Black & Queer, That’s the Easy Part
When a Black person who is also single moves to Portland, Oregon, we know immediately how difficult it will be to date here, should we opt to do so. We know this, because two out of every three people reminded us of how “White” Portland is on our way out of wherever we came from. In my case, it was Los Angeles. And the people who warned me of Portland’s Whiteness did so less out of a need to educate me and more out of a need to express real concern. Difficulty in dating is obvious because moving to Portland increases the chances that we will date a White person by too-much percent. Since I have been in Portland, all but one of the people I have dated are White, for instance. No less, it means the White people we might try to date are very likely to be unfamiliar with Blackness beyond what they could come to understand from media and entertainment representation. It probably also means that the one or two Black people they developed close relationships with before they met us are accustomed to tolerating and trying to ignore their low-key racist bullshit. We will ultimately do that too, unless we decide to instead commit to providing an unrequested education.
This all assumes White people might date us, which they will probably not. Even if they were able to recognize our beauty and to find us attractive, they would likely be nervous about talking about or introducing us to their friends and families. Maybe they have done it before and it didn’t go well. Maybe they are unsure of how to have that conversation — White Americans can often have trouble navigating a course of action through the battles of what feels true for them versus what is expected of them. As such, it is easier for them to just not bother. The times we do find a White person to date, we more often than not quickly discover that they primarily or only date Black people. One of the first questions I always ask a White person I am considering dating is, “Have you ever dated a Black person?” The response is almost always either, “no” or “several.” Those who are experienced are refreshing, but also often cause us to constantly wonder if they are dating us because we are Black. And, just like that, we can go from being invisible to being fetishized…which is also being invisible. I have been fetishized for just about everything you have heard that White people believe to be true about Black people. I say “fetish,” by which I do not mean “kink.” There will be no kink-shaming here, I promise. But also, another person’s race or ethnicity cannot be your kink. That said, I am not in or of the kink community and will therefore not engage in conversation about “race play” — which is a different thing that you can search for information about on the internet if you are not familiar. That is not to say I do not have anything to say about race play and kink, but that I try to know my place in the public square. In other words, buy me a drink first, and we’ll talk. Racial fetishization is not about kink, however. It is actually just racism. It is rooted in colonialism, exoticism, and othering, even if, for the individual, it feels as though it is rooted in appreciation. When I say to be fetishized is the same as to be made invisible, I mean Black people deserve to be loved and respected for who we are and not for what one thinks we represent.
When a Black person who is also single moves to Portland, Oregon, they know immediately how difficult it will be to date here, and that is before taking into consideration any queer identity. I think it is now well-known that, in general, cisgender, White, gay men are the worst about sexual racism and other bigotry. While the rest of us in the progressive world openly criticize their offensive “no Blacks, no fats, no femmes” and “Asian twinks+++” profile descriptions, they persist, unwavering and unashamed, often with some Black Lives Matter proclamation thrown in for good measure.
I am queer, which, if not for my Blackness, should work well for me, since so is Portland. I am gay and transamorous. “Gay,” in my case, means that I am a man (I happen to be cisgender, if you are curious) who is principally romantically and sexually attracted to other men, and not typically romantically or sexually attracted to women. “Transamorous,” in my case, means that the men I am romantically and sexually attracted to are not all cisgender men (blessedly). And, there is an entire world outside of that binary that I find beautiful and for which my attractions are inconsistent and constantly teaching me all sorts of things about who I am as opposed to who I sometimes believe myself to be.
I bring this up because I want you to know, if you are not already aware, that being queer, even and maybe especially in a queer environment, requires the development of a complex vocabulary just as a starting place for engagement. Rather, it requires a complex and deeply personal vocabulary that we spend our entire lifetimes cultivating, crafting, shifting, and shaping in order that we might find enough courage at just the right moments to share them with people we don’t know very well. We do this with the aim of communicating something that feels like it should be simple — “I have a capacity for love that I wonder if and maybe hope overlaps with your capacity for the same.” It is not simple, however. It is vulnerable and frightening and risky. This gets more difficult when you are transgender (which I am not), or disabled (which I am not yet), or poor (which I am not anymore/yet), or fat (which I am not yet), or Black (which I will always be).
