My name is Ivy. I am Ghanaian and Lebanese, two cultures that carry significant differences—one Christian and the other Muslim. As a feminist and a lesbian, navigating these cultural worlds has always been a challenge. The complexity of my identity is not just rooted in being queer but in the intersections of race, gender, and my cultural background. Growing up in a Ghanaian family, I was fortunate to have a loving and accepting family, but outside that bubble, the wider world wasn’t as kind. The people around me were quick to place my sexuality under a magnifying glass, to either oversexualize me or reduce me to a fetish. My existence was constantly scrutinized, not for who I truly am, but for what people thought I should be.
Today, I live in France where being openly queer isn’t illegal. There’s a sense of relief in seeing queer people exist more freely here, expressing affection publicly, something I could have only dreamed of back home. HOME “ I’ve learnt the hard way, that it’s not always what it is. how do I call anywhere home when I don’t feel safe anywhere”. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling of fear that creeps in when I see them. It’s a kind of worry born from years of internalizing danger , danger I knew too well as a Black, queer woman in spaces where even one part of my identity was deemed “too much.” Even though their queerness is tolerated here, for me, it’s not just queerness that feels like a ticking bombshell. The intersections of my identity as a Black woman and a lesbian always loom larger.
In a world that seeks to categorize and control, queerness might not be illegal in France, but my race and gender feel policed every day. “It’s as if my very existence is an act of rebellion, a defiance of the structures that weren’t built with people like me in mind.” Being Black, being a woman, and being a lesbian means carrying the weight of multiple forms of oppression simultaneously. While others walk the streets without questioning their safety, I’m constantly reminded that my skin color alone makes me more visible, more scrutinized, more of a target.
To be Black is to exist under the constant gaze of a society that has already decided who you are. You are not just “Black,” you are “loud,” “aggressive,” “dangerous.” Stereotypes cling to you, no matter how quietly or carefully you navigate the world. This policing of Blackness is systemic. Whether it’s in the workplace, at school, or even in queer spaces, there’s an unspoken limit on how much freedom I’m allowed before I am “too much.” Queer spaces, which should feel like havens for people like me, aren’t immune to this. They, too, can be dominated by white, cisgender norms, further excluding those of us who don’t fit the mold.
As a Black woman, it feels like “being too visible is a crime, and being invisible is not an option”. If I speak up too loudly, I am accused of being angry. If I remain quiet,I am complicit in my own erasure. There’s no middle ground where I am allowed to simply exist without being judged or categorized. Being Black and queer means existing in a world that still sees me as an outsider, a body to be controlled, policed, and, when necessary, silenced.
In France, I may have escaped the laws that criminalize queerness, but I haven’t escaped the societal structures that criminalize Blackness and womanhood. The freedom to be openly queer is a privilege I recognize, but it’s overshadowed by the ways in which my Blackness is constantly under attack. Being fully queer without question is a privilege for me and many people I know and share space with, but that shouldn’t even be the case. Freedom of expression isn’t something that should be handed to anyone. I think people are who we are and being able to live our lives should not be seen as a privilege but here we are as a Ghanaian lesbian that’s the only way I can think of it. As a privilege . The more I grow and the more I experience, I realize how much power my spacial reality has had on me. I am thankful for all the people I have had the pleasure and privilege of learning from, especially the women but then again I’m very saddened by the way I think of my queerness.
It’s not just that I’m allowed to be gay here; it’s that I am reminded, every day, how much I am not allowed to be Black and a woman.
These two identities are policed just as heavily as my queerness was back home. The intersections of race, gender, and sexuality shape the spaces I occupy. I’ve learned that there’s always a measure of how much of myself I am allowed to be.
In Queer Spaces, the idea of reclaiming for LGBTQ+ people is celebrated, but it’s important to remember that not all queer spaces are created equally. For some, these spaces represent liberation, but for others, they come with unspoken rules about how much of yourself can be shown.
People expect me to be grateful. To smile and embrace this “opportunity,” as if I’m the luckiest person in the world to be here. They think I’ve escaped something, that I’ve left behind a cage I should be happy to flee.
