All Boys Aren't Blue

by George M. Johnson

I often wonder what this world would look like if people were simply told, You are having a baby with a penis or a vagina or other genitalia. Look up intersex if you’re confused about “other.” What if parents were also given instructions to nurture their baby by paying attention to what the child naturally gravitates toward and to simply feed those interests?

Many of us are always in a state of working through something—always in a state of “becoming” a more aware version of self.

I believe that the dominant society establishes an idea of what “normal” is simply to suppress differences, which means that any of us who fall outside of their “normal” will eventually be oppressed.

I think this may be an oversimification. The adult human brain is naturally wired to want to place things in neat boxes to simplify understanding. Johnson is even doing that here. Yet although I disagree with his analysis of intention, I agree that the result is oppression.

By high school, I stopped using it. Surrounded by whiteness, I wasn’t going to dare let my classmates get comfortable using that word with or around me. Anytime a white student even tried to utter it, I checked them. White kids love to test Black kids on things like that. Certain Black kids were fighting so hard to fit in, they would let white kids steal that part of our culture just so they could pretend they were accepted in white society.

The n-word was the last word heard by many of my ancestors when they were being beaten and shackled—forced into enslavement in a new land. It was the last word heard by my people when they were lynched as a spectacle for white people. “Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees,” as the great Nina Simone would sing. So, for many of my professors who grew up during Jim Crow, experiencing legalized segregation, there was no reason to be proud of that word.

Every day I learn something about myself. I get to sit and look back at all the times my queerness displayed itself, both in ways known to me and unknown to me.

The fact that I couldn’t see my full self in Black heroes or the history books was more about the changing of history to spare white guilt than it ever was about me knowing the whole truth.

Fighting for Blackness in a white space came naturally to me, though, and I did it every chance I got. Fighting for my queerness, however, never seemed to be a viable or safe option.

From the HIV epidemic, to domestic violence, to suicide, I watch people like me who don’t survive the oppression. They become today’s news and yesterday’s headlines.

This book is proof positive that you don’t need to go to the graveyard to find us. Many of us are still here. Still living and waiting for our stories to be told—to tell them ourselves.

Unfortunately, my life story is proof that no amount of money, love, or support can protect you from a society intent on killing you for your Blackness. Any community that has been taught that anyone not “straight” is dangerous, is in itself a danger to LGBTQIAP+ people.

To go years without smiling in pictures, rarely being questioned why, leaves me to wonder how many signs of trauma we miss or ignore in Black children.

Masking is a common coping mechanism for a Black queer boy. We bury the things that have happened to us, hoping that they don’t present themselves later in our adult life. Some of us never realize that subconsciously, these buried bones are what dictate our every navigation and interaction throughout life.

The most important thing to realize is that you have the agency to make decisions that are in your best interest. The power to push back against society and even those in your own home.

When you are a child that is different, there always seems to be a “something.” You can’t switch, you can’t say that, you can’t act this way. There is always a something that must be erased—and with it, a piece of you. The fear of being that vulnerable again outweighs the happiness that comes with being who you are, and so you agree to erase that something.

Homophobia denies queer people happiness. I imagine there are a lot of queer people who would love to play sports or do traditionally “masculine” activities, but they hold themselves back based on the fear of interacting with people they can’t trust. People who have made it very clear that queer people are unwelcome despite the fact they have talent.

Although I eventually learned to like playing those sports, I felt a deep sadness the day I stopped jumping rope. It was the moment I realized that safety trumped satisfaction, even as a kid.

American history is truly the greatest fable ever written.

Symbolism gives folks hope. But I’ve come to learn that symbolism is a threat to actual change—it’s a chance for those in power to say, “Look how far you have come” rather than admitting, “Look how long we’ve stopped you from getting here.”

Saying that something was “a norm” of the past is a way not to have to deal with its ripple effects in the present. It removes the fact that hate doesn’t just stop because a law or the time changed.

He responded yet again, saying, “There were many things back then that wouldn’t be accepted now. I mean, if I lived during that time, I probably would’ve had slaves, too.” The class went silent. I remember how even the white kids looked shocked. It wasn’t what he said as much as how he said it. So matter of fact. I remember feeling hot. Like, angry hot. When I get really angry, I usually cry, and I could feel myself reaching that level.

Anytime I’m dealing with something personally, I look to see which ancestor before me already discussed it. I don’t let their work dictate my every action, but I know that I am in a much better position when I am informed by their work. I use my history as a tool to fight against my marginalization.

“I love all of my grandkids, but I love each of you differently. Because you each need different things.”

When she says, “I love each of you differently,” she doesn’t mean I love you less, she means I love you whole, and as you are.

Tell folks, especially those who are non-queer and non-Black, to “Make it Better.” Something getting better doesn’t happen without action, and you have every right to ask for that.

“Those are your relatives,” she explained. “Why would your relatives hurt you? White people taught y’all to be afraid of ghosts. That’s why they used to dress up in sheets like them. Ain’t no need to be afraid of ghosts of your own people.”