By Jade Johnson-Brown
I’m all about curating a vibe. Music blasting, a glass of sauvignon blanc (with frozen jalapeno slices), and my kitchen–bracing itself for another meal I put together for my family. Head down while I’m crafting messaging for work. The soundtrack lately? Isaiah Rashad’s It’s Been Awful. If you’re not familiar, I suggest you lean in. A Top Dawg Entertainment veteran, he’s one of the most emotionally resonant storytellers out there; he’s true to himself, and is therefore true to his craft. What does this have to do with the Bi+ space? A few years ago, his sex tape leaked–and the world was surprised to find it was with other men.
As part of his press run, he did an interview with The Breakfast Club, talking about the album and how it came to be. Among other things, he noted very clearly: there is no guide for how to be a “bisexual Black dude”–and he’s right. There are very few openly bi+ Black men in his space or any spaces of notable acclaim. No one for the bi+ Black boys to look toward and see themselves, in all of their complicated glory. No one really sees them–and I want them to know that I do.
To the Bi+ Black Man,
I’m sorry.
You inherited a world that demanded you choose–and punished you either way. Your Blackness, which should have been your safe space, sometimes became another place you had to perform in. Your queerness, which should’ve been your liberation, handed you a community that was more likely to fetishize you than make room for you. You’ve been asked to “act normal” for everyone else’s comfort, and called confused when you refused.
“Bisexual Black man” still somehow appears to be a conundrum to people who know better–your simple truth, treated like a plot twist. You have nuthin 2 hide, yet the world made hiding feel like survival. Black masculinity has been so violently policed–by the world outside and sometimes by our own. That tenderness became dangerous. Softness became synonymous with weakness. Scared 2 look down at parts of yourself that didn’t fit the mold, because looking meant feeling, and feeling meant deciding, and deciding meant exposure. Living in the fullness of who you are required a bravery that nobody acknowledged, let alone rewarded.
When you went looking for yourself, you almost always came up empty. No map. No elder who looked like you and loved like you. No guide for the boy in red. No one told you it was okay to be him. You’ve been building the road while walking it–and that’s an exhausting, lonely kind of courage.
Here’s what I also know:
You are not a contradiction. You are not a phase, a confusion, a crisis, or a compromise. You are not too queer for our people or too Black for the rainbow flag. The world’s failure to reflect you says nothing about your wholeness and everything about its limits. That’s your new sublime: the self they couldn’t name and therefore, couldn’t contain. You deserve a community that doesn’t ask you to check half of yourself at the door.
This is me–seeing you. Not as a headline, conversation piece, or cautionary tale. Not as a problem to be explained or a story waiting for a more palatable ending. I see you as you are–complicated, worthy, and ours.
You’re still here–and that’s not nothing, that’s everything. You don’t owe anyone a label, an explanation, or a performance of yourself that was built for their comfort. You have superpwrs you were never supposed to need, and you’ve been using them for too long. You’re not as alone as they made you feel. I support you–and I’m not going anywhere.
In Solidarity and Care,
A Bi+ Black Woman