As a child, I thought all gay people were white.

By the time I was 18 and living in Detroit, being gay was no longer a “problem” for me. I was out of the closet, and my family and friends were supportive, even encouraging. Yet, as I set off for college, and grew more comfortable calling myself an adult, a man — a gay black man — I was convinced that no one would ever date or love me.

Growing up, I had rarely seen queer characters of color in the gay young adult books I read, in episodes of “Queer as Folk” I watched or issues of “XY” or “Out” magazines I stealthily bought at Barnes & Noble.

I spent most of my teenage years believing that love between two black men wasn’t even possible. To my queer white peers, an entire world of change was unfolding: Public support for same-gender marriage eventually led to its legalization nationwide, and queer people were appearing as the leads in more TV shows than I could ever watch. People even won Oscars for directing movies about gay white cowboys.