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I’m (not) sorry, but can we hold up on celebrating every white straight cisgender man who does anything minimally non-homophobic/biphobic/transphobic? I appreciate these efforts. And, I recognize the work of some as anti-homophobic, anti-biphobic, and/or anti-transphobic activism (you know, because not being a bigot is not the same thing as being an ally or advocate). In my opinion, they should be doing this, and giving a cookie to every self-proclaimed ally reinforces the message that bigotry is just a few bad apples and justice can be achieved through a few noteworthy, but infrequent acts.
Beyond that, I find that queer people do not get enough credit for existing, daring to be visible, authentic, happy. Coming out. Refusing to hide. Refusing to conform. Refusing to resign themselves to a miserable, invisible, inauthentic existence. Refusing to tolerate the status quo. Refusing to be excluded from important social and political institutions. Who could ever imagine a day that lawsuits are filed in the country’s most conservative states to force them to get up to speed with federal recognition of same-gender couples? Even in the face of opposition that has demonized queer people as promiscuous, drug-abusers, pedophiles, non-monogamous, and perverts, queer people have demanded to have their relationships recognized and celebrated.
We’re here, we’re queer, get used to it. Straight, cisgender people, get used to it! That is some brave, bold shit.
Oh, but it takes a lot to be so brave. Individual queer people are worn out from the daily toll of being out (or not) or making that negotiation minute by minute. Our relationships are tested as we navigate another, unexpected layer of the closet: queer love and sex. Do we embark on the war with our intolerant families? How do we navigate our communities? How do we navigate the law and institutions? All while not really seeing ourselves, seeing others like us, in public and the media. All while, at best, being tolerated but never fully accepted.
Sometimes, the well runs dry. Sometimes, it is easier to give it up — accept our second-class citizenship. The opposition can be so fierce that you begin to wonder why you fight — maybe you are asking for too much, too soon. Maybe you are naive to hope for better. Maybe you are even greedy for wanting equality in an unequal world. Maybe you should concede to the world’s desire to make you disappear.
Fuck. That. Noise.
My activism is not radical unless staying alive is radical. It is radical if equality is radical. We have got to fight — all of the time — so we can stop fighting. When one of us gets weary, another one should step up to carry on, and another to support the both of them. By continuously fighting, we carry on the legacy of those who fought before us, and improve the opportunities for future generations. It is not a war we started, but it is one we will have to win in order to survive.
So, I am celebrating queer warriors — all of them. And, I am honoring the fallen. Fight on. Thanks to our heterosexual and cisgender supporters and allies; keep fighting on, but celebrate the victories for queer justice — not yourselves.
A few weeks ago, I watched (and loved) the film, Gun Hill Road. One scene of the film hit me in the gut, hard. The film’s lead character, Vanessa Rodriquez (played by Harmony Santana), a young Latina transwoman, was coerced into having sex with a woman sex worker by her father, Enrique Rodriquez. Her father pressured her to do so in attempt to “cure” her gender identity, making her the heterosexual cisman he preferred as his child. “Wow,” I thought, “that’s a form of sexual violence!”
Oh, wait… that happened to me. When I was 17, just a week shy of my 18th birthday, a family member guilted me into being with a sex worker. I identified as bisexual then, so the pressure was on to finally give sex with a woman a try – of course, with the implied intention to “cure” me of my sexual attraction to men. I resisted, saying I was not interested, and did not want my first sexual experience to be with a sex worker in a hotel room.
Eventually, I caved to the pressure. The sex worker arrived and explained that for the amount of money I had, she could only provide an erotic dance. I was uncomfortable and wanted her to leave immediately. While she danced, I asked how business was, and she asked how school was coming. Ten minutes later, she was gone and I was both relieved and disgusted.
I later came out as gay, and now identify as queer. And, fortunately, my family has come around to accepting me as a whole human being. But, I will live with the memory of being coerced into any sort of sexual activity with a woman for life. So, too, will every other instance in which I was asked an inappropriate question about my sex life or relationships, or been subject to comments that aimed to shame me for being a sexually active queer man. “You don’t take it up the butt, do you?” “I hope you are using condoms. You can die from AIDS” “Which one of you is the woman in the relationship?”
