Two global communities have an intersecting history of discrimination, criminalization and prejudice; their plights not equivalent, but still exist in solidarity with one another. To be Black and to be queer aren’t two mutually exclusive things; the first known drag queen, William Doresey Swan, was born into slavery in Maryland.
The issue, among many, is that much of this seems to go unknown or unnoticed, inside and outside of the respective communities. It’s more than a little difficult to be Black and queer, and notably, Black trans women are disproportionately targeted in fatal violent acts. As a heterosexual Black man in a predominately white area that still struggles with progressivism, I felt the need and desire to set the record straight, of sorts. To provide clear insight into the matter with the help of authoritative voices in the community. Primarily from John Kish, a drag queen and local business owner, and Judith Sadora, a queer Black therapist.
Though outsiders often compare the two groups with regards to struggles and levels of oppression, they each carry their own respective issues. Kish said that they aren’t remotely comparable, with their most defining difference being:
“A Black person is who they are. And a mile away, you can see who that is, and you instantly go into societal structures or thoughts about that person…. And it’s a horrible thing: a visual-first judgment. We can, I can hide,” he said.
Kish added that white queer people can change the way they dress and speak to align themselves with the heteronormative standard — a privilege, but sometimes a necessity, too. That can often lead to resentment and anger. It’s part of a larger variation in treatment in how the communities treat those inside and outside of the community.
As far back as the 1980s, still relatively fresh off the civil rights victories of the 1960s, gay bars would be practically exclusive to homosexual white men; even being a drag queen could mean exclusion, he said.
He offered an explanation: “It was a scarcity mindset, this protection. (Gay white men) finally got a little taste of queer freedom in the ‘80s and that then in turn meant that no one else is welcome in.”
Kish said this pattern of behavior is seen on the national and local level. Sadora said the same thing. A current resident of Portland, she lived in Central Oregon for five years. During her tenure here, she said she never felt truly welcome in either space. The larger Black community has internalized sexism and homophobia it’s still sorting out, she said — part of “post-traumatic slave syndrome,” in which the community is still unlearning centuries of oppression. Meanwhile, the Central Oregon queer community is centered around whiteness, she said.
Ironic, because according to Sadora, “Queerness comes from the essence of Black people in a lot of ways. When we think about what queerness means, queerness is supposed to be pushing against the system, the normativity of what society and culture says is normal, right? We’re all queer.”
To say that Black culture has had an influence on queer culture, and indeed, the larger sphere of pop culture, wouldn’t be inaccurate. Kish said the same: “Historically, a majority of queer culture is recycled from Black culture.”
Nowhere is this more true than with the pipeline of dialect: from Black women to the greater Black community, from the Black community to the queer community, and from them to the general white community. Words like “period,” “tea,” “she ate,” and “ghost” come to mind. Kish agreed with the assertion and joked that Black women and gay white men have been friends “since the dawn of time.”
But queer people of color, together, also contributed to the cultural zeitgeist in the form of music and dance. Though voguing was popularized, some would argue stolen, by Madonna in her 1990 track, “Vogue,” it began in the 1960s in New York City. The same can be found for ballroom culture, a combination of music and performance. Likewise, disco and house music were born from these communities.
As local drag king Janelle Derven explained, most creative and out-of-the-box music comes from this community. It’s part of the mentality Sadora described, pushing against the norm, part of a greater rebellious nature. This is also tied to how queer culture had to thrive for decades: underground. When it was illegal to be authentically queer, people congregated in safe spaces and often found new families after being discarded by their own. These spaces needed a new sound to help reflect that new setting.
And one thing threaded the conversations: the shared experience of being different. Of otherness. As Sadora said, “It’s empowerment. It’s strength, transparency, vulnerability … individuality, but then it’s also collective.”
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