Art School Sex Ed: Exploring Sexuality and Love as a Queer Black Girl in College

i think for me the transition to college has been jolting-- suddenly, you're immersed in a world wherein theory, you have all of the power, and nothing is off-limits, nothing is taboo.

image @queercosmos.

by Erin Davis.

I think we all have had, at one point, the distinct misinterpretation of college being one giant frat party, which doesn’t end until you fail out or, somehow, manage to BS your way into a degree. And how can we not? Every quirky romantic comedy about it frames ye old college days as one giant, liquor fueled orgy that you stumble through for four years straight. 

And though one should never, ever take rom-coms aimed at 20-somethings to heart, they did get the tiniest sliver of it right; whether it be through tinder flings or tentative sexting, I’ve felt like I’ve done more exploration of my sexuality, preferences and romantic interests in the last month than I have in the last 4 years of my life.  

I think for me the transition to college has been jolting-- suddenly, you're immersed in a world wherein theory, you have all of the power, and nothing is off-limits, nothing is taboo. In high school, the biggest challenge I had was coming out, and walking through my life with my chin up and back straight post that decision. And that was a huge moment for me, and a process to work through. But since starting my freshmen year in art school, I’ve suddenly transitioned to being in an environment where being queer is the norm, and is openly expressed and explored. 

Dually, the pressure one feels to have romantic and sexual experiences is almost absent-- before my freshman year, it felt that I was constantly behind everyone else, and the lack of experience-- not to sound like an after school special -- was weird or embarrassing. So it’s relieving to finally be in a place where that can be something that’s explored individually without judgment or expectation.  

However, now that I’m increasingly exploring relationships and situationships with both men and women, a different kind of pressure is manifesting more strongly-- the internalizations of gender roles instilled in me from childhood. By which I mean, in short, the patriarchy. 

Yes, yes, I know-- I can hear the groaning now. But for me, and I’m certain other queer black girls like me, the patriarchal influence of how women should love and be loved, act and be acted towards, and perceive and be perceived as are all influenced by a social structure that dictates that women be confined to traditional roles and queerness be outside the question altogether. 

Even my blackness adds stipulation after stipulation, as within that particular community, there are gender roles and hierarchies that I was raised with and among. So trying to remove myself from these things, these sticky institutions that have such an intrusive influence on my internal life, has been difficult. I find myself knawing my fingernails thinking of what my family might say, what people might call me if I date outside of a race, or what roles I feel obligated to fill in a relationship versus what I actually want out of a partnership with the same or opposite gender. 

Realistically considering what I want sexually, romantically and within partnership, I have to ask myself hard questions about what dictates my decisions, preferences, and reservations. 

How much of my romantic preferences are informed by stereotypes and archetypes I’ve seen recycled in media and uplifted in my communities? How has the racialized misogyny I’ve internalized reflected in the way that I look at myself, and what I want and deserve in a partner? And is the lack of exposure to happy queer relationships made of up women like me the reason I feel so lost when approaching relationships with girls?

I’ve accepted that these are things I might never find concrete answers to-- speaking to other queer women in my life, I know I am not alone in that. We are all just searching for ways to navigate love and partnership, to feel valid in a world teeming with structures built to invalidate us. But I’d like to think that decolonizing the mind is similar to radicalizing the heart-- it’s about unlearning self-hate and erasure, and reclaiming boundless love for yourself first and foremost. And so, I think that’s where I’ll start my journey to the answers.

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Erin is a writer, filmmaker, and journalist who explores documentary and stylized media through her work. Through this work, Erin strives to uplift the narratives and experiences of marginalized communities and subcultures; her visual and written media explores the intersections of identity, culture, and art, and ties these concepts to youth culture and activism.