Sexual Violence Against LGBTQ People
As a scholar, my perspective – informed by my research and personal experiences – has shifted to see sexual violence as the sexualized manifestation of any system of oppression, not merely of sexism or misogyny. In the ugly racist history of the US, Black people and other people of color have been raped, lynched and castrated, sterilized, and exotified; we have been demonized as jezebels, savages, whores, and temptresses.
Homophobia, biphobia, and transphobia, too, are regularly expressed in sexualized ways. The subtle and explicit shaming of LGBT people for existing, being sexual, and having loving relationships is widespread. Transwomen are harassed on the streets by police who assume that they are sex workers. Manufactured lesbian sexuality is exploited for cis, heterosexual men’s desires, while authentic lesbian relationships remain invisible or stigmatized. Lesbians are subject to “corrective rape” in South Africa (and worldwide), while gay men are punished with extreme violence, including rape, for being gay. Even as the US has become more tolerant of LGBT people and same-gender relationships (that mirror the acceptable, heteronormative and cisnormative standard), queer sexuality remains demonized, despised, and closeted.
Ironically, queer people are punished, sometimes through sexual violence, because of our sexualities. While the cis heterosexual dominated society is obsessed with our sex lives and our sexual desires, we are the ones who are seen as perverts.
With the start of Women’s, Womyn‘s, and Womanist Herstory Month this past Friday, I have been wondering what more I can do to challenge sexism — including my own. As I have noted in previous posts, I have an evolving awareness that my own disadvantaged social location as a brown queer man does not make me immune to sexism, nor any other system of oppression.
One important task of my anti-sexist advocacy is to become aware of the ways in which I am privileged as a man. I know this to be a particular challenge for queer men because of our awareness that we are disadvantaged among men. So, I was disappointed to find little beyond a few personal reflections from feminist-identified gay men to guide me and other queer men to understand and appropriately fight sexism. The Guy’s Guide to Feminism seems like a good start, but I find it useful to engage gay men from their unique relationships with sexism, women, and male privilege.
Feminism For Gay Men 101
Though I am just at the beginning of a lifelong journey to understanding sexism and my own male privilege, here are a few lessons I would like to impart to my fellow gay men:
- We are men. We hold male privilege. Period.
- Yes, number 1 is true despite our sexual orientation and despite our gender expression (no matter how feminine, androgynous, or queer). Though gay masculinity is devalued relative to hegemonic masculinity (i.e., white heterosexual middle-class able-bodied young/middle-age masculinity), it is still privileged over all femininities.
- Systems of oppression are linked including — particularly relevant to this discussion — sexism, heterosexism, and cissexism. As such, our liberation is tied to the liberation of ciswomen and trans* people.
- While number 3 is true, we are not immune to sexist attitudes and behaviors. And, most importantly, being gay does not make us anti-sexist. Our marginalized status among men may make it easier to understand sexist oppression, but it does does not preclude us from it. Just like heterosexual cisgender men who engage in anti-sexist activism, we must be active in challenging the prejudice, discrimination, and violence against women, and to keep our male privilege in check (i.e., give it up or use it for good).
- Though we generally are not sexually attracted to women, we are just as capable of sexually harassing or assaulting women. The root of sexual violence is power, not sexual attraction. I must point out here that too many of us have sexually harassed or assaulted women and naively excused the behavior as innocent because we are gay. Sexual violence by any perpetrator is wrong. But, that of gay men has the added element of placing our women friends and allies in the difficult position of questioning whether to feel violated or upset.
- Related to number 5, we must stop treating the women in our lives as objects or accessories. Yes, many heterosexual women are guilty of doing this to us — the gay BFF, every girl’s must have! — which is also wrong. Friendships that exist because of her gender or your sexual orientation are forms of exotification.