It’s as if I left one prison only to enter another, trading the criminalization of queerness for the criminalization of Blackness and womanhood.
And god forbid I say this out loud; I’d be labeled ungrateful, unappreciative of my “chance” at freedom. But what should I be grateful for exactly? Should I be grateful that my queerness is no longer against the law, while my Blackness and my womanhood still make me a target, still mark me as “too much” for the spaces I inhabit?
Here, I am expected to be the “model marginalized person,” a token of resilience, an example of gratitude, humility, and compliance. People approach me, strangers and acquaintances alike, constantly asking if I need help, offering their unsolicited assistance as if reminding me that any space I occupy, I occupy only because they allow it. They need to see me grateful, to see me in their terms—polite, accommodating, taking up as little room as possible. It’s as though they can only tolerate my existence here as long as they can believe I’m aware of their “generosity” in letting me breathe their air.
They don’t see me as an equal but as someone temporarily permitted to exist beside them, only so long as I don’t forget my place. The spaces I enter are littered with invisible barriers, telling me where I can stand and how much I’m allowed to claim. Why can’t I enjoy the same privileges as everyone else simply because of my skin? Why must my right to take up space come with strings attached, with these subtle reminders that it can all be taken back if I “misbehave”?
Every day, I feel it—in school, on the bus, walking down the street. I see the glances, hear the whispers, and feel the weight of a gaze that never fully accepts me but rather tolerates me. They look down on me, judging my existence before I even open my mouth. It’s the same in every corner of my day, like a constant, quiet hum in the background, telling me that no matter where I go, I am under scrutiny, that I am out of place.
And when I lock eyes with another Black person, even for a fleeting moment, there’s a silent, unspoken understanding—a weight passed between us, a recognition of shared burden. In that brief connection, we exchange years of hurt, of quiet suffering, of silent pain that we carry because of our skin, the collective trauma of systemic brutality and relentless judgment. It’s as if we have been taught to bear this weight with such resignation that we’ve forgotten, somewhere along the way, who we are beneath it. We’ve become accustomed to swallowing this shared pain, to hiding parts of ourselves, to being “less” so we can pass through spaces without being seen as a threat.
In these moments, I realize how deeply we have internalized the expectation to be grateful for merely surviving. They tell us we’re lucky to be here, to have escaped “something worse,” without seeing that the bars of oppression simply shift shape from one place to another. It’s as if they need me to perform my pain neatly, to make them feel like saviors in a system they created, one that keeps me just enough in place to remind me that I am not.
Everyone here sees only the privilege they think I’ve been handed, a privilege to exist openly, to love openly. But they don’t understand that I feel no safer in these streets. I haven’t escaped the policing of my existence; it’s just shifted. Now it’s not the authorities in Ghana scrutinizing my love—now it’s society here dissecting my Blackness, watching my every step, my every gesture, deciding how much I’m allowed to take up space before I become “a problem.”
“Being Black, being a woman, and being queer are not separate experiences—they are intertwined, and the world forces me to navigate each one carefully. Or choose one to act on ” Every space I enter is shaped by the history of oppression that comes with these identities, whether it’s through systemic racism, sexism, or homophobia. And while I’ve found pockets of safety and acceptance in France, I am always reminded that my existence challenges the norms of those spaces. My spatial reality has changed, but it hasn’t freed me. It’s simply shifted the boundaries of where I can and cannot be fully ME.
In the end, my identity cannot be compartmentalized. I am all of these things—Black, Woman, Queer, Feminist—at once. And the world’s refusal to fully embrace that complexity is what shapes my spatial reality every day. I may no longer be criminalized for being queer, but being a Black woman feels like a crime in itself.
IZ,2024
This reflection was written in 2024 in response to a prompt on Spatial Reality. This prompt was Drama Queens attempt at exploring how individuals positionality; their political identity and the intersections of their socio-cultural identity affected how they experienced and navigated the world. Ivy has since this reflection continued to explore these paradigms and how she navigates the multiplicities of her background and identity. You are able to read a revised version of this reflection here, published by the …….