The Complication of Race, Class, and Queer

Complication is the common thread that ties queer, race, and class. Queer complicates. Race complicates. Class definitely complicates. Thinking of the combination of queer, race, and class reminds me of the adage…you can have it good, fast, or cheap-pick two. What is it to be black and queer? Poor and black or poor and queer? What is it to be poor, black, and queer?

The mythical they presented in Allison’s text is what further complicates queer, race, and class. We understand that queerness, brownness, and poorness as standalone adjectives, place the individual into the hushed whispers and categories of they; yet, the combination of any, further alienates, isolates, and forcibly creates a normative hierarchy within a community that has already been dismissed from the mainstream. The hegemonic forces that elicit normativity are inescapable for those individuals who belong to a feared or hated group. It would seem ideal to seek haven amongst those who are most like you; however, you may find, as did Allison, that even one seemingly significant shared trait does not prevent you from becoming damned to a lifetime of otherness. Each community of outsiders creates, in itself, another group that they refuse to accept. The lesbian community (from my experience) is still largely segregated between black and white. The poor community is still largely segregated based on ethnicity. There are similar struggles within both groups; yet, there is an underlying “I’m still better than…” Fear, a secondary complication of race, class, and queer, is responsible for this mentality; furthermore, the binaries that structure our current society perpetuate the idea that security for some means oppression for others. One of the most poignant quotes from Allison is “ The horror of class stratification, racism, and prejudice, is that some people begin to believe that the security of their families and communities depends on the oppression of others…it a belief that dominates this culture (35).

One of the most interesting facets of Anzaldua text is the juxtaposition of tradition/culture and queerness. The idea that cultural loyalty often prevents the exposure of one’s true self is fascinating. Culture often stymies our individualism. What is most important, in my opinion, is to merge the cultural identity with self. This is especially important for me as I am often seen as the other by my family. I am the only person in my family who is married to a white man. While the societal views on interracial marriage have drastically changed (luckily), I still belong to a family that doesn’t quite get it. “What’s wrong with a black man?” “You think you’re white now?” “They (my husband’s family) will never accept you.” Despite my frustration and hope that my relationship won’t always be an issue, I don’t begrudge my family or my culture for the suspicions that they each hold respectively. I am happy with myself, my husband, and my life. My marriage to a white man no more negates my cultural and familial ties than a Hispanic woman who identifies as lesbian or a poor white woman who identifies as gay. Reading these texts has further validated my comfort in my own skin.