- Attraction to male-bodied individuals, men, and masculinity must be stripped of the presumed aversion to female-bodied individuals, women, and femininity. We need not be repulsed by female bodies just because we are not sexually attracted to (cis)women. Even when joking, this is no less problematic than (cisgender) heterosexuals who proclaim to be repulsed by people of their same sex.
- Certain aspects of gay men’s culture that promote pride and empowerment among us come at the expense of women’s empowerment. To call a fellow gay man “bitch,” “cunt,” and, more commonly in the drag scene, “fish,” is to use a term that derogates women. Though they may be positive in intent and meaning, these are not instances of reclaiming pejorative terms used against us: self-identifying as queer is; “servin’ up fish!” isn’t. Just think how outraged we would be if women decided to adopt “faggot” as a term of endearment among themselves.
- Our queer, bisexual, and lesbian sisters are oppressed by heterosexism and sexism. We, as LGBT and queer people, will not be fully liberated by addressing homophobia and heterosexism alone.
- Related to number 9, we must recognize that LBQ women are often subject to our sexist prejudice and behavior, ranging from anti-lesbian jokes to outright exclusion (often disguised as innocently bonding with other gay men or even the product of our exclusive attraction to men).
- The way that we devalue femininity among ourselves is another arm of sexism. The “no femmes” sentiment, aptly called femmephobia, is nothing more than the hatred of femininity, which is associated with women. Beyond eliminating this silly prejudice in our anti-sexist efforts, we do ourselves the favor of freeing the constraints on how we can behave and express our gender.
- We owe it — yes, we owe it — to the ciswomen and trans* people who have fought against the injustices we face to fight against those they face. Even when kept at the periphery or outright excluded, transpeople have fought for equal rights and status for lesbian, gay, and bisexual people. Many lesbian and bisexual women served as caregivers to gay and bisexual men with HIV/AIDS during the 1980s and 1990s, while also fighting along side those who worked for better HIV/AIDS health care. Feminists of all walks of life have advocated for our protection from prejudice, discrimination, and violence, seeing it as important in (and linked to) activism against sexist discrimination and violence against women.
We owe it to our ciswomen and trans* friends and allies — and ourselves — to be better feminists.
New York City’s unpopular, but supposedly “effective” crime-reducing program, “Stop, Question, and Frisk” or (“Stop-and-Frisk” for short), was ruled unconstitutional on Tuesday. The program entails the following: “a police officer who reasonably suspects a person has committed, is committing, or is about to commit a felony or a Penal Law misdemeanor, stops and questions that person, and, if the officer reasonably suspects he or she is in danger of physical injury, frisks the person stopped for weapons.”
The judge, Shira A. Scheindlin of Federal District Court in Manhattan, ruled that NYC police officers were systematically stopping people with little cause for suspicion. (In this particular case, police officers were stopping individuals thought to be trespassing on a Bronx apartment complex property.) In reviewing police training, she further noted that this evidence “strengthens the conclusion that the N.Y.P.D.’s inaccurate training has taught officers the following lesson: Stop and question first, develop reasonable suspicion later.”
“Because any member of the public could conceivably find herself outside a TAP building in the Bronx, the public at large has a liberty and dignity interest in bringing an end to the practice of unconstitutional stops at issue in this case,” the judge wrote.
In a way, this is exactly what NYC major Michael Bloomberg and other advocates of the “stop-and-frisk” program call for. In exchange for the universal possibility of being stopped by a police officer, residents of NYC see a significant reduction in crime and gun possession. While there have been notable declines in the crime rate (but few seizures of guns), many have argued that this purported exchange is not enjoyed universally. Rather, an overwhelming majority of those stopped by police over the past two years were Black and Latino men. Judge Scheindlin took note of one role of race (and racism) in her decision:
As a person exits a building, the ruling said, “the police suddenly materialize, stop the person, demand identification, and question the person about where he or she is coming from and what he or she is doing.”
