Just like you, maybe, I saw the Vanity Fair portrait of Michael B. Jordan and Ryan Coogler and I thought it was beautiful. Two straight men showing affection for each other. And just like you, maybe, I followed the online criticism that it sparked. Hundreds of comments poured in that seemed to fall into one of the following categories: (1) That’s gay. Get this out of my face. (2) Why does America need to keep emasculating Black men? (3) Don’t worry, this is brotherly love not the other, bad kind of love. (4) We should celebrate love because all love is beautiful. And just like you - maybe - I was prompted to wrestle, yet again, with the impossibility and absolute necessity of queer men of color on screen. Which is, of course, not to say only queer men of color but all diversity within color so that we avoid the danger of single stories and false paradigms.

This is not about Michael B. Jordan’s and Ryan Coogler’s sexuality; it never was. It’s about what people feel when they see avatars of themselves doing something they’ve been strictly warned against.

In 2014 Nate Parker, the writer-director-star of the Sundance hit The Birth of a Nation (the soon-to-be Best Picture nominee, not the deeply deeply racist 1915 movie), sat down for an interview with BET. He said that to “preserve the black man you will never see [him] play a gay role.” The video has since been taken down but, like an elephant, the internet forgets nothing; an article on Ebony and a now-defunct URL from Bossip have preserved this quote for posterity.

“Preserve the black man.” “Emasculation of black men.” There is a clear parallel between Parker’s promise and the Vanity Fair portrait criticism: maintaining value through preservation of image.

We care about images of ourselves on screens, whether they are our own or similar to our own. Just as we check selfies to make sure we look good in them, or untag pictures of ourselves if they don’t represent who we want to be, we also care about the celebrities and roles that are meant to represent us. Pictures and celebrities are our avatars; they stand for us when we’re not there. They are our proxies in fantasy worlds and historical re-tellings and red carpet photographs. They are meant to be just like us. Maybe.

People of color have far fewer avatars on screen than our white counterparts. And with that comes a protectiveness of how our avatars are presented. I read Nate Parker’s promise to never play a gay character and the comments about the “emasculation of the black man” not as hate, but as terrified preciousness. The fear that one of the limited reflections they see of themselves will be devalued and shattered with the slightest wrong move.

Nate Parker is not the enemy. Nor are the commenters. Though their statements are hurtful, myopic, and couched in femmephobia, their unfortunate words are only symptoms of the problem. The real enemy is the system that has so disproportionately limited the options for The Other that all of us “Others” are left fighting over what it means to be a Good Other. Like Kerry Washington so brilliantly said, “we have been pitted against each other and made to feel like there are limited seats at the table.”

Part of the privilege of whiteness is the diversity of white avatars that appear on screen. There is less preciousness because there are so many options.

Now let’s revisit that selfie analogy. It’s like white people were handed smartphones with unlimited storage and data and told to take selfies of themselves while people of color, all people of color, were thrown one disposable camera with the same instructions. All we can do is take 27 photos and hope - against all odds - that one of them will look just like us. All of us. Maybe.









Additional reading: Son of Baldwin | Jason C. Harris | Robert Jones, Jr.