parts of my identity were meant to be hidden and ashamed of. If anything, I tried my best to hide this part of my identity in hopes that the feelings would simply dissipate.

By the time I was sixteen years old, I recognized that I would not be able to erase this part of myself, and it is the friends that I found in the latter half of high school and my undergraduate years that I am always grateful for. Throughout my life, friends have consistently provided me with a safe space to unapologetically be my full self. It is that safe space that has aided me in showing up confidently and fully in my adult years. It is that safe space that I believe has truly made me feel worthy of honest love—a love that I had not felt in childhood because safety is often not prioritized for children who are Black and queer.

If it was not for the friends (queer and non-queer alike) who made me feel safe in my developmental years, I am unsure who I would have evolved into or if I would even be alive. It is the unique nature of my experience that I have come to recognize as an anomaly for many Black and queer people.

The truth is, it was my family of origin that first made me feel isolated and unwanted as a result of me not fitting the gender norms they expected of a young boy. I don't take it lightly when I say chosen family saved my life. When existing at this unique identity marker, it is not uncommon to feel like the pariah amongst family. In conversations with many of my friends who exist at the same intersection, I recognize that many Black spaces do not prioritize the mental, physical, or emotional safety of Black children who are also queer or even perceived as being queer—even when they're not.

The barbershops are for the men and often center bravado and heteronormative discussions that often inherently exclude queer folks from participating. The spaces that center women often discuss husbands and children, without consideration for those who may not have either. The fraternities and sororities only extend membership to those who can fit neatly within the expectations of gender performance and heteronormativity. The church has damned the queer folks to hell so often that many queer people do not even see Jesus as a savior figure. The list goes on and continues to replicate itself in new ways over time.

My awareness around these facts made my time as a middle school teacher a unique experience. Dealing with the young boys who were not as aggressive as some of the other young boys in the class or did not find themselves as into sports as their peers. Making space for the young ladies who had crushes on other young ladies. And making sure that the child who had a crush on a boy last school year could feel comfortable having a crush on a girl this school year. Far too often, queer children in schools that are majority Black have to deal with the smart remarks, the way teachers embrace their talents and not their identity, and then the admonishing of queer relationships while their non-queer students are viewed as "cute" and "young love."

Being a Black and queer child taught me that I would not be valued by my family, I would not be valued by my community, and there would be few friends who could love me holistically. It forced me to seek safety in unsafe spaces, caused me to embrace unhealthy relationships to settle for some connection as opposed to no connection. I allowed myself to embrace unsafe encounters in the name of a fun night on the town. I did these things without healing the childhood wound that simply wished to be loved and accepted.

It is saddening to think that children at the intersection of being Black and Queer continue to be isolated through cultural practices, without any care for how isolating that may feel for a child. It's maddening to see how people also use religious beliefs to justify some of the most extreme actions, like ejecting children from homes. What is most infuriating is how these cultural norms are accepted in Black spaces and how many non-queer folks are comfortable creating spaces that consistently marginalize queer people because we "must protect the children"—as if queer children don't exist. As if Black and queer children don't exist—but children at this intersection exist. Adults at this intersection exist. We have always been here.