The decision continued: “Attempts at explanation are met with hostility; especially if the person is a young black man, he is frisked, which often involves an invasive search of his pockets; in some cases the officers then detain the person in a police van.”
Many civil rights and anti-racist activists have criticized the “stop-and-frisk” program due to the overrepresentation of men of color in police stops. Indeed, in practice, the program is a form of institutional discrimination — in this case, as disparate impact discrimination. That is, while the program does not target a particular disadvantaged group — men of color — by design, it does, in practice, disproportionately burden them.
Typically, disparate impact discrimination is deemed otherwise innocent in terms of intention or bias; these are merely programs or policies that have been unfair in practice. Yet “stop-and-frisk” actually operates as a legal door for racial profiling by both those unintentionally and those intentionally targeting Black and Latino men. Some say the racial and ethnic imbalance is merely a product of geography: greater surveillance of predominantly black and brown areas of the city (this, of course, is problematic, too!). In light of stories of being stopped many times in one’s life, others suggest the “stop-and-frisk” program legally allows police to use one’s blackness/brownness as suspect. “You’re Black/Latino, so you must be up to no good!”
Even if police stops were equally burdensome for every racial group (and police were evenly hostile to “suspicious” people), the experience of being stopped, questioned, and searched by police is fundamentally racialized. Given the history of racism, including racist violence and harassment by police or by others yet ignored by police, no white person can ever fully experience the feelings of anger, humiliation, and powerlessness that follow being targeted by police as a person of color.
Further, programs like this one, Arizona’s “show-me-your-papers” law that unfairly targets Latina/o people, among others are just the tip of the racist iceberg of the US criminal justice system. From interaction with the police, to arrest, to court, to prison, racial inequality exists at every step and every facet of law enforcement and criminal justice. Unfortunately, the narrow view of the law cannot handle the reality that racism shapes the core and operation of every social system and institution, including law enforcement.
Legalized Homophobia And Transphobia
It may have come as a surprise to some that lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender (LGBT) groups joined the chorus of anti-racist and civil rights organizations that rallied against the “stop-and-frisk” program. Beyond advocating for racial equality, these groups took issue with the disproportionate number of LGBT people of color who have been stopped by police. Often, young Black and Latino LGBT people are stopped as suspects for sexual crimes (e.g., public sex, sex work). In these stops, many are sexually harassed or assaulted by police.
Parallel to blackness and brownness as suspect, LGBT people are legally targeted through the “stop-and-frisk” program often because of their gender expression. LGBT people, especially transgender and gender non-conforming people, are deemed suspicious because their “appearance transgresses gender norms embraced by mainstream society.” It turns out that stops based on suspicion of sexual crimes has already been deemed illegal, again by the same judge:
In 2010, in a decision dripping with outrage, US District Judge Shira Scheindlin held New York City in contempt for failing to end enforcement of loitering laws held unconstitutional decades before. One of the laws at issue was the “loitering for sex” statute that Lambda Legal had succeeded in getting struck down in 1983 by New York’s highest court, shortly after it threw out the state’s sodomy law.
“The human toll, of course, has been borne by the tens of thousands of individuals who have, at once, had their constitutional rights violated and been swept into the penal system,” Scheindlin wrote. “More disturbing still, it appears that the laws — which target panhandling, remaining in a bus or train station, and ‘cruising’ for sex — have been enforced particularly against the poor and gay men.”
Missing The Complex Reality Of Discrimination Today
The above discussion points to the inability for the law, in its present state, to fully appreciate the complex reality of discrimination today. One challenge is to prove that a law or program — instances of institutional discrimination — disproportionately affect a particular group (without just cause). This sidesteps the matter of proving biased or prejudiced intentions, a matter central to cases of unfair treatment; however, the narrow view of the law fails to account for the systemic, wide-reaching influence of systems of oppression such as racism, homophobia, and transphobia. Indeed, it can be argued that discrimination within one institution (e.g., criminal justice) mutually reinforces discrimination in other systems (e.g., education). The true challenge, then, is proving when discrimination is not at play, at least indirectly.
