Black and Not So Proud

I’m going to discuss my observations about queer black women in media (specifically in the USA). I will also abuse parentheses; you have been warned.

Regardless of what anyone thinks, you can’t deny that there is some sort of strange relationship between sexual identity and race—not in the “people of this race aren’t gay” sort of way, but in the “famous people of this race tend to not be out if they’re gay” as often as famous people of other races sort of way. And things like that can lead to all sorts of foolishness. Anyone remember when some guy wrote a book and sent it to Uganda and how that inspired the Anti-Gay bill they were trying to pass a few years ago? Rachel Maddow going to town on the author of a "cure gayness" book.

And it would be easier disprove idiotic statements such as “race effects whether or not you’re gay” if there were more people of influence that were the physical manifestation of a counterargument. However, that is not the case. I don’t know whether or not that’s the fault of the not-so-good background race has within US history (yes, I’m talking about the US, specifically), or if there’s some cultural incidence of shame and fear within communities of color/the black community. What is it about black “pride” that makes it so difficult?

So, besides debunking the myth of “blacks aren’t LGBT identified, ever”, why else would we need out, black people of influence?

Well, this may or may not sound ridiculous, but some of us (read: all of us, whether you believe it or not) look to the media as an example in many different aspects of our lives. And while stereotypes are awful, I kind of think they have their uses. One way the media helps is by giving us “not so obvious” LGBT individuals ways to drop visual cues on our somewhat unobtrusive sexualities. Being (what I can only simplify to) bi has its troubles. How can one find a middle ground between attracting heterosexual/bi men and homosexual/bi women? …If you find an answer to that, let me know, because apparently I’m not doing it right (read: I get asked to dinner by men and called straight when I go to gay clubs. Yes, that's happened on two separate occasions). In this situation, many people turn to the media for help.

Let’s go for the simple, common example: the (often times symbolic) cutting of hair. A lot of white/Asian/non-black queer women cut their hair to shorter, “more masculine” lengths. As MUCH as I’d love to cut my hair to reflect my inner queerness that won’t do (and please, don’t preach to me about stereotypes—you know when you see a woman who’s under 30 with short hair you probably add “queer” to your mental list of possible classifications… vegetarian too, am I right? :P) Unfortunately, black woman + short hair does NOT = queer.

So, after that realization, I decided to do some research. It was like a math problem. Black woman + x = queer black woman (with x defined as a visual/physical cue).

And by research, I really mean research. While I could name a BUNCH of non-black queer women in the media, I really couldn’t do so much for black queer women. My train of thought was something like this:

“Um… let’s see… Wanda Sykes? And… um… Queen Latifah. Wait, she doesn’t really count, because we’re still a bit unsure… well… I got nothing. OH WAIT, Nicki Minaj… but, isn’t she denying it now? …Why can’t Ellen just be black? Or better yet, why can’t Oprah just be a lesbian?”

And then a dead end. Eventually, after many unsuccessful google searches, I was given this video by a friend. Essentially, this list contains a lot of women you wouldn’t hear of unless you were into politics and reading; writers, activists, poets (though, in retrospect, I DID know a few more than Wanda, which made me happy).

Anyway, to wrap this up, the main point of this is essentially that American media is telling the world that black queer women are rare/don't exist (which can’t be the case). But then again, allowing the media to define and represent the world is a bad idea. “Dark skinned” black women, myself included, wouldn’t exist at all if left up to the media because I’ve observed it is usually only “safely ethnic” black women who get screen time/get to represent all black women on TV and in movies. (Support for this observation: here and here, with pictures). But that’s enough digression.

Side note: Dreads for me, yes or no? No? Yeah, whatever, I kind of want to do this anyway, but maybe shorter.

Side side note: I'm obviously not being serious about my first side note, in case you were wondering.

Thug Boy

"Tha #1 place fa thug lovin'."

That's what the tagline to an ad for a porn site by the same name of this blog post said. I came across this ad while reading a terrible article about a black man who was killed by some drunk white teenagers. Turns out the black man was gay and had a partner of 17 years and a daughter. A wrongful death lawsuit is being filed, however, the partner of the deceased man cannot join in it because of Mississippi laws. Gotta love the Deep South right?

The article alone was enough to set me ablaze with rage, sadness, and disdain. While fuming over this horrendous injustice, I noticed an ad to the right of the article. It pictured two naked black men in a sexual position with the word "ThugBoy" written across the bottom. It was an ad for black gay porn site.

