HOT FLASH Ep.015/ TRUE LGBTQ+ STORIES: Being Black and gay
we’re featuring a listener letter from a young Black gay man who shares his coming out story and the unique challenges of being queer in a Black community. While his family has been supportive, his experience navigating cultural expectations, homophobia, and the pressures placed on Black men offers a raw, honest look at how identity, race, and sexuality intersect.
LISTENER STORY:
Hey Josh,
I’m 26 now, but my coming out story started a few years back, and it’s something I’m still kind of living every day. People think once you come out, it’s over—you say the words, and then life just goes on. But for me, especially as a Black man, it’s been a whole process that doesn’t just stop with telling my family.
I grew up in a tight-knit Black community outside of a mid-sized city, and from as early as I can remember, the message was drilled in: Black men are supposed to be strong. We’re supposed to be providers, protectors, leaders. You don’t cry, you don’t show weakness, you don’t “act soft.” And you definitely don’t admit you’re gay.
So imagine being a little kid, already feeling different, already knowing there was something about me that didn’t line up with what was expected. I couldn’t even find the words for it at the time, but I felt it. The weight of not fitting into that mold. And the scariest part was thinking if I told the truth, I’d be letting down not just my family, but my whole community.
When I finally came out, I was terrified. I had run through every possible scenario in my head—being kicked out, being disowned, being told I wasn’t welcome at the table anymore. But when I told my family, their reaction surprised me. My mom cried, yeah, but not out of anger. She cried because she was scared for me, scared of how the world would treat me. My dad was quiet for a long time, and I thought he was done with me. But then he hugged me and said, “You’re my son. That doesn’t change.” My siblings just kind of rolled with it—cracking jokes like siblings do, but making sure I knew they were cool with me.
So in my house, I had love. I had acceptance. And that’s something I don’t take for granted, because I know so many people don’t get that.
But outside my house? That was a different story.
The community I grew up in didn’t take it the same way. Suddenly, I wasn’t just “that smart, respectful young man with a future ahead of him.” I became “that gay boy.” People I’d known my whole life stopped talking to me. At church, I’d feel eyes on me, whispers behind me. Some folks didn’t hold back—they came right up to me with Bible verses and speeches about how I was living in sin, how I was confused, how I was throwing away the sacrifices of our ancestors by choosing this “lifestyle.”
And that’s one of the hardest parts about being Black and gay. It’s not just about who you love. It’s about the weight of history, the responsibility you’re told you have to carry as a Black man. I can’t count how many times I’ve been told: “Black men already have it hard enough—you don’t need to make it harder by being gay.” As if my existence, my truth, is some kind of betrayal. Like I’m weakening the whole race just by being who I am.
And I see the difference when I look at my white friends who came out. They’ve got their struggles too, don’t get me wrong, but no one tells them they’re letting down their whole community by being honest about who they love. That’s a unique weight for us, and it’s heavy.
Over the past few years, I’ve learned that living openly as a Black gay man means fighting on two fronts. In the broader gay community, racism is real. I’ve been told “no Blacks” on dating apps. I’ve been fetishized, objectified, excluded. And then back in my own community, there’s homophobia, expectations of masculinity, the idea that being gay makes me less of a man. It’s like no matter where I go, I’m too much or not enough for somebody.
Some days, that weight feels like too much. Some days I question if it’s worth it. But then I remember younger me—the kid who felt different and didn’t have the words for it. I think about how badly I needed to see someone like me living openly and unapologetically. And I realize maybe that’s my purpose. Maybe my being visible gives some younger Black kid out there the permission to breathe a little easier.
I don’t have it all figured out. I still struggle with the whispers, with the side-eyes, with the rejection that comes from both inside and outside my community. But I know this: I’m still here. I’m still Black. I’m still gay. I’m still me. And I refuse to apologize for any of it.
—Anonymous