In May 2019, I went home to Columbus, Ohio to visit my mother. It was her 60th birthday, but I didn’t just come home to celebrate her. I was also there to finally begin the process of relieving myself of the shackles of assumed heterosexuality by letting my mom in on the fact that I am queer. Maintaining the illusion of being straight was making me extremely unhappy and my art bland as hell. My queerness, like my Blackness, is one of the best parts about me. It’s the lens through which I move my politics, my creativity and my pleasure and I refused to keep that a secret any longer.

For LGBTQ+ people, non-queer culture seems to only focus on and celebrate our “coming out” as the grandiose act of courage, while rarely following up to hear the unsavory details of what it’s like for us to grow into and live in our queerness. On Lil Nas X’s debut album Montero, we get both the elation of living out loud and the space to hold the very real pain of being Black and gay in a society that is still deeply queerphobic. 

Born Montero Lamar Hill, Lil Nas X quite literally rebirthed himself on Montero as the queer, free Black person he was always intended to be. With every track on the album, he invites us on the journey as he takes control of his story and stakes out space where being Black and queer isn’t a reason to disappear or hide parts of himself in order to be successful, or more importantly, be loved — by lovers, by family, by his peers, by Black people, by other queer people, and ultimately, by himself.

As an out Black queer woman who didn’t make the leap into the abundance of my sexuality until I was in my late twenties, Lil Nas X’s willingness at age 22 to name the joys, defeats, desires, and fears of this sacred life through his music makes Montero one of the greatest albums of my lifetime. 

Montero now boasts 11 of its 15 songs on the Billboard Hot 100 in its first week and is the most streamed album on global Spotify for the second week in a row. This comes on the heels of his wildly successful first single, 2019’s “Old Town Road,” going 15-times platinum, making it the highest certified song in RIAA History.

While I don’t believe that lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender and queer people owe anyone disclosure or “outness,” I cried tears of joy when Lil Nas X came out as gay at the height of the success of “Old Town Road,” and continued to chart, obliterating the longstanding fear that queer Black people can’t be out and successful artists. In fact, Lil Nas X’s talent for storytelling and writing songs based on the fullness of his sexuality and lived experiences (along with his marketing genius) might be the main ingredient to his success in connecting with global audiences. As pop music historian Louie of LouiesMixtapes states, “He is the mainstream — and he is gay and Black.” 

***

I came out to my mother at a restaurant in the Short North neighborhood of Columbus. I chose a public setting because while I’m always hoping for the best, I’m not naïve to the dangers of coming out as queer in a Midwestern Baptist Black Family. I know my mom loves me and I love her, but Black parents tend to make heterosexuality a requirement for their love, care, and support. 

When I finally blurted out, “Sooo….I’m not no boring heterosexual,” while sitting next to my six-year-old niece as my twin sister nervously laughed because she already knew the details of my tea, my mom responded pretty well. “I already knew that. And that’s fine, as long as you don’t become a man.” Though she was “fine” with me being queer, she used that moment to state her new boundary around my identity. I had to stay recognizable to her as her daughter, which continues to be her conditional acceptance of me, my queerness, and the people I will love in my lifetime. 

If we’re all being honest, most parental love comes with conditions. Even if you haven’t seen your parents attend a religious service or read a religious text, you’ve probably heard the phrase, “Honor your father and mother, so that your days may be long.” When you’re young, Black, and living in your parents house, dishonor can literally mean anything to them and can have dire consequences. On “Tales of Dominica,” Lil Nas X refers to his fraught relationship with his mother and the pain of his “broken home” that was so severe that he wanted to stay far away: “Can’t go runnin’ back to home / can’t face her face.” As a grown woman who has her own home and has experienced some significant success in my life, dishonor can still be as simple as me correcting my mother on someone’s pronouns. For Lil Nas X, it’s his audacity to be openly gay. 

Montero begins with the title track and first single, subtitled “Call Me By Your Name,” where Lil Nas X’s audaciousness is on full display. Swatting away the Biblical curses thrown at queer people like flies, Lil Nas X courts his queer lover. “I’m not fazed / I’m only here to sin/ if Eve aint in your garden / you know that you can / call me when you want / call me when you need.” 

