I remember the days when she would tell him that he’s going to hell.

When she would constantly belittle the value of his character. Not only to him but also to me. Over and over, this was what I heard. This was what I saw. It felt as if my sibling was suffering from living in my truth.

As if being a Black, queer woman in the closet wasn’t nerve-wrenching enough.

When my brother “came out” as gay, it only gave me more anxiety. That moment alone pushed me farther in the closet and it wasn’t even about me. This was his chance to finally feel free from the chains of societal standards. This was his time to embrace his whole, authentic self for everything that he knew he could be. Yet, I could only think about one thing.

“If my mom says this about him, I can only imagine what she would say about me.”

So, what did I do? I allowed that to consume my thoughts. Day in, and day out I would fade back to those moments. Back to what he must have felt to face a backlash against his true identity. Back to how I felt while harboring such a vast part of the person that I was.

How did people expect me to feel?

The thought of exposing myself to that same form of treatment worried me. I didn’t want to feel exiled. I didn’t want to feel discriminated against. It made me feel alone in hiding who I was on the inside while living to exist as a more accepted version on the outside. I felt forced to date men to be “normal” and to fight the “sin” of being attracted to whom I chose.

I felt that to be her perfect daughter, I had to stay in the closet even longer.

Feeling as alone as I did, to my surprise it only got worse. This time by my openly, Black, gay brother himself. In a space where I felt that I would be the most understood, his response couldn’t have made things seem any worse.

“What can a woman do for you?” was his reply to me expressing that I like women.

Back then, I decided to just tell him that it was a mere joke. Bringing up a memory about my boyfriend was easier to do than enduring constant ridicule. That lack of support and acceptance from my direct family forced me to live a lie. I chose to live and to love a lie, even though I knew who I was.

Living like other Black, Queer women who felt locked in the closet.

I remember a #ClosetMoment being in a long-distance relationship with my girlfriend at the time, and I was still living at home with my mother. Instead of coming out and telling her that I was going to visit my girlfriend or even tell a little white lie, I made up this extensive lie about having to travel cross country for a military obligation.

I had told my gay brother the truth about my whereabouts in hopes that he’d keep my secret not only because of the sibling code, but because he knows how it feels to be Black, queer, and in the closet. However, this was the furthest thing from true.

My mom said to him “I know your sister isn’t doing anything military-related”. And instead of defending me, he quickly responded with “I don’t know why she lied to you because I told her to tell you the truth about her going to visit a girl.”

Can you believe that America? It really be your own people.

When I found out about this conversation, my anxiety shot through the roof! How was I supposed to explain to my very religious mother what this Chicago kid was doing in Baltimore without outing myself?

So, I waited.

I waited until I was going to be gone for a weekend (this time I was going to be on military duty) to leave her a coming-out letter. With this, I hoped that she would have the weekend to let it soak in that 2 out of 3 of her children are gay. Then we could talk about it when I got back home.

She read my letter.

She sent me a little cute text message.

But when I returned home, we both allowed it to be swept under the rug as if the letter was never written. Just like most black churches in America, I still felt like my own family made me live by a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy. It was because of this that while growing up, most of the conversations about queerness were centered around it being either wrong, a sin, or an abomination.

This strong belief alone can force its LGBTQ members to live in the closet.

Or worse.

To be consumed by self-loathing.

I did, however, feel a lot safer playing sports. At least there it was “cool” to be tough. It was cool to be more masculine. It made you look like a threat to your opponent’s so that all of the fans, your friends, family, coaches, and teammates cheered you on. You were celebrated for having a demeanor that led you and your team to a victory.

Sports were also a place of comfort for me because, as people love to say, “at least 90% of the women's basketball team is gay”.

Well?

Am I supposed to argue that?

My gay teammates were also some of my closest friends. I spent most of my days with them. They were the ones that gave me a space to feel like I could finally let my guard down. Just like girl friend groups in the TV show Betty, I was able to be my most authentic self.

HBO Original TV show, Betty

I was able to be more than a Black, queer woman in the closet.

Having those few queer friends that supported me and encouraged me to come out on my own time were those who I appreciated the most. In an article written for the Atlantic, Preston Mitchum states:

“Certainly no one should be forced to come out. Our journeys are just that: personal. The last thing a closeted LGBT individual needs, faced with a hostile social environment, is to feel like those individuals most accepting of his or her identity won’t support him or her unless that identity is publicly proclaimed.”

It was the thought of all of that negativity around being Black and being Queer that negated the positivity that my queer friends gave me. It seemed that their voices and opinions became simple whispers in a world that was yelling at me to be straight.

I wish that I would’ve known back then that I serve and believe in a loving God. That in this world, He would never want me to live my life unhappy and unfulfilled simply because of who I choose to love.

I wish that I would’ve known to love ALL of me unapologetically. That I don’t have to live up to America’s heteronormative standards OR the queer community’s standards of the type of lesbian that I must be.

Instead, I can be exactly who I am 100% of the time and the only people that deserve to be in my life are those who appreciate that.

Those who love that.

Those that love me.

My biggest lesson learned from being in the closest was to love myself. I learned to never silence myself for what I truly believed in. I had to learn that I have a place in this world.

And even if who I am, what I feel, or what I have to say makes others uncomfortable…

I STILL have a purpose, a place, and a seat at the table.

There is a purpose in living through these stories.

There is a purpose in telling these stories.

These stories matter.

#YourStoryMatters