When a Black and queer person who is also single moves to Portland, Oregon, we know immediately how difficult it will be to date here because we know that as much as White, cisgender people would like to imagine they are everything, they are not. Just because we have surrounded ourselves by an entire city of people who are not likely to desire us does not make us undesirable. More than ever, we lean into our ancestries of fortitude and power because, when there is little to no other feedback, we need something to remind us that we are, undeniably and indisputably, The Shit.
Further, queer people (and perhaps straight people, I don’t know) who are single and decide to move to Portland, and who prefer a lifestyle of monogamy, for whatever reason, also know we will face a number of additional challenges. Monogamy is not the dominant queer culture of Portland and there are times when I have felt embarrassed of my preference for it in my relationships. There are very few people who have outwardly shunned or spurned me because of my penchant for monogamous relationships. No, I am more likely to get a confused and sympathetic look, followed by a slightly salted, “oh, okay” whenever it comes up. I always interpret that as they “know” I am unevolved as an adult human, but they respect my ability to make my own choices. Portland offers a buffet of options when it comes to ethical non-monogamy and follow-your-own-adventure relationship building models and, considering that, a surprisingly high population of cheaters as well. Ethical non-monogamy is a beautiful thing for those who are able to make it work well. I do not have such capacity within myself, however. Queer people (and perhaps straight people, I don’t know) who move to Portland all know that this is a thing because we all know some other queer person who moved to Portland before we did for an express purpose of being in a community with other like-minded non-monogamists.
This is not a problem, per se, but it certainly does further shallow the pool.
So, entering the Portland queer dating landscape as a single, monogamy-minded person is a bit tricky. But, as I’ve said, these are all things I knew coming in. I only mention them to you as a prelude to provide a backdrop for the one dating challenge I did not anticipate. None of the lessons I have learned in the course of my life about being Black, whether through the skillful and honest love of my parents or through my own experiences, and none of the lessons I have learned in the stumbly, fumbly course of becoming more whole and defined in my queerness could have possibly prepared me for what it would mean to enter the dating market in Portland, Oregon because of one silly, surprising challenge.
I moved to Portland in the summer of 2016 to accept and begin a position as Director of Music for the First Unitarian Church — a progressive and pluralistic religious center in Downtown. The move was right for me. The congregation is one of the ten largest in the denomination and, with ten ensembles and more than two hundred participants when the nation is not negotiating a public health crisis, houses likely the largest music ministry in the denomination. It is a well-respected program in Portland, and was carefully developed and nurtured over the span four decades by my predecessor. Moving here and taking this very attractive job was both a step up and a settling in for my career. I am grateful for that every day. However, the more important part of the shift from Los Angeles to Portland was my necessary escape from the psychologically agonizing weariness I felt for that place. Los Angeles is a lot like Christmas in that it is a wonderful place to talk about and make movies, music, and art about. It is romantic in the idyllic sense and it is a place for the creation of stories. And, like Christmas, the actual experience of it is often dismal and evaporative of the soul. I mostly hated it there. I mostly love it here.
However, in Los Angeles, though I was still a musician, that identifier had many faces. At the time that I left, I had been teaching high school music, directing music at two different churches (both Unitarian Universalist) on a weekly basis and gigging at a handful of others on the holidays, leading a community choir, and working as a freelance music director and vocal contractor for opera/theater, film, symphony orchestra, touring bands, recording artists, private events, and practically anyone who had a budget that didn’t feel like a waste of time. When I met people and they asked that dreaded “what do you do?” question, I could tell them I was a music director, and when they asked, “where?” I could say, “freelance.” Then would start the typical conversational scavenger hunt for information that would indicate to them whether or not I could be useful toward the progress of their own pathway toward stardom. The adage that ends with, “it’s about who you know” is not entirely representative of how life works in Los Angeles, but that truth fails to stop people from increasing their chances by meeting and spouting off their curriculum vitae to every person they possibly can, in every imaginable context. In any case, no one cared about what I did for a living unless it had the potential to help them.
When I moved to Portland to work full-time at a church, I expected it to narrow my focus. In a lot of ways, I thought about it as growing up — leaving the hustle of gig life behind in favor of a “real” music job. I did not, however, expect that such a move would narrow my identity. That, in and of itself, does not bother me. I love and feel honored to be able to do what I do. But, what I did not at the time realize is that Portland, Oregon is considered by many to be the most secular/least religious city in the nation.
