"Don’t you dare stop now", an open letter by Stephonne
Photo credit: John Brant
Don’t you dare stop now
I remember growing up and feeling like an alien. My mom would always say that was nonsense, roll her eyes, and reference my physical birth. I loved Hercules but I also idolized Xena for VERY different reasons. Batman was awesome, but I’d make believe I was Catwoman and my ear always caught the power and range of female voices. So I sang along to their songs and imitated them. Young boys and girls told me it was “gay” to do so, and my mom would laugh at me when I’d booty pop and gyrate like music video girls in the living room. It took a while to really understand why. Social cues came crashing down on me while everyone around me seemed to understand the rules of the world just fine. Music became my refuge to cope with all of that. My parents record collection was my safe space. Coming out was the last thing on my mind, so I hid there. Expectations of how Black men are supposed to be and behave to survive in this world were other factors, and my dad held those expectations. He bought me an alto saxophone and guitar but he wouldn’t accept my music dreams until his last days. He wanted to see an athlete when he saw me. He instead saw me join drama club and use my money to record in studios. In addition, abuse by other adults and children always confused me about what kind of man or person I was supposed to be because no one ever seemed to do what they’d say or be exactly who they claimed.
Developed hyper-vigilance had me trying on the identities of other kids who seemed to be happy and accepted for a very long time. I’d also try on what I saw on TV and in movies. Nothing ever quite fit. Queer representation in the media wasn’t really a thing yet and AIDS took so many from us who were finally figuring out what it could mean to be queer, love whom they wanted, and be treated with dignity and respect. Survival seemed to translate to people pleasing and my proverbial closet became lined with Dan Savage’s weekly column, shopping center underwear packages, and muscle magazines. Porn, hookup chat rooms, and quick glimpses of Queer life on cable also filled it. But the representations of Black men I saw in queer culture were ones of fetishization and I was taken advantage of by many men throughout my journey because my value wasn’t something I could see anywhere. Alcohol provided this sweet dreamlike state that’d become a daily nightmare and even when I was “out” I still saw everything that I “needed to” or that I “should be”, outside of me. So I chased instead of attracting and I stayed stuck in the same places instead of growing and embracing change.
I mentioned all of that because we often like to skip past the “hard stuff” and many want the fantasy of how it is to be queer nowadays, with little interest in the prices paid by all of us just to be standing here and able to say, “I’m Gay.” My journey has been rough, incredible, abundant, lonely, sad, and full of both love and loss. I’ll even admit there was a time that I thought misery and my hardships were the fuel for my work. It was a trap and a lie. I don’t know who needs to hear this, but being miserable is not something that we need to be to create.
When I felt like stopping and ending my journey, I’m so happy I didn’t. Therapy over the pandemic helped me to take my life into my own hands. There were a lot of great things that came from the past two and a half years but more of those days were hard than they were easy. It was going through the healing of those hard days that lead to acceptance, and a discovery of the joy and fun you can hear on my new EP, SIS: Side B. Therapy and the writing of material during the pandemic held up a mirror to me that showed my baggage. I unpacked it with my therapist and accepted my past. This new music helped me understand my present and see the beauty in what is instead of what isn’t. There is so much power in right now and with it I’ve been loving-on-me hard. Alcohol is no longer abused to get through my days and I became aware of when the fun times became pain and blindness. Performing and discovering music through a healing lens and without the crutches of alcohol and hookup apps was like finding my sight again. I found my focus, a chance to be a better version of myself, and the opportunity to truly arrive as the artist of my dreams. Now I’m a reality and I made the decision to be. That took a lot of self-love and courage but resilience is in my blood and spirit. When you see or hear me now, you see and hear 100% Black and gay as fuck me. I’m unashamed to be Stephonne. And as Beyoncé sings, “you won’t break my soul!”
I dare you as a reader to embrace the younger version of yourself and forgive it for the things you couldn’t have possibly known. We are adults now and we have a say. Many of us are now removed from those past circumstances and if you still feel trapped, break free in any way you can figure out how. Music and acting were my ways. Peace and opportunity are waiting for you on the other sides of fear and perceived failure, and I dare you to heal instead of trying to escape. The most radical thing we can do is to love all of who we are without shame or apology. Choose you and not the comfort and pleasures of anyone around you. Being alone doesn’t have to mean that you are lonely so focus on you and your people will come. They may not come in large numbers of followers and their likes/reactions but all that is meant for you can be yours if you claim it. So liberate yourself because you’re the best bet that you can make. I’m living proof and truly living is a fight all in and of itself, sis. You don’t ever have to be somebody else you don’t want to be again. We need YOU. You are a perfect piece to this puzzle and it’s time to stand your ground and take up every inch of your space. Be brave and let’s give true and intersectional Queer Liberation another try. It’s time to get off of our apps and back into our real life worlds to fight. Let’s do it loudly while we still can. Our lives depend on it.
-Stephonne