After coming out, my greatest challenge was figuring out how to love in this new world of femmes, dykes, studs, and bois. While figuring out how I wanted to present in my queerness, I was finally able to admit that I wanted to seriously date and be in intimate romantic relationships — something I had just given up in my phase of being straight. Being the hopeless romantic dyke that I am, I love that with every hook and verse, Montero normalizes the desire for love while also setting the standard for how he wants to be loved. 

In the music video for my favorite song “Thats What I Want,” Lil Nas X declares his desire for romance, sex and partnership with a man (played by his former real life boo and back-up dancer Yai Ariza). In a pivotal scene, he pays tribute to his saving grace and everlasting love of music while wearing a wedding dress as he accepts a guitar from Pose star Billy Porter at the altar in a church. His love and his desires are holy, sanctified by all of the queer elders rooting for him. 

This moment between Lil Nas X and Porter is especially powerful considering Porter personally knows the battle of being Black, gay and forcibly closeted by the music industry as the price for success that may never come. At 28 years old, Porter released a single and music video “Show Me,” romancing a woman. 

At 22, on the shoulders of artists like Porter, Whitney Houston, Luther Vandross, Carolyn Franklin, Sylvester, Jermaine Stewart and countless others who were never able to confirm their queerness in public while they were alive, Lil Nas X is loud, explicit, and intentional with his queerness, his love and his lust on songs like “Scoop,” featuring Doja Cat and “Industry Baby,” featuring Jack Harlow. With the celebratory sounds of trumpets sprinkled throughout the album, Lil Nas X affirms his own existence as regal, joyful, heaven-sent. 

Despite Lil Nas X’s massive commercial success and likeablity, Montero also illustrates the challenges of being Black, queer, and visible. In the stand-out song on the album,“Dead Right Now,” Lil Nas X takes on the pitfalls and aftermath of being out and famous through his relationship with his mother. In the bridge, he takes on her voice in a “drunk” phone call he describes her making to him, filled with insults, financial requests and eternal damnation. “You ain’t even all that pretty /You ain’t even all that nigga / You ain’t helpin’ out with me /God won’t forgive ya.” He’s shared in past interviews that his mother deals with addiction to drugs, something he also refers to on this track: “Told me she’d be clean but I’m knowin’ that her a** is a deceiver / My momma told me that she love me, don’t believe her.” 

On “Sun Goes Down,” Lil Nas X has clearly internalized his mother’s insults about his looks, wondering if his skin is too dark and his lips are too big. The song flows like the blues of a diary entry about his suicide ideation and loneliness growing up in an anti-Black, colorist, queerphobic world. It’s reminiscent of Lil Nas X’s appearance on LeBron James’ HBO series The Shop: Uninterrupted. In a barbershop full of apparently cisgender, heterosexual men, the one time Lil Nas X is asked to join in on the conversation, he reminds everyone in the room what Black children have known to be true for most of our lives. 

“I’m growing up to really hate this [being gay] shit.” Kevin Hart, who had previously “joked” in his 2010 stand-up special that he would do everything he could to prevent his son from being gay, gaslit Lil Nas X, asking “Hate what?! Why?” Lil Nas X responds, “Homosexuality. Gay people. If you really from the hood, you know.” Lil Nas X carries this fear and loathing into “Sun Goes Down,” when he sings, “These gay thoughts would always haunt me / I prayed God would take it from me / It’s hard for you when you’re fightin’/ And nobody knows it when you’re silent.”

On the tracks, “Dolla Sign Slime,” and “One of Me,” Lil Nas X tackles the entertainment industry’s demand for heteronormative assimilation and cosplay of hypermasculinity in hip hop. “Dolla Sign Slime” bangs like a diss track to all the rap boys, which makes it the perfect song to feature our fearless Hot Girl Coach Megan Thee Stallion. Name a better duo to put the industry on notice that the femmes and gay boys can rap and clear out a Nieman Marcus with the best of them! 