The other important matter that is systematically overlooked is the simultaneous, interconnected operation of multiple systems of oppression. “Stop-and-frisk” reflects the practice of both racism and homophobia/transphobia by police and the criminal justice system. What, on the surface, appears to be a matter of racial inequality has turned out to disproportionately affect Black and Latina/o queer people. Another instance of legalized discrimination, the US military’s “Don’ Ask, Don’t Tell” policy, had its greatest effect on Black women. And, given the greater number of Black same-gender couples who have children, Black LGBT people hold a greater share of the burden created by laws that prohibit or hinder same-gender marriage and adoption.
Of course, greater attention should be paid to the reality that some people are victimized by multiple forms of discrimination (e.g., racist and sexist discrimination). Yet, discrimination cases that pursue such claims are ultimately less successful in court, probably because the court is unable to apprehend this level of complexity.
The days of explicit, unapologetic racist discrimination are (mostly) gone, and great progress has been made toward equality for LGBT people. Yet, the task remains to better understand prejudice and discrimination in the new millennium. There is a great deal of complexity to discrimination that we consistently miss when attending to the discriminatory actions of a few bigoted apples. We will never achieve full equality, whether in opportunities or outcomes, without an appropriately comprehensive understanding of what discrimination is, how it operates, and how to prevent it.
Black lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people exist. Black same-gender couples exist. Black heterosexual and cisgender allies to the LGBT community exist. However, the way that race and sexual orientation, race and gender identity, race and bi/homophobia, and race and transphobia are talked about, it almost seems as if LGBT and Black are mutually exclusive. And, to be more specific, they are at odds with one another.
Black people who are homo/bi/transphobic exist, too. But, somehow, the US seems fixated on the anti-LGBT prejudice harbored by Black communities as if such sentiments exist in a vacuum. That is, we discuss “black homophobia” as a social problem, while, of course, acknowledging “homophobia” as a social problem. Notice here that we do not hear of explicit concern about “white homophobia.” Why?
An Example: Prop 8 In California, 2008
Let’s take an example. Prop 8. In 2008, the state of California successfully passed an amendment to ban the legal recognition of same-sex marriage. While the entire nation witnessed history with the election of the first (half-)Black president, the US also took one step back by stripping one of the few states with marriage equality of legal same-sex marriage. Now, over three years later, legal challenges to Prop 8 are working their way up the judicial branch.
Immediately following the passage of Prop 8, many in LGBT communities, the media, politicians, and others engaged in a blame-game, pointing a finger squarely at Black Californians for the amendment’s success. Initially, results from the California exist polls suggested that a larger proportion of Black voters voted in favor of banning same-sex marriage relative to voters of other races. Corrected analyses were released later, indicating that Black voters were no more likely than any other racial or ethnic group to vote in favor of Prop 8. More importantly, Blacks only represented 6 percent of all voters in California in 2008; even if every Black voter voted in favor of the ban, that 6 percent cannot be fairly held accountable for the entire 51 percent that voted in favor of Prop 8. But, despite what the numbers say, some were quite hostile toward Blacks in the US, even resorting to racist assaults.
A Double Standard For Prejudice?
Why was it so easy to blame a fraction of the population for the majority’s decision to deny marriage equality in California? Why did our attention focus on homophobia in Black communities, while failing to ask about homophobia in the US and, more specifically, homophobia in white communities? And, why were we so angry with Black homophobes (and, at times, all Black people), but not so much white homophobes?
I argue that the answer is a double standard for homophobia. At the root of the angry reaction toward Black voters who favored the passage of Prop 8 is confusion. We are confused by what seems to be an oxymoron: a prejudiced minority, the oppressive oppressed, and so on. We cannot seem to understand how one group, still facing the contemporary remnants of a history of enslavement, exclusion, discrimination, and violence, can harbor prejudice and discrimination against another, marginalized group. The logic would seem that, given Blacks’ own experiences with prejudice, discrimination, and violence, they should be empathetic toward the plight of LGBT communities due to their exposure with prejudice, discrimination, and violence.
