Discussing the marginalisation and invisibility of queer people of colour and the impact of the HIV/AIDS crisis.
‘I didn’t know black women could be gay!’ - My sister, my Idol.
It was Autumn 2018 when my sister, my then-friend-now-fiancé, John, and I were sitting in my kitchen in Derry - deep in the midst of our weekly ‘therapy’ sessions. My sister opened up and told us that she had never considered that there were black women that were gay/lesbian.
Having left Harare, Zimbabwe, in the early 2000’s and moved to Derry, Northern Ireland, this was one of very few conversations about sexuality we’d ever had - almost 20 years later, at 27 and 29 respectively.
Echoing innocence and an ignorance I didn’t believe was still possible with the existence of social media and the recent vote to legalise gay marriage in Ireland in 2015, it took me a moment to realise that she genuinely meant her statement.
I identify as pansexual - I just love, love. And well, none of my partners have ever shared a name (if you get me)! I know my sister has many LGBTQ+ friends and though she may not fully be aware of my pansexuality, she knows that I have dated flexibly, and she’s never been opposed or homophobic.
"I identify as pansexual - I just love, love."
It was confusing therefore when she asked me, ‘Can you name any black women who are gay?’
Lena Waithe, Amber from AmbersCloset on YouTube, Janelle Monae, Lady Leshurr - these were just some of the women I could think of. But, I knew there were more! When she asked for examples of white gay women, we could name loads. Black gay men; the list was short, but white gay men? The list could go on and on.
There is a constant conversation regarding the erasure of gender and sexual identity, and as a black woman, walking through life feeling marginalised and different is sadly a norm. However, speaking to my sister, I realised that for her, and many others, to realise our black LGBTQ+ women were not only marginalised but completely invisible, felt shocking and shameful.
It is shameful that we do not see our peers in society and although we have long been marginalised as a community for our sexuality and/or genders, the reality is that the reason why we could not recall many black and ethnic minority members of our community was because we lost them to the HIV/AIDS pandemic. We lost entire generations of our LGBTQ+ parents, aunts, cousins. There are hairdressers who never survived because there was no access to medication. The singers and the artists who faded with their stories and their magic as they died of pneumonia.
The HIV/AIDS crisis robbed hundreds of thousands of black people of their lives through a disease that was killing our LGBTQIA+ Ancestors in droves. Families of all colours lost their loved ones. Chosen families that mourned in private were afraid of the same isolation and persecution that they were losing their partners, their lovers, their colleagues, their entire neighbourhoods too.
"The HIV/AIDS crisis robbed hundreds of thousands of black people of their lives through a disease that was killing our LGBTQIA+ Ancestors in droves."
There’s a photograph that circulates on social media every year, in it stand the Original San Francisco Gay Men’s choir from 1993, taken by Eric Luisse. Men stand in rows, dressed in black with their backs to the camera. Standing facing forward in white are a handful of men - the only survivors at the time of the HIV/AIDS crisis. Three years later, the whole picture would be men with their backs turned dressed in black - no-one survived. This image, stark in black with glimmers of white, spurs conversations on Twitter each time it re-circulates and in those comments the lives and stories of the loved ones we lost are told - and for a moment their memories are alive once more.
We don’t talk about it as a community - not really. We don’t scream about this loss - the loss of our history through stigma and isolation, all at the hands of a pandemic.
I remember watching Rent the musical, and crying when Angel passed from HIV/AIDS (sorry for the spoiler). We had been living in Northern Ireland for a few years, and it was through Rent that I was reminded of the extent of the HIV/AIDS crisis in general. But especially for black people, back home in Africa and here in the UK. Growing up in Zimbabwe, I had heard the conversations through the doors, of aunties and uncles who had passed away from HIV/AIDS.
However, since moving to the UK - this was the first time! This was the first time I had seen anything… This was the first time I had seen anything about a crisis that had literally stripped entire villages of their communities back in Africa. Rent showed the reality of the stigma and poverty that we were so often pushed into as a community through the height of the crisis, the isolation that society was comfortable entrenching us in after having designated that the pandemic was one that was created because of our sexuality and supposed promiscuity.
With Pose and It’s a Sin - and many more media houses - starting to tell our stories we are living in an age of opportunity and have wider representation across media, from Munroe Bergdorf, to Lady Phyll, to Samira Wiley; through them, we see ourselves and our history.
Today, we live through a new global pandemic - one that doesn’t separate us by sexuality or gender, but a pandemic that still serves to further isolate LGBTQ+ people who are unable to reach out for support for fear of their personal safety. A pandemic that has, and will continue to, take the lives of thousands within our community. May we use this time to live our truth as much as we can; wherever we may be. Show the world what our LGBTQ+ community looks like today - we have our trans sisters and brothers who are facing huge challenges. But we rally and fundraise to help them live their truth. Take a moment to celebrate Chiyo Gomes, Mr Gay England’s first trans person of colour finalist (the winner will be announced in April 2021!). Take two moments to understand that this is the true legacy of Marsha P Johnson, that through her work at Stonewall today we can love and live openly and in a safer environment than before.
"May we use this time to live our truth as much as we can; wherever we may be."
We have been strengthened by the sacrifice and the work of the many advocates who came before us. From the footsteps that marched for us to have access to healthcare; to the lives that passed long before Princess Diana could open the first AIDS Ward in Middlesex Hospital in 1987, to the many hidden faces who died alone in hospital rooms with no family - we are here today because of them.
"We have been strengthened by the sacrifice and the work of the many advocates who came before us."
In the mirror when I see my black skin I am reminded that many women who looked just like me never got to 30 due to the HIV/AIDS Crisis. They never got to be engaged and they never got to write their dreams to music and perform at the PRIDE festivals that we have come to take for granted as part of our community today.
When I performed at Leeds Pride Festival in 2019, I closed my set with a song called ‘FREEDOM’, and as Ten Thousand people sang back to me, I could see faces of each and every colour. The epitome of a rainbow nation in many ways. I had never considered that my identity was deeply entwined with my music, at least not my sexuality, but standing on that stage, listening to those voices, I understood then that ‘FREEDOM’ was my coming out song. It seems weird to call it that now, but on the stage that day it was the first time that I felt seen and heard in public. I realise now that like my sister, I hadn’t been surrounded by representation of the real diversity within our LGBTQ+ family. Art, theatre and music have often been the refuge and solace for LGBTQ+ people, and with wider representation across media, it may seem funny, but I never truly thought it mattered that I was a musician and pansexual. I didn’t see any connection/correlation between my romantic life, and my expression through music before I performed at Leeds Pride. However having my peers hear me and sing back those words, in that moment I knew it mattered.
It is important for us to tell our stories whilst we are here, so that my sister, and your sister, and our neighbours know that we are here. We will survive this, and we will not be another generation lost to a pandemic.
Article Written by Pearl Natasha
(She/Her)
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