Wait. What?! Is that...? Does that say...? Really?! An ad of that nature next to an article about the brutal murder of a gay black man? Is that just not the most vile, disgusting, revolting, insensitive, offensive thing in the world to do?! Now, I'm well aware that some of these ads are just randomly placed in locations based on the subject matter but still. Did none of the editors of the website catch that and try to replace it? Why would they even allow ads like that on a website that is not a porn site?

Of course, this sent me just flying over the edge on my unicorn, my rainbow flag cape blowing in the wind. I began to smolder with disgust. Was this the normal portrayal of black men in the porn industry? As a black gay man, am I automatically labeled as a thug? Am I unknowingly a player in some guy's sick fantasy of being roughed around by some big black guy that spews profanity and racial slurs with less than correct English grammar and dropping or not fully enunciating the ends of his words? I had to dig deeper. This can't be how it really is. Can it?

I began to do searches for black gay porn. I'm not going to lie and say that I haven't looked at porn before, but it's never been black porn in particular. The results of my searches found several websites playing into this whole "thug" role. Normal descriptions included "hung black thugs," "black thugs on twinks," "black thug boys," "gangsta gays," and so on. Each one perpetuating the stereotype of black men being hyper aggressive, hyper masculine, spouting more profanity than a sailor could ever think of, speaking in a language that I could barely decipher.

It was disgusting. I was appalled, shocked, and offended. As a black gay man, I am incredibly offended by the common portrayal of black gay men in porn. Granted, it is the porn industry so I'm not expecting much class or taste from it, but this was just too much. How can we ever do away with these stereotypes if this is what millions of people see and, even worse, want?

That was the next part that scared me. Do people expect and want this type of behavior from me when considering me sexually? Am I just a part of their exotic fantasy? Considering the way some men have responded to me at gay clubs and bars, it would make sense. I felt sexualized. I felt like my entire being was reduced to the representation that was playing on my computer screen. For the first time, the interactions I had with other gay guys made sense: "You wanna (something to explicit to ever be repeated) to me?" "You're so sexy. Why don't you (ditto) me?" "I like it rough. I'm sure you can give it to me like that." My responses to each were either "Ew!", "No!", walking away or a combo of all three.

This over-sexualized persona represents everything I try to fight against in my life. I'm more than your sexual fantasy about getting laid by some big black thug in baggy clothes with a grill in his mouth. I'm more than some deep voice yelling insults at you while we're hooking up. Yet, this is what the porn industry perpetuates.

At the end of it all, I can't really be upset for people wanting what they want. I mean, I'm gay, I'm in the same boat (hopefully, with lots of sailors :P ). I love who I love and want who I want. I would just be really appreciative if there were more depictions of black gay male sexuality than thug, even beyond the porn industry. And this is not to say that being someone who would fit the thug or gangster persona is an awful person. This is just me crying out against the projection of this persona on me. Try talking to me first before you let what you see on the internet dictate how to interact with me.

My Perspective #1: Hands and Holy Oil (Serious Reality)

[Ed. Note: I'm SO happy to have Edwin writing for the blog, Everyone. Say hi to Edwin!]

Someone once told me that one of the most influential forces in life is a personal story. It’s better than literature because it’s current; it’s better than rumors because it’s honest; and it’s better than theories because it’s real—at least when it comes from me. So yes, my slot on this blog will be used as public pages of my diary. I know what you’re thinking: “How creative considering that the heading of this blog is ‘Our Lives.’” Rest assured, however, that my posts will be more than regurgitations of events. I plan to delve deep into my experiences to discover the ways in which each of them has shaped the perspective of Edwin C. Yet convinced? Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you that once I start talking, I don’t stop. And sooner rather than later, the hot mess struggle bus that is my life will reveal itself in the form of absurd hilarity and serious reality. I hope that you’re down for the ride.