While the logic of empathy makes sense on the surface, it creates five problems (of likely a few others):
- It makes invisible the anti-LGBT prejudice, discrimination, and violence of whites. Though we single-out Blacks when we express our concern about homophobia in Black communities, whites are invisible as a specific racial group in larger discussions of homophobia. And, it begs the question, should we expect whites to be homo/bi/transphobic?
- It holds Blacks to a different standard than whites. Thus, LGBT- and non-LGBT people alike scrutinize the positions and actions of Black communities and organizations regarding gender and sexuality. In the aftermath of Prop 8, LGBT and cisgender heterosexuals criticized Blacks in California for their contribution to the passage of Prop 8.
- It leads us to overlook the alliances between Black and LGBT communities and organizations, and the positive steps that Black people have taken to fight for the equal rights of LGBT people.
- It keeps invisible Black LGBT people. In discussing whether Blacks are homophobic, we fail to acknowledge that some Black people are LGBT, have friends who are LGBT, and who have relatives who are LGBT. Unfortunately, predominantly-heterosexual Black communities, predominantly-white LGBT communities, and society in general are responsible for maintaining an image of Black as straight and gay as white.
- It fails to ask about racism in LGBT communities. Even with some obviously racially motivated anger directed at Black communities by LGBT people following Prop 8, there was little explicit discussion about the racist prejudice, discrimination, and violence perpetrated by LGBT people.
Let’s Look More Broadly
Frankly, the social science research on racial and ethnic differences in attitudes toward LGBT people, same-gender relationships, and homo/bisexuality is mixed; but, the tendency seems to be, once you have accounted for racial differences in religiosity and education, you see little racial difference in these attitudes and, for some matters (e.g., LGBT rights), you actually see more favorable attitudes among Blacks compared to whites. But, that is missed in a narrow focus on homophobia among Blacks. The larger point that is missed is that Blacks, like whites, are socialized in a society that stigmatizes LGBT people. Period. Thus, all people, regardless of race and ethnicity, are implicated in the maintenance or elimination of homo/bi/transphobia. Though one might be sympathetic, or even empathetic, to the plight of other marginalized groups, one’s own marginalized status does not make one automatically an ally.
Another point that is often overlooked is the sneaky (and not-so-sneaky) efforts of white, cisgender, heterosexual men to pit Black and LGBT communities against one another. A recent example of such “divide and conquer” strategizing is not as subtle as other conservative politicians and religious leaders’ efforts:
Edwin O’Brien, Baltimore’s soon-to-be Cardinal, used a speech this week to denounce marriage rights for Maryland’s gay and lesbian couples. He angrily attacked the pending passage of marriage bills in the House and Senate. Maryland’s Governor, Martin O’Malley, is a strong supporter of marriage equality and he helped to introduce the bills this past Tuesday. On Wednesday, O’Brien put his own spin on one of the most heinous arguments put forth by social and religious conservatives — that gay people’s civil rights are an affront to black people and the rights of black people.
For all of these reasons, it is important that we regularly acknowledge the intersections among race, ethnicity, gender, and sexuality. What are the unique experiences of individuals who are marginalized on more than one of these axes? Where are opportunities for coalition-building across marginalized and privileged communities? And, as my last point suggested, how the intersections of these systems manipulated for gain? Obviously, these are difficult questions, but important nonetheless.
I wrote this rant before, but I erased it.
I wrote this rant before, but I erased it because I worried what others would think.
I wrote this rant before, but I erased it because I worried others would think I am militant.
I wrote this rant before, but I erased it because I worried I was militant.
The exact words escape my memory, but it went a little something like this.
I know two words, six letters long each, that shape my experience as a human. They are both old words, with long histories of linguistic, social, and political transformations. One is the perverse derivative of a color that now implies the oppressive superiority of one group over another. One is the perverse transformation of a neutral, inert object that was used to eliminate people now dehumanized and disempowered by the word. One has been reclaimed by some of the very people oppressed by the word and what it represents, but too many are repulsed by the word to successfully reclaim it. Instead, most refer to the word only by its first letter – N. The other word has not been met with systematic efforts to reclaim it. Yet, ironically, the word seems to repulse fewer; as such, referring to it by its first letter – F – world confuse most as another word we regularly censor.
