My Black and Queer Experience

By Celeste Parks

By being born, I’ve hit the jackpot of marginalization. Black, queer, Trans. It’s incredible how many times I’ve been told I’m “so brave” for sharing many facets of my identity. Disgusting. Exhausting. It isn’t comforting. When I share pieces about my identity and how they overlap, I make the mistake of hoping I won’t be tokenized or referenced as the “Black, queer, and trans friend.” I dare to wish I could be the friend.

People will see me and assume I’m straight if I don’t say anything. When I tell people that I’m queer, especially other queer people. It’s always such a surprise..

The face, the epitome, the embodiment of queerness is white; despite the culture, the vocabulary, and the activists, we few even know. Every time

I’ve found queer spaces in which I could be, I need to explain my presence. I must tell other queer people how I identify to prove I’m one of them. According to their standards, I don’t “look” the way I identify. I’m not androgynous enough. I don’t put enough effort into limiting femininity or increasing masculinity. I “don’t look like a gender-nonconforming person today.” I don’t emphasize “queerness” or “transness” as much as I do “Blackness.”

I’m often the darkest-skinned person in the room. I can always count the number of other non-white people in the room. I’m always consulted on my thoughts to make queer spaces more “inclusive” or for an activity for Black History Month or, on occasion, Juneteenth. I’m the expert on ensuring something won’t be offensive to Black, Indigenous, or Latinos.

All those extra responsibilities fell upon me when all I wanted to do was exist. I didn’t seek out those queer spaces to be an encyclopedia or an editor. I didn’t show up to have my identity distrusted. I don’t exist to be a commodified spectacle or a “Buy One, Get Six Free” package of diversity.

But by being born, I am. I’m the Black, queer, trans friend.