It was a Wednesday morning in early October of my senior year in high school. I was forced to come out to my mom by a cousin of mine—I’ll save that story for another time. It stands as one of the most difficult experiences I’ve ever had. My mom and I were on the back porch of my uncle’s home. We sat side by side on the steps with our knees up to our chests like two 1st graders at the end of afterschool activities waiting to be picked up by their parents. I thought I’d look my mother in the face as I spoke, but the shame was made too real by the seriousness of her gaze. I tried to start slowly, but before I could utter a sound the tears were streaming down my face; my legs began to shake, my lips started to quiver, and my heart was beating at a pace faster than I could imagine. To say the least, I was terrified beyond belief. Somehow I got it out in what I’m sure was more gasping for breath amid sobbing than an articulation of my feelings. Anyways, her initial response was everything that I wanted to hear. “You will always be my son. I love you no matter what, Don’t cry because I am here for you.” I thought to myself: “Yes! Yes! This is going much better than…” And before I could finish that thought, she dropped the bomb: “But I do not accept this part of you. And don’t worry because I know that you can change.” There it was, what my pessimistic mind had foreseen—the feeling of rejection. I was almost instantly sick as my heart sank into my stomach. It was like she had given me a cup full of hope and joy and wacked it out of my hand just as I began to drink it. Can I say that I was taken by surprise? No. But was I hurt? If only you knew.

I grew up in a black church that is in a predominately black city called Camden, NJ. My family is pretty much the typical crazy and dysfunctional family. One of our main struggles is that we rarely ever talk about our issues and problems. We sweep it all under the rug and KIM (keep it movin’), as my friend Anthony would say. So after I came out to my mom what did she do? She looked for a quick solution by handing me off to my Aunt, who at the time was an assistant pastor at the church we attended. I’m sure they would have liked to just sweep this one under the rug, but this dirt was too sticky and gross to KIM. They needed something quick to loosen it up a bit. So they found Mr. Clean in the form of the church pastor. Yup, that’s right. My mother and my aunt took me to church to be prayed for. I should tell you that they didn’t spring this on me by surprised that next Sunday. My Aunt warned me in a prior conversation that I’d be going for prayer. During that same conversation she told me that I had demons inside of me and that I needed to repent for the sins I had committed. The pastor had similar sentiments as she prayed for me at the front of the church that Sunday.

If you’ve ever been to a black church you might recognize what I will attempt to describe next. It’s a point during the service at which the music is ringing loudly in your ears, the congregation is speaking in tongues, and the clergy is “laying hands” on members of the church who desire prayer. On this day, I desired no such prayer, but I received it anyway. They whipped out the vegetable holy oil and rubbed it on my forehead. The pastor leaned into my body and put one hand on my back and the other on my heart, and she began to pray. She pressed forcefully on my chest like an EMT trying to revitalize a stopped heart. I remember her screaming in my ear as if the combination of her physical pressure and yelling would scare the demons out. Then she moved her hand that was on my chest to my forehead and began to physically shove my head back as if she wanted to force her prayer for me into my mind and down my spine. She yelled things like: “I rebuke you demons,” and “Lord he has so much potential.” By the time it was all over I had been traumatized. Not knowing how to react, I turned around and headed for the edge of the back pew. I cried like a 1st grader whose parents forgot to pick him up after his afterschool activities. In a way I guess that’s how I actually felt. At a time when I needed her most my mom seemed to have abandoned me. I felt unloved, confused, and forgotten. How could she forget to pick me up? How could she forget to love me no matter what? How could she cause me so much pain?

I found the answer in what happened shortly after I sat back down when I realized that my mom was sitting next to me also crying. I can recall thinking to myself : “Why is she crying?! I’m the one who was humiliated in front of the entire congregation!” It wasn’t until a few months ago that it dawned on me. My mother was crying because she was just as confused, hurt, and dejected as I was. She had no idea where to turn or what to do either. She had never dealt with something like this before, and had probably never imagined it. So like most Christians, she did what she knew best by turning to God for help.

So how has my perspective changed as a result of this experience you ask? Well for one, I’ve come to realize that I had such a bad coming out experience not because my mom isn’t a good mother or a good person. It’s not that she doesn’t love me enough or care enough about my experience. I had a bad coming out experience because my mom made misinformed decisions and had misguided actions, which turned her love for me into harm. I can’t blame her more than I can blame each experience that she’s had that constitutes her perspective. And I can’t blame my Aunt any more than I can blame the religious institution that taught her to say those hurtful words to me. Does that completely absolve them of how they’ve scarred me? Absolutely not. Do I place all of the blame for my experience on “the church?” Absolutely not. However, I’m doing my best to understand how people who care so much about me could do the things that my family has done. What’s important here is that for as much as I want them to understand where I am coming from, I need to do my best to understand where they are coming from. With that said, the end is to accept and love me for who I am or not, which is solely their decision to make. My perspective and understanding may change, but who I am won’t. And as for my relationship with the church and Christ, let’s just say that at first I blamed both for my pain, and as a result hated anything to do with them. Looking back on it now I can see how my experience eventually brought me closer to Christ than I’ve ever been.

