Duality, sure, but Prince was someone who openly sang about the public questioning his sexuality as a result of how he presented himself aesthetically. Ocean does wear makeup in the video for “Nikes,” but what does singing about a pretty boy who can fight have to do with Prince? If we’re going by Prince and the androgyny metric, one could just as easily look back to Cee-Lo and André 3000 at their peak, or contemporary artists like Young Thug. You could also scroll through August Alsina’s Instagram where he sometimes draws style inspiration from the Street Fighter character Chun-Li and veteran pro-wrestler Koko B. Ware.

This mode of exaggerated praise was also bestowed upon the release of Ocean’s last album, 2016’s Blond. Headlines boasted of its “radical queerness,” argued that it “redefines pop queerness,” hailed it as a “queer masterpiece,” and praised the album for how it “asks us to see queerness as the new normal.” But these were all statements from white writers embellishing black sexuality. If the job of a critic is to find greater meaning and purpose in art, their job should also be one of clear sight and equanimity. Ascribing such specific and pointed labels and meaning into the work of an artist who purposely submerges himself in ambiguity only achieves the opposite.

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Well-meaning or not, a handful of the glowing reviews surrounding Ocean are more indicative of a perception about black people’s relationship with sexuality and gender than what he’s actually offering fans.

In “A Lyrical Analysis of Queer Themes in Frank Ocean’s Music,” Chris Mench claims Ocean “infused his music with lyrics and themes addressing his sexuality — and the way in which it intersects with and complicates his racial identity as a black man — in ways both subtle and not-so-subtle.” The examples listed, however — references to songs like “Thinkin’ Bout You” and “U-N-I-T-Y” — don’t entirely speak to that complicated selfhood. For example, the piece notes how black people are more religious than the U.S. population. Yes, black people are more religious than most Americans, but they are also more likely to self-identify as LGBTQ than other groups. Mench’s argument contributes to the idea that Ocean is being exalted, in part, based on a false notion of what it means to be both black and LGBTQ — the idea that it is monstrously worse for us than it is for non-black queer people. The truth: there is a specificity to what black people who identify as LGBTQ come up against in our day-to-day lives, but specificity outlines the lives of all queer people across varied races and ethnic groups.

It can often feel as if there is a clamor for representation to the point where people are willing to magnify moments that are actually miniscule. All levels of progress should be celebrated, but within reason. And, in this instance, with the understanding that artists like Mykki Blanco, Young M.A, and Syd have spoken to queer realities with just as much clarity, if not more. It’s not about minimizing Ocean’s contributions; it’s about appreciating them for what they really are — snippets into a life that rejects rigid definition. It’s about understanding that he is still very much a person who lives in the gray, outside of bold categorization. Charles Pierce once wrote of the NBA’s Jason Collins, the first openly-gay pro-basketball player: “Let’s not make him more of a symbol than he wants to be.” We should allow Ocean the same respect. Anything else portrays a far more progressive reality than we actually live in. The Frank Ocean we have is more than good enough.