I once had a conversation with my dad after I had come out. He mentioned that he felt like I had been in some kind of deep, visceral pain my whole life, and he didn’t know how to fix it. When I came out, it was like a huge weight had been lifted on my shoulder. He swears to be my biggest advocate, even amid judgment from others.
Coming out has been an ongoing journey, but I’m so grateful to live in a city that celebrates queer love in all forms. But even as I’ve celebrated queer love for others, I’ve never stopped asking myself, “am I queer enough?” This is in part because I come from a Pakistani, Muslim community where queerness existed in the whispers of an uncle we don’t talk about and the existence of a marriage equality act that was acknowledged with nothing more than lip service. In practice, queerness existed in other communities but wasn’t accepted in ours.
There are family members and people who probably want nothing to do with me. They may wonder why God has brought this on my family, and what my parents have done to have a daughter like me. So, I had to pass a threshold, present the evidence, and legitimize my identity as a queer woman to prove that it’s worth it to live authentically. I knew that acceptance wouldn’t arrive at my doorstep in a neatly packaged box – in some instances, it wouldn’t come at all. Should I cut my hair short, affix a pride pin on my jacket, or place a “queer” sticker on my laptop as an outward sign of my identity? Even more, was it worth the judgment that would come with being my authentic self?
Coming out was especially challenging because I also didn’t grow up seeing my identities as a queer brown woman represented in media. Characters with skin that gleams in the sun are often diluted, disregarded, or kept out of the limelight that is reserved for their white counterparts. When queer characters appear on my screen, they’re often stereotyped, white-washed, or tokenized. What I needed was to see queer brown women, queer Muslim women, queer disabled folks, to feel like I was being seen. I want to see more queer South Asian women featured in movies and news stories. I want to look at three-dimensional, resilient, and authentic characters who made me say, “that’s exactly how I feel.”
I am abundantly vocal about being queer because I want to be that source of representation for others. The idea of intersectionality is a reminder that I am everything at once. I am queer. I am Pakistani. I am the daughter of immigrants. Celebrating pride means that I can feel safe bringing all of these identities to the workplace and feel like I’m not only seen, but also appreciated for my authentic self. My mother once told me, “God has made you this way” in reference to my queerness. This has opened the door to accepting every part of my identity from my Muslim faith to my queer identity.
I also owe it to myself to love authentically. I don’t owe anyone an explanation of whether I’m queer enough. I didn’t choose to be queer, but what I do choose is to live authentically, engaging in dialogue about queerness in communities of color. The way that I approach this dialogue is with empathy, not judgment, and respect for people, beliefs, and experiences that differ from my own.
There’s no right way to be queer. I’m a queer brown writer in Seattle, and I’m still learning that I don’t have to justify my identity to others. The LGBTQIA+ community is comprised of people who are activists and poets and storytellers and engineers and biologists, and I’m right there with them, finally ready to be seen for every part of my identity.
Although I’ve come to terms with my identity, I want to see more communities, companies, and organizations taking steps to support the LGBTQIA+ community through action, not just performative ally-ship. Until people stop assuming that I’m straight because of my brown skin, until family members stop asking if I have a boyfriend or have moved on from this “phase of my life,” until there are gender neutral bathrooms in every building, until I see more queer people of color being represented in C-suite positions and speaking out about their identity, I will continue to continue conversations about queerness in communities of color.
I haven’t always had the language to talk about my identity, and maybe you don’t have familiar language to talk about the LGBTQIA+ community. Still, I encourage you to have those conversations not just when it’s easy, but when it counts. Educate yourself and others about the origins of the pride and queer liberation movement. Pride is a time to celebrate the lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans, queer, questioning, intersex, asexual, and all other sexualities and identities that are not encompassed in the acronym (LGBTQIA+), community to come together and celebrate their resilience. It’s also a time to highlight the work of queer Black activists like Marsha P Johnson, a bisexual trans woman who led the Stonewall riots. As my friend eloquently stated in his recent Instagram post about Pride, the gay liberation movement is “unmistakably and undeniably a Black movement, rooted in Black resiliency, resistance and survival amid generations of brutal trauma and pain at the hands of the state.”
I also hope that I can be a source of representation for other queen brown women out there, still finding their voice. I am fighting for us.
Aleenah Ansari (she/her) is a journalist who works at the intersection of technology, education, and storytelling. Her identity as a queer, Pakistani woman empowers her to tell stories about communities of color that are committed to lift as they climb. She hopes to inspire the next generation of designers, writers, and makers by making them feel represented in the stories she writes.