On the final track, “Am I Dreaming,” featuring Miley Cyrus, he sings, “Never forget me and everything I’ve done.” Erasure is a risk every Black LGBTQ+ person faces when we declare exactly who we are in the face of an anti-Black, queerphobic world that loves to bury our elders in unmarked graves. As cheesy as it may seem, Black queer people still deserve symbols of hope that go beyond same-sex kisses on the VMA stage from people who don’t outwardly navigate the world as queer people (a trended started at the award show by Madonna, Britney Spears, and Christina Aguilera). 

While I absolutely experience this album as sonically perfect– it was such a treat to hear him sing his ass off on “Lost in The Citadel” and “Void,” and give me a solid club bop with “Scoop” — I don’t need Lil Nas X to be exceptional. I just want him to keep going. Like his musical predecessor Janelle Monáe when she released her visual album Dirty Computer at the same time she named herself as pansexual, Lil Nas X will also make ripples through culture and music with Montero in ways that only time will tell. 

When I listen to Montero — an album with no skips — and take in the intentional imagery from the music videos and the year-long rollout, I’m reminded that naming myself as queer was only the beginning. While I’m known for celebrating the joys of queers escaping the ghetto of heterosexuality, this album has given me permission to mourn what I lost in my pursuit to be myself. When I came out, I wasn’t prepared for how it would feel to go from people being deeply interested in my love life to never asking me if I’m being loved up at all because of their discomfort around my queerness and the gender of the person doing the romancing. Lil Nas X’s music and any Black artist who gets into the weeds of queer love give all of us permission to dig deeper into our desires as queer folks.

I no longer have to allow the same society that has hidden and erased my Black queer ancestors from my history and culture to also tell me how loud and flamboyant I get to be with my queerness. I don’t owe anyone the performance of thin love for myself, my community, and the type of sex I enjoy just because it’s queer (and so delicious that I actually believe most straights are jealous). I will never forget what this Black gay boy from Lithia Springs, Georgia, has given me and the world through his music. And neither should you. 

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On April 20th, woven in-between the breaking news of Derek Chauvin’s conviction in the murder of George Floyd, TikToks of 16-year-old Ma’Khia Bryant made their way onto our Instagram feeds. Her face was now precious enough to be turned into shareable graphic art and her life was important enough to be the subject of thoughtful prose on Twitter. 

It’s a rare, extraordinary occasion when girls who look like Ma’Khia become the center of our attention. After a few clicks, I was brought to my knees with grief when I discovered that I was seeing Ma’Khia Bryant because she had been killed by Columbus Police Officer Nicholas Reardon. 

I read that she had a passion for lipgloss, bright colored Crocs, and pranks. She was young, Black, and fat. When her face appeared on my social media timelines, I saw myself along with every Black girl I’ve ever loved in her laid baby hairs and smile.

See, I’ve been a fat Black girl with a bad attitude since I was a child. To be clear, I wasn’t just your standard fat baby. Everyone loves a fat baby. I was a fat baby, toddler, teenager, and now adult. 

Growing up in Columbus, Ohio, I celebrated the fullness of my midwestern-born body in the reflection of my mother’s thighs that I used to hold onto when she danced with my twin sister and I to our favorite song, “The Double Dutch Bus” by Frankie Smith. 

As I grew up, I was confronted with the limits of my abundant preteen body after a Limited Too catalogue arrived at my house. Limited Too was the clothing brand for girls when I was kid. I was obsessed with the cute little pink polos, blue jean skorts, and camis with the built in bras that everyone in my school seemed to have before me. I flipped through the catalogue to select the clothes I was going to beg my grandmother to buy me. And with the sweetness that only my granny could deliver, she informed me that Limited Too didn’t carry my size. My granny opened her beloved JCPenny catalogue, flipped to the “Women’s” section and told me to pick out something for school from her catalogue instead. As you can imagine, there weren’t any bell bottom jeans or t-shirts with “Angel” printed across the chest in this part of the catalogue.  

I quickly learned what I could and couldn’t do as a “bigger” child. I balanced the art of staying in a child’s place while also being hyper aware of the things I was “too big” to do anymore. I was learning how to shrink myself to be worthy of just enough care and protection from adults. And when they failed to offer me the type of tenderness we should give to all children, I was expected to do it for myself.