Yes, of course I should have known, or at least I should have guessed it. Surely, a city with this much availability of high quality and high variety sex, drugs, alcohol, food, nature, and art would have, over time, developed a healthy boundary between itself and excessive religiosity. In a lot of ways, paradise is already here. Why would people, especially educated middle class White people, spend their energy seeking it out elsewhere? It makes perfect sense. Yet, frankly, it just never occurred to me. That is, it never occurred to me until I tried to date.
When a Black and monogamy-leaning queer person who is also single moves to Portland, Oregon, they should try their very best to not be a professional church person. No one in Portland finds this to be a sexy vocation, and certainly no one wants to hear about it. Somehow, when I moved my queer, Black ass from Los Angeles to this progressive and relatively free place where we collectively rejoice in the fact that “budtender” and “stripper” are respectable career options, I never imagined that the biggest obstacle I would face in my attempts to date would be my fucking job as a church choir boy. It truly is amazing.
Now, when people ask that horrific “what do you do?” question (people, we should all really just stop doing that), I feel my body tense and my anxiety rise. I try to talk myself out of assuming the date or the pre-date conversation has ended before it has begun as I muster up the confidence to coyly reply, “I’m a musician,” which leads to…
“What do you play?”
“I’m a conductor.”
“Oh wow! I don’t think I’ve ever met a conductor. What kind of music do you write?”
“I don’t write very much music these days. I think you’re thinking about composers. Conductors are the people that lead music groups. You’ve seen us in cartoons with the tux and the stick.”
“Right! I must sound like such an idiot.”
“Not at all. It’s a common mistake.”
“Where do you conduct?”
Now my brain is in full panic mode, with “fuck, fuck, fuck” on repeat at 152 beats per minute. I find that I am, once again, pre-embarrassed about talking about this job that I love. This confuses and further shames me. I find a way to feign confidence, or so I think, and stammer out, “Well, actually, I work for a church.”
This is the moment when I know whether or not there is a chance. In my experience, there are only three possible outcomes. In the best case scenario, he will say, “Oh cool, I (or my mother) used to sing in our church choir growing up. There’s so much I miss about that, but it got difficult when I started to come out.” Or, “Nice! I used to go to [Trinity] when I first moved here/first came out.” We will then usually talk about our religious histories and the place I work, and how I am grateful to be able to work in a place that is queer-affirming. Again, that is the best case scenario, which rarely happens. In the slightly more likely worst case scenario, I get to hear all about how the church(es) he grew up in spiritually (or otherwise) abused him and how he has zero tolerance or respect for the mindless, heartless sheep-people who are dumb enough to continue to believe in superstitions and follow power-/money-hungry pastors who will rob them of everything they have. I go on fun dates, y’all, let me tell you! In this instance, I do my very best not to start an argument that might hurt a very clearly already wounded person. I know that this is where he needs to be in order to heal from the very real damage that he survived. I know that, I do. I just wish he could resist shitting on me in the process. By this point, there are maybe twenty minutes left of this first and final date. Then, there is the most likely super-uncomfortable middle case scenario where he will try his best to show respect for me, even if he does not respect my job. The first question set is usually something like, “Oh my, that’s really interesting… But, you’re not religious, right? Like, you don’t believe in all that stuff, right? Is it just a job for you?” At this point, I can either decide that I am done and keep up small talk until the night ends, I can lie and say, “yes, it’s just a job,” or I can dive directly into Unitarian Universalism 101 to try to convince him that the reality is not as bad as his assumptions. None of these options are an ideal date night for me.
These conversations have become so stale that, these days, if I am ever on a dating app, I will include a disclaimer right up front. “I work at a church. Decide now whether that is a problem for you.” By this, I am sure you can tell that I am actually no good at dating apps, so I generally avoid them.
And truthfully, this very awkward reality in my life has at least one benefit, though I am not especially proud to admit it. There has been more than one occasion when some drunk, or grimy, or slimy person will approach me at a bar, and in a typically quite effective attempt to get him to go away, I will volunteer that I am a worship pastor at a church. In my case, the term “worship pastor” is just as true as it is false. That is not my title and no one calls me that, but also it is exactly what I do. So, I use it, because nothing shrivels the loins like throwing the word “pastor” out into a room in areligious Portland, Oregon.