Unfortunately, my feelings toward the Church are still stained by many of the leaders who hurt me with their actions and words then and now.

I bumped into someone on the quad yesterday after coming from church that said, “I had no idea that you’re a Christian.” It’s interesting how few people on this campus know how spiritual I am. I think it’s because my relationship with Christ has had to become so personal in order to stay in tact. I’m sure it won’t always be this way, but for now this is my perspective.

Interracial Lesbian Relationships: A Swell Endeavor

Hey yall! I'm Veronica Ray, the newest addition to the roster of bloggers at Our Lives. I play rugby, do HIV counseling and aspire to be a power lesbian when I grow up. My future posts will probably deal with race, economics, business, international news, fashion and art.

“Wouldn’t it be cool to have interracial friendship cards? Like a little white girl kissing a little black girl on the cheek and inside it says something like “Thanks for being such a great friend!” ?

Race is a popular topic at Duke. I feel like any post about race can quickly fall into the trap of rehashing the same ideas and grievances without really getting anywhere. With that disclaimer I hope I can begin an article that offers a personal perspective on my experience with race in the gay community.

My preference for black women has become a running joke with my friends both in and outside of the center. If I innocently tell a friend that I met a cool girl named Chantel, chances are she’ll reply “Oh….you WOULD be friends with a girl named Chantel.” If I tell you I’ve met a girl “of the hue that I seek” it means I’ve met a special African-American and I won’t be surprised if you joke that I’m mess for getting so worked-up. Though I am currently flamboyant about my love of black women, I didn’t acknowledge my preference till after I graduated from high school. I never wanted my interest in black women to be simply “jungle fever”- objectifying women as exotic objects who I thought fulfilled certain sexual stereotypes.

The first time I told someone that I was interested in black girls she replied “Hmm…I can’t exactly agree…black girls are so ghetto.” I found this comment strange because I have always been interested in educated, accomplished women regardless of their ethnicity. Where I grew up many people, including me, were mired in ignorance of the black community. Some friends in high school would throw around the N word in an attempt taunt my best friend, who is part black. After she went off on me for asking what part black she was when we were 14 I considered race an off limits topic. I secretly looked down on her for not fighting back against racist comments. I felt like I could tell her anything about my sexuality and I hoped she wasn’t keeping any of her thoughts from me. I realized after telling my best friend about my preferences that race was never an off limits topic for us. When I described race relations at Duke to her, she revealed that she identified with white culture. It was then I realized that our whole life I had put her in a box she never felt comfortable in.

Though I had “come-out” to myself about my preferences, I was still intimidated by the prospect of approaching an actual black woman. Before I left for college a friend scared the shit out of me by saying that she didn’t think black lesbians dated white lesbians. It seems ridiculous now, but I spent a lot of time finding examples of interracial lesbian relationships to prove my friend wrong. I thought no black girl I met would want to date me. I now know that some people are equally worried that I wouldn’t be interested in them because of their race! The many revelations I’ve experienced are a testament to how naïve I was when I entered Duke. Even after growing up among Mexican Catholics and with a family full of different ethnicities black America was still a dark continent. After being at Duke for a few months my interest in black woman remained theoretical. It wasn’t until I started telling the queer black women I met that I was interested in black women that I started getting the attention I was looking for. It was not as difficult as my friends back home led me to believe! I don’t think indicating my preferences was necessary, but it took away the lack of confidence and tension I felt due to the myths I heard growing up.

I am still sometimes amazed at my own ignorance. I read the book Hair Story at my girlfriend’s recommendation and afterwards we watched the hilarious Chris Rock documentary Good Hair. When it comes to black hair, instead of a dark continent I now see a dimly lit path. I don’t need to be a black hair expert to know that doing my girlfriend’s hair is bonding time that I look forward to each week. It’s not like my girlfriend and I talk about race all the time (though we might talk more than usual due to my academic interest in ethnic conflict, international relations, and urban studies); she just can’t help noticing things that I don’t. We joke about how a PDA-loving interracial lesbian couple is a unique sight on Duke’s campus and a rare one in the media. In addition to making interracial friendship cards, I’ll expand my business to interracial relationship cards. A simple drawing of a short white girl kissing a tall black girl is all I need. So I can say “Look! That’s us!” and mean it. As I like to say: when it comes to people, ghosts, chocolate, clothing and tea, black makes everything better. The only thing that black doesn’t improve is tenting.