Am I Blackity Black?

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Hey y’all. I hope everyone is doing okay out there. The world is crazy right now. We, as queer people, and specially, me, as a Black Nonbinary person who dresses in a femme/90s alt girl manner are in the crosshairs. Everywhere we turn, there is a bill trying to legislate us out of existence.

That will not happen. We are eternal, they may be successfully in suppressing, for a time, our voices—but really, they cannot. wipe us out completely.

Being Black, but not being Blackity Black, I do run into certain problems quite frequently. This is more than likely a shortcoming of my own doing or making. Nevertheless, it happens. I will go into Black spaces, whether online or in person (although going in person has not happened in a while) not quite feel 100% percent comfortable. That’s a trip right. I don’t feel like I fit in. I think Henry Louis Gates, Jr. said something like—hold on, I will look it up. I am sure he said this… Okay this is what he said. “If there are 42 million African-Americans, then there are 42 million ways to be Black.” Y’all know what that means, right? I will not insult y’alls intelligence.

When, i was younger, I had a great mix of ethnicities, nationalities, and races. I had a lot of Black friends. But, I was hiding. I was a shell. If I had let my inner self out, I would have been immediately ostracized, much like when I came out as trans. I lost all my friends. I lost my blood family for a number of years, to the point where I do not feel comfortable communicating with them. As I grew older though, I realized that my hobbies, thoughts, writings, passions, were different from some Black people’s. I began to feel separation. Some will say that separation was always there. Those are the people who really didn’t know the old me. The me when I was younger.

Fast forward to now. I still feel uncomfortable in Black spaces. But here’s the rub—I don’t feel 100 in white spaces either. I feel like white people genuinely do not appreciate my voice, or what I have to say. And that sucks. There is one white person who is down for the cause, who is actively anti racist. And that is my wife, my boo thang, my partner in crime, my bae, Egg. She is as white as a sheet, but don’t let that fool you. She knows when to stay in her lane, and she knows when to jump off of it. That is not to say she is down, talking in AAVE and all that craziness. That is what I love about her. She is authentic. She gives love unconditionally. She is always down, and has been, to put in the work, to learn and understand how to live with a Black person in her life continuously.

The catch is, of course, that if we go out together, it is usually one-sided in race. That default is white. And that is not all Egg’s fault. It is strange. I am not Black enough (even though I pointed out that there are “… (42 million ways to be Black”) for the Black crowd (I have to emphasize that I am talking about queer people.) Especially nightclubs and bars, where queer people meet and have a safe space. Where I live, there are theme nights, and they are, almost exclusively, segregated. So there will be a Black gay night, and a Black lesbian night. I would love to experience a Black lesbian night, but I am disabled, Egg is my transportation. She would probably not be welcomed. Who knows, right. Whatever.

In white spaces, I often feel like the unnamed narrator of Ralph Ellison’s Invisible Man. Seen when necessary for them. Not really seen though. Kind of see through, an old ghost haunting the memories of their ancestors. And honestly, sometimes it makes me shrink. And I feel terrible. Because, I am not meant to shrink for anyone. I am divine, I have the spark that all people, and indeed, all living things have. I try to fit in where I don’t belong. I can feel when this happens, ugh. Yet, I continue to inhabit these spaces. Why?? I guess because I don’t want to be alone. I have a thriving online life and presence. I don’t have that anymore. Honestly, that is fine. Me and Egg are homebodies, so while the idea of going out clubbing or going out to a bar sounds great, it would be boring unless it was queer, trans and nonbinary accepting. Ugh

People are like onions. Onions have layers. People have layers (shoutout Shrek.) I cannot keep shrinking. I cannot keep letting people who, really have no influence over my life, try to tell me (not explicitly.) who I am and how I fit in. There are tons on microaggressions that slide in and I let slide. I feel really bad and down after it happens. Almost like shame. Fuck, am I naming it. Did I just hit on the true thang? I don’t know, but it is definitely worth exploring.

I am going to wrap this up now, There is a lot more to dissect and I will continue to mind mine in the future. I did not mean to write this tonight. I was in a terrible mood. All mopey and full of shame and rage (for something I have not discussed, and probably won’t.) I took a break from writing. Egg and I had dinner. Burger King. Not the best or healthiest, but that is okay. I came back to writing this at the paragraph above where I talk about onions. I decided not to read any of the above. Please understand I was in a poor mood. I do think I said what I needed to in that moment. For now, that is alright.