Ma’Khia Bryant was a child who spoke like a child, and thought like a child. But from the moment that police officer fired into a crowd of adults to murder her, I watched as our world refused to understand her as a child.

Even after a year of heightened protest to demand that the police stop executing Black people and passing it off as public safety, I’m amazed that our communities still have a hard time expanding this universal demand to include all Black people. Even a Black girl who did something as common as carry a self-defense weapon to protect herself. She was a child, on her own, in the foster care system. The world taught her to fend for herself and then killed her for it.

At 32 years old, I still see myself in the life of Ma’Khia. Because make no mistake, under this white supremacist delusion made possible by capitalism and grotesque anti-Blackness, we are all vulnerable. We can’t pick and choose which Black lives deserve protection and which don’t. If we aren’t fighting for all of us, we aren’t fighting for any of us. 

The New York Times recently reported in great detail how the police, the State of Ohio and the broken foster care system as a whole failed Ma’Khia Bryant. But these are not the only failures. We fail Black girls like Ma’Khia in life and in death when we refuse to center their humanity and right to live full lives. We fail Black girls like Ma’Khia when we refuse to show tenderness to all children. And most importantly, we fail Black girls like Ma’Khia when we refuse to interrogate the ways we carry out harm on our own bodies and the bodies of Black folks we don’t see as a perfect vessel for care and protection. 

Individuals carry out countless offenses against fat Black bodies on a daily basis and it’s killing all of us slowly but surely. It’s devastating that the final offense was Ma’Khia Bryant being killed by the police. 

Ma’Khia’s knife and foster care profile shouldn’t reduce how much we fight for or care about Ma’Khia’s life. If anything, it should increase our concern for how vulnerable and helpless and unprotected she must have felt. We shouldn’t need to know all of the details to know she didn’t deserve to be gunned down by police and then blamed for her own death.

Ma’Khia should still be here. She deserved to be here and be loved well, simply because she was born. She deserved to age with resources to make her life easier, despite her circumstances. Ma’Khia, like all of us, deserved to be treated with tenderness in a world where she wouldn’t have felt the need to protect herself because she was already made safe. Ma’Khia deserved to feel safe. So many systems failed to make that her reality.

Ma’Khia Bryant, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, Mike Brown, Tamir Rice, Eric Garner and Erica Garner were all viewed as big Black people when their lives were stolen by the state. The biggest and Blackest of us are being targeted and killed. Therefore, we must center the voices and organizing strategies of the biggest and Blackest if you intend see the other side of liberation. We will never get there if we don’t eradicate anti-Blackness and fatphobia.

We must listen to the teachings of Sonya Renee Taylor who proclaims “The Body is Not an Apology,” but is deserving of love and tenderness right now, as it is. If we can love ourselves in our bodies that carry all of identities and complex lived experiences beyond meaningless scales of value, then maybe we can love other bodies just as fiercely. If we stop making apologies for our bodies, our Blackness, and how we’ve had to fight to survive the ever present myth of white supremacy, then maybe we can extend that same type of understanding all Black people but especially our Ma’Khias. 

We all should be students of the Fat Futures Collective to explore the complexity of fatness in hopes of moving the needs of bigger bodies from the margins of our radical imagination to the center. I welcome us to listen to independent philosopher Tassiana Willis who makes their theories on the state’s subjection of fat darker skinned femmes accessible to the masses through their Instagram @ChubbyGoddess. And we must commune in the artistry and everyday living of fat Black artists like Jazmine “Da K.O.S.” Walker, Dom The Furious, Juh, and Kezia Harrell. These artists show us that liberation isn’t always a struggle. Specifically, the fat Black artist shows us that we are entitled to liberation and it can be actualized through a paintbrush, a twerk, a story, a self portrait, or rest. And if that is true for us, it can certainly be true for you too.

Everything about Ma’Khia’s story points to this Black child not being cared for abundantly well and  not trusting the care that she was receiving. If we truly believe that Ma’Khia Bryant should still be here, we must examine our own anti-Black fatphobia and ask ourselves how we plan to care for all fat Black bodies. Only then will we truly start to build the world we desire, free from oppression and violence. And don’t we all deserve to be free?

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