J. Clarence Flanders submitted this post.

As Americans we put a lot of emphasis on the demographics with which we identify. In many cases we see these identities as medals of honor; indeed, we consider the term “American” not just to imply our nationality, but something about our character: being of the land of the free and the home of the brave!

Any politician, in secret, would tell you that identity politics play a major role in America. However, like most things in life, our identities do not always compound well to create a cohesive mix, void of the frictions that can make life ever more difficult. 
 
I describe myself as a male Antillean-American queer-person of color progressive feminist. Long-winded and arguably a bit excessive, I know; however, I see these principle identities as  the variables that affect how I interact with the world, and how the world interacts with me. One of the most prominent, and the one that so often creates the most internal tension, and the one I decided to dedicate this piece to, is the fact that I am a queer-person of color. And it should not be difficult to see why. 
 
Anyone who has taken American history at the college level, and depending on the school, at the secondary level, understands that as it relates to ethnicity, or “race”, our country has a long history of failures and successes, from the Dred Scott v. Sanford decision to the Civil Rights Era. And as queer people and allies, we know that the history and experience of queer people in this country has also been extremely tumultuous. We also know that these groups have also come into conflict with each other on the national and local level, from time to time, the most recent being the passage of Prop 8 and the ongoing struggle between queer groups and the Black Church. 
 
These two identities are also extremely polarizing, in the sense that very often they are drawn to the forefront of the individual’s character because we–queer people, and we, African-Americans–encounter so many additional hurdles that are connected to these identities, whether it is gay students that are bullied in schools or African-Americans targeted by police merely based on their ethnicity. 
 
The conflict and tension arise when our society and these groups based on these identities respectively demand to be the one at the top of the list. One of the most frustrating questions I am often asked is, “Are you gay or are you Black first?” The frustration comes from the fact that as a queer-person of color, I realized that it is a false choice that I am nevertheless asked to make. 
 
This is partly due to the fact that in our society we subscribe to the concept that depending on the situation, our identities, and thus our priorities, arrange themselves around that situation. However, that is simply not true. When I visit family and we attend a predominantly Black church, my gay side does not take a break. If anything it comes to the forefront as I become deeply troubled by the anti-gay sentiments that I hear expressed by attendees. Convsersely, when I attend a gay rally or Pride event my Black side is troubled as I look around the crowd and appear as the lost Black sheep in a herd of White livestock. 
 
To be clear, this is not solely a “Black thing”. Most recently, for another year, gay Irish Americans were denied the opportunity to participate in the annual St. Patrick’s Day Parade here in New York City. This denial and/or refusal to acknowledge gay Irish Americans as part of the Irish community must be extremely troubling for gay Irish Americans. 
 
With all of that being said, it is important to note that this duplicity, of being queer and a person of color, is not unequivocally a negative. If anything at the end of the day I consider it a blessing, because it gives me the ability to see something with two different perspectives simultaneously. 
 
I refer to this “state of mind”, for lack of a better phrase, as the Black Closet: the union of a Venn diagram composed of the queer community and the African-American community. Embracing the fact that at various times the two principles seemingly do not embrace the fact that folks like me are part of their community, because it is in their denial that I am given an opportunity to create my own space. And the celebrities and icons that belong to this community have channeled their duplicity into their profession. Whether we are talking about James Baldwin, Audre Lorde, Bayard Rustin, or the many other queer people of color that have shaped our understanding of what it means to be queer and/or to be a minority. 
 
In the queer community we generally consider the proverbial closet to be a negative place, and it certainly is; however, in some ways, in the context in which I use it here, it is that place where the rules and social customs of outside no longer apply. It is that place where you are truly free to be you and embrace you, because you know on the outside no one else will. 
 
Like the closet, the Black Closet is not a solution, but rather a means to an end. Because it acknowledges who I am, not a Black person that happens to be queer, or a queer person that happens to be Black, but a queer person of color: an identity unto itself, like a child that shares the genetic code of its parents but is also a unique being.  It sets forth the challenge for me to advocate to have both principles seen and understand that it is not a matter of priorities, but rather embracing the diversity that exists within every demographic.

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