Reflections On Joy and Accountability as a Queer Black Woman
“My queer identity is so much greater than a single ‘coming out’ story. I never have to announce my Blackness, and after a few defeatist semi-coming out experiences, I am very protective of my queerness”
Milan Carter
June has quickly become the apex of a pandemic and a civil rights movement, with typical Pride Month festivities taking a backseat during a widespread push for systemic changes. In the midst of a time I expected to be filled with celebration, the call for “equality” that Pride Month amplifies now feels distant. It has undoubtedly been difficult, a chore, even, to create happiness for myself while carrying the weights of too many -phobias and -isms to name. My usual summertime feelings of shameless freedom have melted away, and I am left with an endless news cycle and an unhealthy hyper-awareness of my brown skin. However, a small beacon of hope revealed itself when I unexpectedly discovered my old middle and early high school journals. In one journal, I found a duo of letters that I wrote to myself, finally acknowledging
my queer identity and reassuing future-me that I would find a place in the world. A divine intervention which reminded me that being Black and queer is to know a sacred joy unlike any other. In one letter, I pleaded with myself: “You have a lot to think about and a lot to forget, too. But at this moment, promise yourself to continue to grow. Work through this for however long it takes.” My younger self knew that even now, I would sometimes feel that Blackness and queerness were incompatible, deadlocked into a debate of “pick a struggle.” While this internal battle lessens every day, I am often troubled by the thought that I “succumbed” to my truth of being a queer Black woman. Although, at my core I know that describing my journey towards self-love and acceptance as “succumbing” is deeply misleading—an ugly way to describe a beautiful evolution.
