At a bisexual event, one of the attendees handed me his valet ticket.

I wasn’t wearing a uniform. I wasn’t running chasing cars. I was at the entrance of an outdoor patio. I was just there, one of two Black people in the space. And yet, something about me was…incomprehensible. Perhaps nonsensical in the context of that event or, something about me that at least, read “that black man is definitely the help.”

An innocent mistake? maybe. But I am always the one left carrying your innocent mistakes and they’re heavy. It’s always me trying to rediscover hope in humanity from innocent mistakes.

And if I were petty (which I am not), I might add that based on his attire and presence, maybe I should have been the one handing him my valet ticket — if appearance really determined who belonged where.

And this is just one example.

We haven’t gotten to the microaggressions, the comments about where I’m really from, and the chasm of cultural disconnect of Bi+ white culture like lemon bars, finger guns, and rolled up pants, when so many bisexual black man cannot fathom attending a social event. The cultural and internalized stigma can be so strong for black men that being outed, thought of, in proximity, or clocked as queer feels lethal.

Is it race? Is it class? Let’s talk about it.

On the day Donald Trump was sworn into office — the same day United States honored civil rights icon Martin Luther King Jr. — history folded in on itself.

Trump, a man who built his campaign on unraveling DEI (code for the blacks and browns), gutting education, and rolling back civil protections ascended to the presidency under the banner of a man murdered for fighting for those very things.

It was a funeral disguised as a celebration. A nation laying wreaths at King’s grave with one hand while seemingly signing away his dream with the other. And that same contradiction, the honoring of progress while quietly dismantling it, echoes in queer spaces today.

As a Black Bi+ man from L.A., White queerness remains the default, the dominant narrative, the framework that determines who belongs and who remains unseen. But also who is protected.

And yet, in this political moment — where white nationalism has found a stronghold in mainstream conservatism, where “anti-wokeness” is the rallying cry of policy rollbacks, random job cuts, government efficiency, and where diversity itself is under attack — white queer spaces are not a refuge. It’s a microcosm of the broader power dynamics.

The distance feels greater and more acute than ever. Genuine solidarity, if it ever existed, has fractured along racial and class lines, reminding Black queer folks of a truth we’ve always known as Americans, but have now been forced to admit in the context of our queerness.

And in a time when the same ideologies that put Trump into power are stripping away voting rights, banning books, and erasing history in plain sight, that failure feels even more glaring. I want to point out that Donald Trump and his campaign never lied about their plans and priorities should they ascend. This was a mandate by half the American public even if they would be negatively impacted by his goals.

So where does that leave me, as a Black bisexual man? Where does that leave you, as a queer person of color?

Well, Let’s start by talking about Barbie.

Barbie

For decades, Barbie, the doll, was the epitome of beauty and aspiration for young girls. If you were a Black girl, I imagine you had three options: accept her as she was, color her face with a permanent marker to make her more black, or hope that Mattel would be pressured into (benevolently) creating a “Black Barbie.” Which they did.

Even when the world was given Black Barbie, AKA Christie, (thank you, Mattel), she was never the main girl was she? Racism and femicide wasn’t cured. Christie was a response. She was a “give them something to shut up,” not a foundational part of the original vision.

White queerness — like Barbie — was never supposed to represent all of us. Not Black folks, not Latinos and Asians, not trans folks, not bisexuals, and in many ways, not even white women.

And who gets represented, whether as a doll or in a film, is not a trivial matter. Representation is an act of power. Just as Mattel eventually made a Black Barbie without ever shifting its beauty standard, white queer organizations and spaces have permitted for occasional diversity without shifting their leadership and power structures. This is the feeling of scanning the “about us page” or speaker line up in hopes to see that one face who is always non-white, queer, neurodivergent, and disabled, who is supposed to signal this space is safe for you.

But, let’s go deeper. Black girls didn’t just own white dolls — they cared for them. They pretended that they were the same. But our issues aren’t the same.

Similarly, Black queer people often support, fight for, and participate in white-led queer movements to satisfy the part of themselves that exists in the shadows. A part of us we sacrifice to not lose access to our racial community.

