Protecting Our Most Vulnerable: Centering Black Queerness in the Fight for Equality

Growing up in America — for me, as a bisexual Black man — has always meant wrestling with my various identities. It has also meant frequently being at odds with my communities and my sense of self. Discovering who I was came with interesting and costly lessons: lessons I learned from being Black, being queer, being Black in a queer space, being queer in a Black space, and being Black and queer in a very white, heteronormative society. But the most crucial lesson I’ve learned is that my identity and power can be perceived as a threat to anyone — even the ones my power works to uplift.

In America, to be Black and openly queer, and to exhibit even a touch of femininity, is like wearing a scarlet letter that’ll leave you harassed, beaten, and outcasted. And being Black and trans often feels like a death sentence. Though queer Black individuals are on the frontlines fighting for equality, we’re constantly pushed to the sidelines by the communities that we advocate for. But fighting for equity and equality for all means protecting the most vulnerable of our communities — it means protecting the Black queer community.

Fighting for Black lives means fighting for all Black lives — including Black queer and Black trans lives. And fighting for the LGBTQ+ community means fighting for all queer people — no matter their race, creed, religion, or class. Unfortunately it doesn’t feel that this is a sentiment that either community has fully taken to heart.

Being a bisexual man, sitting at the intersection of being both Black and queer, it can feel like being shoved right into the center of the fight for equality — but also thrown to the outskirts, left to fend for oneself. From a young age I’ve felt the pressures of the misogyny and homophobia that not only run rampant in this country, but in the Black community as well. When every action or word is dissected and overanalyzed, even the most pedestrian of conversations feels like an interrogation. These types of interactions also set an unrealistic expectation of what men are supposed to be and place limits on individual expression, making spaces feel less free and safe for us all.

But even queer spaces have their own limitations: Because no matter what space I am in, I will always be Black. Though in queer spaces, I may be free from the investigations surrounding my level of masculinity, I am still a Black man in a primarily white space — facing discrimination for my darker skin. And through the persecutions, I became more acquainted with my distance to privilege. It’s always felt like I had to keep my identities separate — to lessen the compiling factor of these merging burdens of identity and maintain a closer proximity to privilege. And there lies the issue itself: Instead of gripping tightly to what little privilege we can get close to, we should be advocating for and working hard to ensure that everyone — no matter their race, ethnicity, or sexual orientation — has the same basic human rights to safety, security, and belonging.

“The fight for our rights against systemic oppression benefits both Black and queer communities.”

In the month of June, the fight for queer rights and Black lives intersect. As many of us have our identities collide at the intersection of Pride Month and Juneteenth, it’s important that we take a look at our communities and confront the reasons why we aren’t offering protection to the most vulnerable: Black queer and trans-identifying people.

This country is no stranger to homophobia and racism: Just look at the almost 500 pieces of anti-LGBTQ legislation that have been introduced across the nation and the structural racism embedded in the nation’s foundations. So in these times especially, there’s something that just feels extra vicious when this type of bigotry comes from those facing hate along with you.

While June is a tremendous time for celebration, it’s also a moment that brings up both internal and external struggle. Realizing that celebration of one aspect of my identity can put me at odds with another was a hard pill to swallow. Growing up a Black boy, you’re always told you need to “be a man” — whatever that means. And every step of the way, my manliness was tested. From being called out for any ounce of femininity I let slip through to watching femininity in men and queerness in general being condemned at every turn, I quickly learned that I would never be the type of man that the Black community wanted me to be. It was as if my presence in either space (Black or queer) put their claim to privilege at risk.

One’s proximity or distance to privilege can exacerbate inequalities among marginalized groups, with members who hold closer proximity to privilege ostracizing those within the community whose privileges are less apparent or altogether missing. Being Black and queer in white small-town America, I became acquainted with the idea of proximity to privilege rather early in life. I learned how that proximity, and need to be close to privilege, creates a toxic environment and pushes the most vulnerable out. As a man, and as a Black man specifically, that proximity to privilege hinges on proximity to manliness — often misconstrued as masculinity.

Similarly, in queer spaces, that proximity to privilege rests with the white, gay male demographic, which is celebrated for its closeness to the white ideal. And since my own proximity to privilege would never be close enough, society itself began to be bad for my health.

Marginalized identities don’t exist in a vacuum, no one holds just one predominant identity, and activism doesn’t encompass just a singular cause. Black queer activists have fueled countless social justice campaigns in the states, as advocates with multiple marginalized identities are often the backbone of social progress. From Pride to the civil rights movement, Black queer people have had a long legacy of being among the first to put their lives on the line in the fight for equality and often use their intersectional perspective to understand the depths and complexities of oppression.

So although many may believe that there are certain identities that should hold precedence over others, the validity of my experience cannot be diminished — my Blackness doesn’t cancel out my queerness and vice versa.

The fight for our rights against systemic oppression benefits both Black and queer communities. This is why support from the Black community for our queer allies and support from the queer community for our Black allies is an integral part of reaching liberation. We need more Black men fighting for the rights of their trans children, we need more straight allies joining in on the riot that is Pride, we need to center the most vulnerable in our fight, and we can’t allow members of our communities to participate in homophobia, transphobia, racism, or any other form of bigotry.

Once we understand that the intersection of identities presents us with an opportunity to view the world through a more robust lens and to partner together in the fight for equality, we will be one step closer to actualizing a truly liberated and free society.

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