By Caroline A. Streeter

Even though queer people of color (poc) are virtually invisible on both the large and small screens, images of queer African Americans are far more prevalent than that of other non-white ethnic groups – a by-product of the fact that African Americans occupy the lion's share of roles for all poc. As Black queer characters increase, more fully human depictions should follow. While stereotypes prevail, glimmers of hope in some movies and TV shows point towards future possibilities. Moreover, even the most troubling stereotypical depictions are rich repositories of information about American culture.

In recent years it has become increasingly clear that the "Black Drag Queen" is fast becoming a fixture in contemporary American culture, enormously influential as a style icon and a disseminator of original vernacular expressions, such as the seamless integration of the "Hey girl" greeting. Importantly, the Black Drag Queen is not necessarily homosexual; celebrity figures like RuPaul have embodied her without necessarily foregrounding a sexual desire for men. The Black Drag Queen may or may not be transgender, a phenomenon that was apparent in the Jennie Livingstone's 1991 documentary Paris Is Burning. As such, Black Drag Queen figures exhibit a complex interplay of gender identity and sexual practice. Black Drag Queens have popped up in a number of Hollywood films. Wesley Snipes portrayed one in To Wong Fu, Thanks for Everything! Love From Julie Newmar (dir. Beeban Kidron, 1995) and Jesse Borrego, a Latino actor, played an Afro-Latino Queen in I Like It Like That (dir. Darnell Martin, 1994).One of the most memorable examples of Black Drag Queens in primetime is the skit "Men on Film" on In Living Color (1990-1993), in which actors Damon Wayans and David Allen Grier played the flaming film critics Blaine Edwards and Antoine Merriweather. While the skit was criticized for its homophobia and "questionable taste" in Primetime Blues: African Americans on Network Television (2001), critic Donald Bogle has written, "…(the characters') movie reviews were sometimes spiked with hilarious sexual innuendoes" (378). As a frequent viewer of In Living Color in its heyday, I can attest to the guilty pleasure that I derived from watching Blaine and Antoine. In the language of Black vernacular, "I knew they were wrong but the shit was funny." My own straight Black Dad appropriated one of Blaine and Antoine's signature phrases, "Hated It!" which they used to describe any film that focused on attractive women rather than "mens."

Although "Men on Film" engaged in the most flagrant of stereotypes, I think it also tapped into a vein of affection that Black communities hold for their gay male members. As the late Marlon Riggs suggests in his 1994 documentary Black Is, Black Ain't homophobia among African Americans is an ambiguous sentiment replete with contempt as well as a grudging love. Gay Black men are referred to as "men like that" among their own; characterized as "funny" as in "He's a little funny, but he's ours." Riggs observes that love between men, "brother to brother" is deeply threatening to African American men because they have throughout American history struggled to assert their masculinity in a racist society. The fear of expressing love not only fuels homophobia, but also poisons interpersonal relations between Black men in general, as well as relationships between Black men and women. As Riggs argues, the imperative for Black men to assert unambiguously heterosexual masculinity is deeply damaging to them as individuals and corrosive for the African American community as a whole.

The tensions that surround Black masculinity in America are strongly evident in the Black Drag Queen figure, for she is not just a parody of femininity but also an emasculated man. The long history of white American fear of Black male sexuality makes the Black Drag Queen a safe and attractive icon precisely because she tends to be asexual, even when emulating classic white Hollywood Goddess figures known for their sexual appeal.

"The Faggot" is another example of Black gay male roles in media. The Faggot is not unlike the "swishy" characters of In Living Color, although he can be effeminate without being a flamboyant queen. Unlike many queens however, the Faggot is unambiguously homosexual –- he desires sex with men and is not afraid to say so. In this regard, the Faggot need not be effeminate, but merely identifiable as (or perceived to be) a gay man. As Riggs suggests, the possibility of sexual love between men is deeply threatening to straight Black men and is, from the evidence of film portrayals, often punished. The landmark film Menace II Society (dir. Allen Hughes and Albert Hughes, 1993), while known for its graphic portrayal of the brutal murder of Korean storeowners by a young Black man, also depicts a shocking murder of a Faggot by the same violent character. In the scene, a Faggot that is addicted to drugs offers to perform fellatio on the straight man O'Dog for a few dollars so that he can get a fix. O'Dog allows the Faggot to kneel in front of his crotch then shoots him. I think that this scenario anticipates the current cultural obsession with the phenomenon of "the Down Low" – purportedly straight Black men that have sex with other Black men. The scene in Menace presciently references the Down Low by suggesting that O'Dog doesn't necessarily object to a blowjob from the Faggot, but decides on a whim (and perhaps because he is with a friend) to kill him. The idea that gay sex need not threaten a Black man's masculinity hinges upon the separation of sexual identity from sexual practice. Even more telling is the fact that many men on the DL claim the dominant position in anal intercourse – unlike in oral sex – apparently it is more masculine to give than to receive.

