By: Aiyanah Peeples (she/her)
It is February, and like every year, I find myself sad about being single (Valentine’s Day) and doing what I can to contribute more to the Black community and Black liberation for Black History Month.
I am a young, bisexual, Black, mixed-race, (probably) neurodivergent, American woman. I was also raised in predominantly white and heteronormative environments. There’s a lot about this interplay of identities that I could go into, and they are in many ways inseparable, but I will not be focusing on all of them right now.
When I asked the BRC what they do for Black History Month, and found that their answer, like with most queer organizations, was very little, I figured I needed to make sure at least one Black bisexual voice was heard. It is important to note that Black bisexuals are not a monolith, and we all navigate the world and our experiences differently. These are just the notes from one Black bisexual.
When it comes to my Black bisexual experience, I think a lot of my struggles, and triumphs in some ways, comes from the exhaustion and danger of constant exclusion and navigation.
Biphobia, homophobia, and transphobia still run rampant in the Black community. Despite many queer Black activists being key to the struggle for Black liberation, like Bayard Rustin, The Combahee River Collective, James Baldwin, and many others, many in the Black community still cannot move past the bigotry that weighs us down.
I know many Black people who can never come out to their family because they fear the reaction they will receive. There are Black people in my family that I will never come out to because I fear the violent reactions they have expressed towards queer people in the past. And while the history and context behind this bigotry is far too complex for me to get into in a blog post, it still saddens me that we continue to tear ourselves down. When I am in Black spaces, I am constantly navigating them as a queer person trying to keep myself safe.
Queer spaces are almost always predominantly white. Any Black person that has been in a room full of white people knows that no matter the context, you do not forget where you are. Even when white people are supposedly there to advocate for you, you end up navigating their feelings and biases. And from my experience, sometimes white queer people can be particularly bad about accountability in this context because they assume that being queer erases their white privilege. Their white entitlement does not allow them to look beyond what is advantageous to them.
I went to college in New York City, and there were many white queer people who avoided going past 125th Street because they did not want to go into Harlem. I remember being struck by the tone some of them used to describe a Black neighborhood that our university was actively gentrifying, which they were doing nothing about. Many queer organizations give lip service to POC/Black communities, but do not take any real steps towards helping. When I am in queer spaces, I am constantly navigating them as a Black person trying to keep myself safe.
But my experiences in college led me towards one of the things I am most proud of doing in college: helping run my university’s Q/T POC student group. This student group was founded over 30 years ago because of the exclusion POCs felt in other queer groups at the university. When I originally joined as a member, I remember spending those meetings feeling like for once, me and everyone else in the room could breathe because we did not have to navigate any identity or suppress one for the other. It helped me so much in navigating my own identity that I knew I had to pay it forward, and I became a board member the year after I joined. I consider the events we did, the meetings we held, the cross-organization collaboration, and the community we fostered as one of the most meaningful things I did in college. I carry that experience with me every day, and it continues to drive my fight for liberation.
Biphobia is also alive and well in the queer community. We are constantly invalidated, and the pernicious stereotypes and stigma surrounding who we love is appalling coming from a community that expresses prioritizing inclusivity. And as a Black woman, these experiences are only exacerbated. Black women are already fetishized and hypersexualized, and with stereotypes about bi+ people, it becomes even more prominent. When I am dating people, I have to ask myself if I am being fetishized as a Black woman, a bisexual, or both (all of which have actually happened). These experiences have forced me to become stronger in my bi+ identity, and I have gained a much better internal BS detector, but it took some hard lessons to get there. These are lessons I should not have had to learn from a community that claims to be for all queer people.
These issues are not helped by our lack of representation in the media and society. When was the last time you read a book or watched a TV show with a Black bisexual? And what did that portrayal even look like? Moreover, bisexual celebrities in general are constantly invalidated. Black bisexual celebrities, the few that are openly out there, face double the scrutiny. There are Black bisexuals out there like Janelle Monae, Tyler the Creator, Frank Ocean, Steve Lacey, Tessa Thompson, and Willow Smith, who live their lives unapologetically, and express their identities through their art. But, for example, Janelle Monae, when performing on the Today Show in 2015, got their performance cut short when they tried to talk about the issues Black people in America face, particularly police brutality. Monae has also talked about seeking mental health resources due to the pressure they face from the public and media, and having to heal their past trauma.
And that is in the context of art, a field known for pushing boundaries. Where are the Black bisexual elected officials? Where are the Black bisexual cabinet members? Heads of hospitals? Presidents of universities? Black bisexual voices are not elevated, and their power and abilities are not respected.
So what are the next steps here? As a bi+ person, or anyone fighting in the struggle for liberation, you must know and think about systems of oppression as connected. We are not free until all of us are free. Period. If you are a non Black bi+ person, what have you done to address your internal biases? What are you doing to ensure bi+/queer spaces are more inclusive for Black people and other Q/T POCs? But being anti-racist is not just about having the “correct” opinions or ideologies, it is about going out there and doing something about it.
In a time where in this country and around the world people’s rights are being taken away, what actual concrete steps are you taking? Are you donating, protesting, supporting bi+ Black media, elevating bi+ Black voices, sharing vital resources, and checking in on your bi+ Black community members? If you have not done so already, it is never too late to start. I am writing this post in February because it is Black History Month, but Black history and the fight for Black queer liberation are alive and well every day of the year. Whether you are Black, bisexual, both, or neither, there is always more work to be done, so go do it.