The Lovers
In Loving Color: How it Feels to Love a Black Dyke
By Cheyenne Edwards
“How does it feel to love a Black woman?”
Back in 2019, R29Unbothered, a platform by Refinery29 “made by and for Black folx, celebrating [our] strength, power, and beauty while seeking to elevate [our] culture,” posted a new episode of their “Dear, Black Love” series featuring Crystal Anderson and Kiesh Herman, a Black lesbian couple. The video made its rounds online, with Kiesh’s quote, “Loving a Black woman feels like a privilege,” sparking a wave of universal praise and “period!”s from non-homophobic Black Twitter, myself included. I play that video every time it pops up on my timeline, and without fail, I cry every time. Why?
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When I used to daydream about love, I’d dream in color. I fantasized about the love between Black lesbians: pairs of brown hands intertwined, full lips puckered and pressed against each other, two heads full of coordinated afros or braided hairstyles side-by-side. The idea of falling in love with another Black lesbian was sacred to me. It meant locking into love without compromising my identity or over-explaining my existence, defying the media’s heteronormative portrayal of “Black love.” The love between Black lesbians meant that my Blackness and queerness could coexist. Growing up in a Caribbean household, I was taught that these identities were contradictory.
Despite having a strong community of Black lesbian friends, I didn’t see many real-life examples of Black lesbian love while coming out. Most of my Black lesbian friends are in interracial relationships (which is fine; love me some Loving v. Virginia!). However, to be the only one amongst them with a strong preference for other Black lesbians can feel alienating. After several failed talking stages, I started to feel wrong about my preference and on the verge of forgoing my principles.
But then I met Tiffany.
Tiffany and Cheyenne by Patience Ojionuka
Tiffany Harris (she/they)—a 25-year-old artistic wunderkind made of sugar, spice, and everything nice—and I connected on Lex, a notoriously white queer social (formerly dating) app that replicates old-fashioned newspaper ads put out by queer folks to find community. We were brought together by our mutual exasperation with the white queer dating scene and interest in dating other Black lesbians.
Our first date was, ironically, the week after Pride 2023, at the AMC 34 Street 14 theater, where she was mildly late and I was early (our signatures). We went to see The Blackening (typical). I felt comfortable enough with her to recite Nicole Kidman’s iconic AMC pre-show monologue. We laughed our hearts out in a half-empty theater. Afterward, we got some overpriced halal food and walked up to the Hudson Yards. There, we settled down and they rolled us a joint, which was a turn-on.
After some hits and first-date pleasantries, I asked her for consent to kiss her. As our makeout got progressively more intense, I thought, “I hope she doesn’t ghost me.” I’d had my share of decent first dates, but there was something between us that I was determined to explore if the universe would let me. Today, we’ve been together 10 months and counting, eagerly awaiting our 1st anniversary this July.
Illustration by Gabriella Analise of Eclectic Collective
Tiffany and I exercise our Blackness in different ways. Her family is African-American with roots in the South, and mine is Afro-Caribbean from the small island nation of Grenada. We playfully argue whose borough is the best (the answer is Brooklyn, but they insist on Manhattan). We casually and affectionately refer to each other as “bro” and “nigga.” When she hops the turnstile, she opens the emergency door for me, an act of dykey chivalry that makes me feel like a princess. Our relationship is strengthened by our bond of being Black New Yorkers (amongst other things). As someone whose personal brand heavily relies on this persona, not having to code switch or dial anything back feels like home. Isn’t that what a romantic partnership should feel like?
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The lesbian community loves its white mascots—from the 1990s, actresses Ellen DeGeneres, Rosie O’Donnell, Jodie Foster, and singer Melissa Etheridge came to mind when someone mentioned “lesbian.” In the early 2000s, Katherine Moennig and Leisha Hailey, some of the only lesbian actresses of The L Word cast, were prominent mainstream lesbian sex symbols. Today, amongst our Gen Z sapphic knitting circle, the it-dykes include King Princess, the queer band boygenius (though its only lesbian member is Julien Baker), Reneé Rapp, and newly crowned Chappell Roan. While I engage in parts of this culture—as it’s the currency to connecting in queer spaces—it rarely feels like my own.
My “dyke-cons” are those who look similar to me or those I can relate to: Cheryl Dunye, Da Brat, Queen Latifah, hell, even my parasocial archenemy, Lena Waithe. I’m not alone in this experience, as many Black lesbians and other lesbians of color even refrain from referring to themselves as such because of the lesbian identity’s mainstream association with whiteness. This saddens me because Black lesbians have just as much a claim to queer history as their white counterparts, even though many of us don’t even realize it.
I refuse to let whiteness colonize queer culture’s melanated history. When I walk into a queer space arm-in-arm with Tiffany, we are often the only Black lesbian couple in a mile radius. Occasionally, we’ll see others, but very few. I don’t think interracial dating is a problem in the Black queer community—rather, I don’t think Black queer people dating one another is as encouraged by online culture. Most popularized queer couples—real and fictional—are usually all white or interracial. Black queer love exists in the margins because the beauty of our romances isn’t as trendy or commodifiable as heteronormative “Black love.” Why is this? Why can’t the public fawn over Nicey Nash & Jessica Betts or Queen Latifah & Eboni Nichols like they do Beyoncé & Jay-Z or Will Smith & Jada Pinkett? (Well…homophobia, yeah, but let’s pretend that isn’t an issue.)
“Black love” to me, a lesbian, is the unique, comforting understanding Black lesbians have with each other. It’s being able to exist without question, explanation, or justification. It’s an unspoken love language I share through our skin colors and cultural backgrounds. Being with a Black lesbian partner is important to me because it bolsters my distinctive Black lesbian identity, especially in queer spaces where it is easy to feel like an afterthought. While being in a Black lesbian relationship can feel isolating most of the time, I’ve become proud to take up space.
Pride 2024 will mark my first Pride with a partner, something that will no doubt make me emotional in the middle of a night partying with alcohol, weed, and poppers in my system. I’ll think about Crystal & Kiesh: how 4 years later, they’re engaged and have welcomed one of their prophesied children—a baby boy named Jack—into the world and are still as strong as ever, a true testament to “Black love.” I’ll probably gaze lovingly into Tiffany’s eyes and kiss her under the stars like at the end of a fairytale I can’t wake up from.
So, how does it feel to love a Black dyke? Like an absolutely fucking liberating honor and privilege.
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Edited by Ava Emilione
This was a cute article, and i can relate. I love it!!!!