And many times, these are the only options we have for community. If we never delineate, if never admit that hey, gay white men have different needs than black trans women. Hey, the bi+ community face different mental health needs than gay/lesbian folks, Hey, where are all the lesbians and trans men!? then we still add injury, now under the guise of progress like DEI, flags, and dolls.

Just as Mattel kept white Barbie at the center while Christie, Teresa (Spanish Barbie), and others existed on the sidelines — white queerness owns mainstream LGBTQ+ efforts — offering just enough representation to ensure that the aesthetics of queerness remain predictable.

Activism, Art, and the Tension of Futility

Sometimes activism feels futile. The Trump 2.0 era has revealed: no amount of advocacy could stop the national backslide into anti-DEI, anti-immigrant, and anti-trans policies. And yet, here we are — with Barbie’s latest milestone being a Black trans woman, LaVerne Cox, immortalized in plastic. Progress as the trans community faces federal violence, side by side. Only capitalism survives.

I’ve tried to wrap my mind around how we got here, and if I’m the only one noticing this contradiction. But progress I suppose includes moments (decades) of regression.

All I can think about is how I want to use my time — my limited time — on this Earth. How do I maintain an attitude that isn’t awful to be around while being honest about how I feel.

In this climate, it’s tempting to wonder: Is activism about change, or is it just a way to keep ourselves busy? To feel like we’re doing something of significance?

For me, activism is not a choice. It’s the air I breathe, the space I occupy. Because every time I center a Black man in a white space, every time I center bisexuality in any space— through my writing, my music, my advocacy — it feels radical, like I’m doing too much. But I know now that I’m simply existing. I’m trying to breathe in the dominance of whiteness and the suffocating constraints of the gay/straight binary.

I’m trying to convince you that I belong here and I’m not the valet.

We will always be pushing against a structure that was never built for us, never meant to hold us. But do you ever wonder — when does the pushing stop? When does it get easier?

And that’s why community matters. At the end of the day, it may be the only thing that outlives policies, presidents, and political regimes. It doesn’t get easier, power just shifts hands. And oppression follows the form of the day.

What Happens Next

When we de-center white queerness, we don’t just get “more diversity” and new barbies.

We get daily interactions that are freer, bolder — built for all of us, not just those who fit whiteness. We get a movement where queerness isn’t also filtered through whiteness before it’s validated in films and dolls. Where liberation isn’t rationed. Where no one has to shrink.

Reaching for this utopian space, just feels better even if it’s not possible.

And here’s the truth: white queer people will benefit, too.

A movement for gender pay gaps, same-sex marriage, government reform, any movement built in service to white supremacy, specifically colonial thought and settler mentality, will always cause collateral damage.

White supremacy rewards palatability. It forces all of us — white and nonwhite — to perform in ways that are “safe” for the mainstream.

But queerness was never meant to be safe. It was meant to be honest. It’s a counter-narrative, a breaking free, of the unworthiness so many of us grow up feeling.

De-centering white queerness doesn’t erase white queer voices or contributions, let me be clear. Pointing out that I’m not the valet is not about your personal suffering or the heart ache you have experienced; this is about oppressive systems, which are a culmination of actions and beliefs by mean individuals that make you believe I’m the valet.

De-centering, and pushing back, frees us all from behaviors and beliefs that harm those who don’t fit neatly in boxes.

So the question is — do you want to be liberated and how do you feel about liberation for others?

And if you need proof that representation without liberation is a dead end, look no further than Barbie.

Mattel gave us a Christie and Teresa, Black Barbie, Spanish Barbie, and trans Barbie — but never a world where they were the default. We’re left to imagine this world. And it’s naive to think power would also follow representation, but representation without liberation is aesthetics and discourse. So that’s why it’s on YOU to be the change you seek. Expecting someone/an institution/a group to center your issues will set you up for a life time of heartache. Do what you can to build your own.

We are in a moment where we can only see 50 feet ahead and have to be grateful for the life we do have. But movements are never built on certainty. They’re built on faith, resistance, and the refusal to accept crumbs.

As Ursula K. Le Guin once said:

“We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable. But so did the divine right of kings.”

Change doesn’t start with permission. Change has to be taken, just like power. It takes effort every day.

And while speaking up may feel futile, what if MLK had done nothing — where would we be today? Let’s also imagine if he had lived and continued his work — where would we be today?