Finding Solitude at the Intersection of Brown and Queer

The exclusion of queer people from color from queer spaces

BY VISHALLI ALAGAPPAN

There is a difference between having queer friends and being in queer spaces. Most of the friends that I have made in college identify as queer. I mostly interact with my friends in one on one or small group settings like a study session or a movie night. These interactions are more than fine, they’re fabulous. I’m generally very happy to have gay and trans friends. In contrast, I feel unnaturally awkward and restless in gay spaces. Queer spaces, or at least how I define them, are a congregation of queer individuals who are not necessarily friends. An obvious example would be a gay bar, but gay spaces can be a classroom or workplace that predominantly attracts queer individuals, or even an online forum. As a brown queer individual in white Minnesota, I have always avoided local gay spaces assuming that I’d be too uncomfortable. I don’t frequent drag shows or open mic nights at gay bars even though I desperately want to go. I just can’t fathom that I can relate to any of my fellow queer people who are white because my queerness is simply inseparable from my ethnicity. I’m often the token person of color anywhere I go and I just don’t have the energy to be the same in a queer space; I cannot be expected to represent all queer people of color and seemingly be their spokesperson. My perspective and lived experiences are not relatable to white queer people and therefore are paid no attention; I am simply present to add apparent diversity. Moreover, since I don’t obviously seem queer, my presence frequently goes unacknowledged. I understand that as a result of our persecuted history and persistent ostracization by conventional society, we as queer people flock together for both community and safety. We identify each other through our “gaydar” which is mostly based on stereotypes. Most queer people of color do not fit these stereotypes because they arise from the intersection of whiteness and queerness, not solely the latter. Thus, I find myself constantly having to come out and in conversations with other queer people just so that I have some credibility during the dialogue. I feel pressure to overcompensate for my lack of meeting societal norms and in search for this unattainable ideal, occasionally eclipse my roots and unique identity. The hegemony of whiteness in queer identities, not just in the midwest but everywhere, is exclusionary for queer people of color. When both traditional and social media solely highlight queer white folks, it seems as though queer people of color don’t really exist or exist in the periphery, which is ludicrous and untrue. However, that is the perception. The perception that has convinced me and many other queer people of color to avoid queer spaces. Regardless of whether I have established myself as a queer brown person in the conversation, I have observed that my voice often gets ignored. Queer white people will use their queerness as social capital to lord over people of color, queer or otherwise. White queer folks easily forget the intersectionality of their fellow gays’ identities. Racism, colorism, ableism, fatphobia are still as pervasive in the queer community as everywhere else. I don’t have an answer to any of this. At this moment in time, I can really only recognize it as a fault and a barrier to queer people of color in finding community. I know there are brown and black queer folks out there, but there is simply no place for us to congregate as a collective. Or maybe there is and I’m simply unaware of its existence because I’m so averse to going out to queer spaces because of my past, if limited, experiences with white-dominated spaces. At the moment, I am comfortable and content with my queer friends and our mundane activities, but I often wonder if I will ever find community within the LGBTQIA+ sphere and if I will ever experience true belonging. It seems a reality for my white counterparts, so why not me?