More nuanced portrayals of gay Black men, while rare, do exist in Hollywood film and primetime television. In Six Degrees of Separation (dir. Fred Schepisi, 1993), Will Smith gave a convincing portrayal of a duplicitous young man that insinuates himself in the home of an upper class couple that believes he is a friend of their son's. Admirably, the film was frank about the character's homosexuality without stigmatizing him. Still, published gossip about Six Degrees reported that Denzel Washington advised Smith not to kiss a man on camera. Although many straight actors (Black and white) portray gay characters, a line is drawn at physical intimacy. Spike Lee's 1996 film Get On the Bus depicts the journey of a diverse group of Black men to the Million Man March of 1995. The movie includes a gay couple in yet another chaste relationship, a problematic yet laudable attempt to portray the spectrum of the Black male community. Primetime television has depicted queer Black male characters that while asexual, are rendered by skillful actors. Vondie Curtis-Hall gave a sensitive, Emmy-nominated portrayal of a transgender man in an episode of ER that aired on November 17, 1994. One of the best examples of a queer male character in TV remains the teenaged Ricky Vasquez in the lamentably short-lived My So-Called Life (1994-1995) portrayed by Afro-Latino (and out!) actor Wilson Cruz.

Just as there are few white lesbian characters in mainstream media, there are significantly fewer Black lesbian characters in film and television than Black gay male roles. This asymmetry is a function of gender as well as race, and the ways that they work together to marginalize Black women. Historically, Black women were scarcely differentiated from Black men in that they were expected to work just as hard doing the same kind of labor. In slave societies Black women were distinguished as female (i.e., they could bear children), but they were not "women" in the sense that they were not differentiated in terms of gender. Unlike white women, Black women did not inhabit a different sphere from men (private versus public) they were not protected by marriage (slaves could not legally marry) nor did they have any right to their children. The condition of slavery and the lack of a defined domestic sphere for slave families undermined Black women's access to a feminine gender identity. Similarly, the fact that enslaved Black men could not exercise the heterosexual and patriarchal privileges of white men contributed to the lack of strongly defined gender roles in slave communities. Such conditions give an idea of the historical context for the way that Black women were eventually stigmatized for displacing men as heads of households, leading to the stereotype of the emasculating Black matriarch.

Given this history, one of the most familiar Black lesbian character types, "the Bull Dagger" or "Butch Dyke," is not a significant stretch from familiar notions about straight Black women as particularly strong and powerful. The Butch is often portrayed in relationships with other Black women who are invariably Femme types. Although the Butch/Femme pairing is in some respects a stereotypical depiction, it is an interesting contrast to images of Black gay men who are often isolated and/or asexual characters in film and television. A Butch Dyke makes a small but memorable appearance in the HBO film Introducing Dorothy Dandridge (dir. Martha Coolidge, 1998). The biopic about the late actress includes a scene in which Dandridge's mother's lesbian companion virtually rapes the young Dandridge in the guise of checking to make sure that her virginity is intact. While disturbing, the film does not suggest that this violation was any worse than Dandridge's later abuse at the hands of her white husband.

Two films feature significantly larger roles for Butch Dyke characters. In the Hollywood film Set It Off (dir. F. Gary Gray, 1996), Queen Latifah gives a terrific performance in her first role as a star in a feature film. As Cleo, a member of a bank-robbing foursome of Black female friends, Latifah infused a provocative and unabashedly Butch character with her own power and charisma. The film went as far as to stage a very sexy encounter between Cleo and her luscious blonde girlfriend (a Black woman). In the scene, the girlfriend models lingerie that Cleo has given her by standing over her lover, gyrating suggestively as Cleo caresses her thigh. When Cleo's friends walk in on the pair they cringe with embarrassment, yet the film depicts their homophobia without endorsing it. Set It Off was a fascinating film to watch in a majority African American audience, where viewers groaned loudly during scenes of Cleo and her girlfriend while rooting for her to survive a desperate gun battle with the LAPD.