Despite their differences, these two six-letter words share similarities, some odd. Similar in length, beginning and ending with consonants, home to two Gs in the middle, with vowels sandwiched in between. In use, the two are similar in their function of reminding me that I am subhuman, or maybe not human at all. At least, as a partial human, the word nigger reduces me to my skin color and, as such, that my status is inferior to those of white skin. The word faggot reduces me to a sexual act considered immoral, pathological, and revolting. Only six letters long, yet each conjures up a reminder of my place in society – always outside – even when included within.
The simultaneity of these experiences infuses their dehumanizing potential. Indeed, in society, this racist, sexist, classist, heterosexist society in which I live, places me at a subordinate status as a racial minority, as a sexual minority, and as a racial-sexual minority. This marginalization is compounded by the dual betrayals of the predominantly-heterosexual Black community and the predominantly-white gay community. In the former, I am just as likely to be reminded of my subordinate status as a faggot as I am in white-dominated society. I am likely told my efforts to fight homophobia are distracting. In the latter, my racial identity is erased and any attempts to attend to anti-racist projects seen as irrelevant. Unfortunately, both communities have fallen prey to white heterosexist efforts to “divide and conquer,” and too rarely able to forge lasting coalitions. Both, too often, forget that individuals cannot be reduced to a single status: fighting racism, yet putting up with sexism; fighting homophobia while ignoring the whiteness and middle-classness of gay movements. Invisible in Black spaces as a faggot, invisible in gay spaces as a nigger, and invisible as both in society.
But, for as much invisibility is regarded to these statuses is the granting of hypervisibility. Due to the presumption of whiteness and heterosexuality, one always stands out as something other – the Other. I know the ironic reality of invisibility as a Black person, yet the hypervisibility as a black man approaching someone on the street at night. I know the invisibility as a queer person, yet the hypervisibility as a gay man in sex-segregated spaces and situations. It is quite odd that one is simultaneously invisible and powerless, yet hypervisible and threatening.
I use these stereotyped threatening images to my advantage. Or, I at least attempt to do so in desperate attempts to protect myself. When I feel the sense of danger arising in white people as I approach, I trade off my Blackness for my gayness in an effort to seem harmless. Who’s ever heard of a gay thug anyhow? Flipped, in scenarios where I feel unsafe as a queer person, I emphasize my Blackness to appear threatening. To what extent this is simply hypervigilance every minority faces, I am unaware. To what extent these trading-off efforts work, I cannot assess.
The possibility of trading off race for sexual identity and vice versa is made through their intersections with gender. An emphasized Blackness to appear threatening presumes a tough, masculine demeanor, one that implies heterosexuality. An emphasized gayness to appear non-threatening implies a meek, feminine demeanor, one that is at odds with the stereotypical image of Black men. When laid out this way, their opposing nature becomes apparent. One cannot be both the stereotypical Black man and the stereotypical gay man. The former implies the opposite of the latter, and vice versa.
What, then, is the category of Black queer? How does one inhabit these two identity spaces defined as opposites of one another? One’s mere existence resists narrowly defined racial and sexual categories. But, many face what feels like pressure to choose: choose your status, your identity, and your allegiance. Are you Black or are you gay?
I reject this notion of opposition between Blackness and gayness just as I reject the labels nigger and faggot. I am not defined by the histories of oppression, enslavement, and discrimination faced by Black people. I am not defined by the history of oppression, exclusion, and collective closetedness faced by gay people. These histories shape who I am and my consciousness, but I cannot be reduced to either.
This time, I will keep this rant.
This time, I will keep this rant to share with others.
This time, I will keep this rant to share with myself.
This time, I will keep this rant to accept my militance.