“My queer experience suddenly feels worlds away from the person right next to me”
BY ROMIA HOLIDAY, IMAGE BY PEXELS
For approximately 19 years, I have been gracing the Earth with my presence. As the only Black LGBTQIA person in the world, I treat myself not like an outlier, but a celebrity! When I enter the room, all the heads turn.
But I’m not a celebrity. In every sense of the word, I am truly just some guy.
Not only that, but I’m not the only Black LGBTQIA person in the world, just often the only one in the room. Like a painting in a museum where people just point and say: “Wow, I didn’t think they had that kind of stuff here!” Being in these rooms makes me wonder what kind of 90s show did I end up in to be the only Black person present? Where are my 10 seconds of screen time where I just nod along to the white protagonist’s problems and say something stereotypical before disappearing for the rest of the season? At least then I’d feel my presence is somewhat appreciated.
As a Black LGBTQIA person who tries their best to get involved in the wider LGBTQIA scene as much as possible, it’s a funny experience. All these people, just like me, in one place! We all relate to having awkward crushes on straight people, remembering the moment we realised our LGBTQIA identity, and who could forget kissing our phones as teens while searching “Amber Liu girlfriend material” on Pinterest? We all did that, right?
But our similarity can only go so far. Suddenly, everyone’s talking about how they came out to their parents at 16, and how great it is that “being gay isn’t a big deal anymore!” Or, how surprised they are that queerness is illegal in a lengthy list of countries they’ve no ties to.
There I sit, sweating, acutely aware that I’m from one of those countries. Knowing that for me, being gay IS a big deal, a matter of social self-destruction for myself, and likely my family too. My queer experience suddenly feels worlds away from the person right next to me, even though we’re technically on the same team. In a weird way, I really am a VIP.
I don’t think I could count how often I’ve failed to realise that my experience is unique to my Black queer self. It feels awkward to even think about. Like, what do you say when someone asks about your coming out story, knowing that you don’t have one? And then they ask why? And then you have to explain why? And then you have to explain the effects of colonisation, and how “Africa was actually very queer a good forever ago!”? Except none of that happens.
Instead, you awkwardly mumble that you’d prefer to skip the subject. In reality, you come to terms with your “some-guyism”, knowing that you still have to remind yourself to not get antsy around LGBTQIA topics in the first place. It could be worse though. You could get a response that completely ignores your situation, telling you to “just be proud of who you are!” Thanks for that groundbreaking advice, Rebecca! I’m sure you’d make a great motivational speaker!
For me, pride is a complicated cocktail of self-acceptance and fear. Sure, I can stand in front of a mirror and hype myself up all I want, but what happens when I step outside and the world reminds me that not everyone feels the same? I can’t laugh off the iron will of conservative values. I’d be the only one laughing.
It’s not just about the discomfort; it’s about recognizing the layers of complexity that come with being Black and queer. Others can share their stories of their mum getting a creased rainbow flag off Temu or how their dad merely said “what do you want to eat?” after being open about having a girlfriend instead of a boyfriend, but I’m left wondering if I’ll ever get to that point. How do you explain that your journey is less about kissing girls and first dates, and more about quiet introspection and an internal battle with societal norms?
So what now? I can’t be jealous of others’ LGBTQIA experiences my whole life, I have to leave that in my childhood. I think for me personally, I value my own personal success. For now, that’ll have to satisfy my itch. Instead of courting my inner envy and rage, I’m learning to be OK with the fact that the intro sequence to my story might be a little longer than other people’s. It may sound like an arbitrary solution, but celebrating my Black queer self even when I’m the only audience member is what brought me peace.
I don’t need to go out there head-to-toe in glitter until I know I can. Eventually though, as hard as it may seem, I know I deserve to make a scene and embrace your celebrity status! Being queer has always been about standing out, so why not me too? I think the audience – whether it’s my family or a group of white LGBTQIA people who don’t know who Marsha P Johnson is – deserves to know me.
It’s hard to be the odd one out in a group where you should belong. Even with such little difference, you’re still viewed as an outlier situation, where being unapologetically yourself will always be a radical act. In a way, it is, but it doesn’t have to be.
Black LGBTQIA people weren’t put on Earth to spread a message or to justify our existence to anyone. Maybe I don’t need to be a celebrity, and being myself is enough.
Romia is an ambassador for Just Like Us, the LGBT+ young people’s charity. Just Like Us needs LGBT+ ambassadors aged 18-25 to speak in schools – sign up now.
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