Recent examples of series in primetime and cable TV point to new possibilities for Black lesbian characters. An episode of the new sitcom Second Time Around recently featured the lesbian sister of the male protagonist coming out to her family. Although the sister is not at this point a recurring character, the coming out was handled with humor and respect. More significantly, Showtime's current hit The L Word stars Jennifer Beals as biracial Bette, one of the anchoring characters of a series that features a group of lesbian friends in contemporary Los Angeles. Bette's character is complex – she faces challenges that stem from her biracial identity and negotiates bumpy relationships with her white lover and with her Black half-sister, a musician and ex-drug addict played by Pam Grier. The series has potential, especially if it becomes less lily-white.

As might be expected, the world of independent film offers more examples of complex and compelling queer Black men and women. Rodney Evans' magnificent 2004 feature Brother to Brother links contemporary Black queer identity to the legacy of Black gay and lesbian artists in 1920s Harlem. It portrays love and passion between Black men and in queer interracial relationships. Evans' marvelously acted film is a revelation and a breakthrough in the depiction of lesbian, gay, bisexual and transgender (LGBT) African Americans. The project is also notable in that Evans himself is an out gay man, as is at least one of the lead actors, Ray Ford. Although primetime and cable television in particular have discovered the marketability of gay male characters – Will and Grace, Queer Eye for the Straight Guy, Queer Eye for the Straight Girl and Queer as Folk – these shows remain overwhelmingly white and, with the exception of the Queer Eye shows, peopled by (purportedly) straight actors. The range of obstacles that stand in the way of well-rounded Black gay characters is actually eclipsed by the obstacles that dwarf a Black actor or director who is actually out of the closet. While gay Black characters in film and television are rare enough, it is even less likely that they will be cast with an actor that is out. The stigma of homosexuality is a virtual given in Hollywood for white and non-white actors alike. Given these circumstances, a film like Brother to Brother is a treasure and a model for film and television in the future.

Cheryl Dunye's 2001 HBO feature film Stranger Inside was the much-anticipated follow-up to her ground breaking independent film The Watermelon Woman (1997). In a way that is similar to Brother to Brother, Watermelon Woman imagined a connection between a contemporary Black lesbian and a Black woman of the past. The Black protagonist, played by Dunye herself, discovers that there is more than meets the eye to a silent film actress known for her portrayals of demeaning Mammy-type roles. Dunye embarks on a journey of discovery about the "Watermelon Woman," in the process unearthing information about Black actresses in film history and the repressed historical legacy of Black lesbians. Dunye's Stranger Inside is a prison film featuring Black lesbians – a daring undertaking given the problematic stereotypes that have been depicted in that type of film scenario. In fact, the Butch is a pivotal figure in Stranger and both main characters, Treasure and Brownie, the woman Treasure believes is her mother, are Butch Dykes. In Dunye's film, lesbian families are divided along lines of race, with Black, Latino and white women pitted against one another. Moreover, tensions around color are apparent among the women. As in the straight Black world, light skin and long hair are prized features that denote beauty in women. In fact, Butch and Femme lesbians are often distinguished by skin color; masculine Butches are darker than feminine Femmes. In Stranger the protagonist Treasure competes with another woman for a light-skinned and longhaired beauty played by a racially ambiguous actress that could be African American, Latina or mixed. Like Rodney Evans, Cheryl Dunye is out as a lesbian artist.

Although the situation for LGBT people of color characters can seem grim, it is critical that audiences respond to the representations that are out there by supporting empowering examples and challenging dehumanizing ones. Letters and emails to production studios, television channels and screening venues are effective, and it is especially important for studios to realize that audiences want to see more excellent work like Brother to Brother and Stranger Inside. One can attend independent film festivals such as the Pan African Film Festival and Fusion (both in Los Angeles) to discover the films that feature LGBT poc. It is critical to mobilize mass attendance for films that actually get distribution during their first opening weekend since these numbers are used to schedule future screenings at first-run venues. Supporting film and video artists can include scheduling their work at schools and community centers. Finally, although this essay has focused on Black gay and lesbian characters in film and television, it is clear that fully human representations of people across the spectrum of racial and sexual identity benefit all of us. As LGBT people of color know well, one must be willing to reach across sexual difference (to poc brothers and sisters) and across racial difference (to LGBT brothers and sisters) to fight the good fight.

Caroline A. Streeter is an assistant professor of English and African American Studies at UCLA. Her research analyzes the figure of the "mulatto/a" in post-Civil Rights literature, film and popular culture. Her essay Faking the Funk? Mariah Carey, Alicia Keys and "Hybrid" Black Celebrity appears in the forthcoming anthology Black Cultural Traffic.