To be young, gifted, Black and queer: Black queer representation in media

“I speak with you on this occasion because you are young, gifted, and Black… Write about our people. Tell their story.” – Lorraine Hansberry 

These are the words of renowned playwright Lorraine Hansberry, the first Black woman to have her work performed on Broadway. She spoke these words to young Black writers, urging them to use their gifts to tell the stories of the Black community — to uplift and amplify Black voices. 

Hansberry’s message about the necessity of Black representation and Black stories being told is one that certainly still rings true today. It is through these stories that our history is preserved and shared; it is through these stories that Black people feel understood and recognized in a world where they are so often alienated.

Growing up being both Black and queer, I found myself at an intersection I did not often find company in. While I saw Black representation or queer representation — though both were still lacking — rarely did I see the convergence of these two identities represented in the media. 

The first time I ever truly felt as though I saw myself in a character was with the release of Emma Seligman’s “Bottoms” (2023). The satirical comedy follows two gay, “loser” best friends, PJ (played by Rachel Sennott) and Josie (played by Ayo Edebiri), as they start a fight club at their high school for the sole purpose of getting with the school’s most popular cheerleaders.  

While I haven’t started a fake fight club to hook up with cheerleaders, I have been a high schooler with a crush, and when I saw Ayo Edebiri’s character on screen, I saw a version of myself. I saw a young, gay Black girl who was struggling to navigate love, friendship and a desire for acceptance. I saw her make mistakes, confront insecurities and eventually learn to accept herself as she was.

The experience of seeing myself truly represented on the screen — not just as a Black woman or just as a queer person, but as both; not just as a side character with no real depth but as a fully developed, complex character — was something of immeasurable value. To see oneself represented on the screen is to feel seen and understood. It is to see a world of possibilities for oneself that one may never have thought possible. For Black queer people, especially, it is to no longer feel so alienated in their experiences and their existence. Black queer individuals should get to see themselves on screen navigating through life just as so many others do, and yet, this continues to be a rarity. Why?

The lack of intersectional perspectives is an issue that pervades well beyond Black queer representation. It is often rooted in the single-axis frameworks of thinking that we are taught, treating identity as one-dimensional. This approach erases the overlapping and interlocked nuances of lived experiences. With the example of being Black and queer, we can see how intersectional perspectives challenge our neatly defined perceptions of experience. 

Historically, both anti-racist and anti-homophobic frameworks have been one-dimensional, centered around the experiences of otherwise-privileged members of each group — queer people privileged in their race, Black people privileged in their gender or sexuality. Those whose experiences cannot be wholly explained by these single-dimensional representations of discrimination are thus left further marginalized.

The intersectional perspective challenges both what it means to be Black and what it means to be queer, and it pressures us to acknowledge issues within our own communities that are so often overlooked and brushed off. It forces us to acknowledge the prevalence of homophobia within the Black community and the overwhelming domination of white perspectives in queer spaces. This is why intersectional representation is so crucial and simultaneously so resisted — it prompts uncomfortable conversations. If we are to progress toward a society in which no one is left silenced in the margins, it is these uncomfortable discussions that we must have. 

One of — what I believe to be — the best starters of these dialogues is Jennie Livingston’s 1990 documentary, “Paris Is Burning.” 

The film focuses on Black and Latino drag queens in 1980s New York City, offering insight into both their lives and the inner workings of Harlem’s drag ball scene. Filmed over the course of seven years, “Paris Is Burning” is a raw, intimate picture of what it means to be Black and queer, shedding light on the harsh, overlapping realities of racism, poverty, homophobia and the AIDS epidemic faced by the individuals that the documentary follows. 

Through personal interviews, we learn that many of the members of the ballroom scene live in poverty, abandoned or rejected by their biological families because of their queer identity, and left to fend for themselves. It is within these balls that these individuals have formed their own family, offering one another the support and acceptance they were once denied. 

One aspect of the documentary that particularly stood out to me was the breakdown of the competitive categories found within the balls. Despite what many believe drag to be, these categories do not simply revolve around who can best embody femininity. Along with categories such as “supermodel” and “movie star,” there is also “executive realness,” where contestants wear full suits and embody the demeanor of business executives. Furthermore, the “military” category has contestants march down the runway in full military uniform as if they were active service members. 

As one of the film’s stars, Dorian Corey, best puts it: “In a ballroom, you can be anything you want. You’re not really an executive, but you’re looking like an executive, and therefore you’re showing the straight world that… ‘If I had the opportunity I could be one, because I can look like one.’ And that is a fulfillment.”

These individuals, capable as any other, have never had the opportunity to see people openly like themselves as business executives, as celebrated service members, as movie stars, as supermodels. Thus, they created this representation for themselves through the range of categories in which they compete. It is not only a competition, but the fulfillment of a dream they hope will one day become a reality, if not for themselves, then for posterity. It is a message that they, too, can occupy these spaces in the world.

To be young, gifted, Black and queer is to hold a perspective so often brushed aside that its existence must be insisted upon. The next generation should not have to wait their entire adolescence to see themselves represented in the films or the shows they choose to watch. They should not be made to feel that there is no one else out there who could understand their perspective, that they must limit their aspirations because they have never seen someone like them do it before, that they must bend and mold themselves to fit into one identity or the other, because the in-between space that they occupy does not exist. 

If we are to move away from this current reality, we must commit ourselves to expanding who is allowed to be seen and heard, and we must begin by telling the stories that have too long been ignored. When Black queer people get to see themselves represented with depth, occupying spaces they have so long been shut out of, it is more than the validation of identity — it is the expansion of what feels possible.