Learning to Love Myself: A Brown Queer Person’s Journey Through Racism

When I was 18, I believed that dating a white man was a privilege. This idea wasn’t something I came up with on my own—it was deeply ingrained in me by society, by the people around me, and by the internalized notions of desirability that I had absorbed over the years. As a young, brown queer person, I was often reminded of how fortunate I was to have caught the attention of a gay white man. It was something I should be grateful for. It felt like an affirmation that I had somehow transcended the barriers of my race, that I was allowed a seat at the table of mainstream queerness simply by being in a relationship with someone deemed desirable by society’s standards.

These ideas didn’t come from nowhere. They were subtle whispers from my friends, acquaintances, and even strangers who reinforced the notion that my presence in white spaces, especially in queer circles, was an anomaly, something to be seen as “special.” It didn’t take long for me to internalize these messages. I felt honored, almost like I had won a prize in a world that didn’t see people like me as worthy of love or attraction.

It wasn’t until later that I began to unpack this internalized belief. Sociology and gender studies became essential tools for understanding my experience and finding a way to navigate the intersections of race and queerness that had been so deeply ingrained in my psyche. These disciplines provided a vocabulary, a way to articulate the hierarchies of desirability that I had lived with for so long. Through the lens of critical theory, I began to understand how race and sexuality were not isolated categories but deeply intertwined systems of power, inequality, and oppression.

For years, I had accepted that the attention of a white man in a queer space was something to be earned and revered. It took so much work—mentally, emotionally, and intellectually—to question that. I had to confront the very real ways that racism operated within queer communities, how whiteness was often positioned as the ultimate standard of beauty, desirability, and value. Queer spaces, for all their purported inclusivity, were not immune to these societal power structures. White men were still considered the ideal sexual partners, while people of color, especially brown and Black individuals, were often relegated to the margins, seen as “exotic” but not truly desirable.

I began to realize that my worth was not determined by whether or not a white man was attracted to me. This was a painful realization, because it meant confronting the ways in which I had built my identity around someone else’s perception of me. It wasn’t just about dating—it was about how I had internalized a racial hierarchy that placed my worth, my body, and my desires at the bottom of a ladder. I began to think critically about what it meant to be a queer person of color in a world where whiteness was often at the top of the sexual hierarchy.

This process of unlearning and decolonizing my thoughts about race and queerness was neither quick nor easy. It involved confronting a lot of internalized shame, guilt, and confusion. But it also involved finding communities of support that helped me recognize the beauty, power, and resilience in my identity. Through my academic work, I learned about the concept of “sexual capital,” a term used to describe how individuals navigate systems of sexual and social desirability. As a brown queer person, I often felt that my sexual capital was often diminished in queer spaces because of the ways in which my race shaped how I was seen. But it also helped me realize that sexual capital is not fixed—it can be shaped, challenged, and redefined.

Even today, as I walk through queer spaces as a person of color, sometimes, I feel invisible. Sometimes, I feel rejected. I don’t always see myself represented in the media, in activism, or in the narratives that dominate the queer community. And sometimes, I feel that people resent me when I bring up the issue of race in queer spaces.

These moments of rejection, though painful, are also reminders of why my voice and my experiences matter. It’s a constant reminder that there’s still work to be done—both within the queer community and within myself.

But despite these challenges, I refuse to be silenced. I have come to realize that my experience as a queer person of color is not a divisive one—it is a powerful one. My journey, my struggles, and my triumphs are just as valid as anyone else’s, and they shape how I navigate the world and how I assess my sexual capital. I no longer see my queerness as secondary to my race. I no longer measure my worth by who finds me desirable or who chooses to love me. Instead, I measure my worth by the strength and resilience I have cultivated in the face of adversity.

I’ve also come to understand that the process of fighting racism within queer spaces is ongoing. It’s not enough to simply acknowledge that racism exists in these spaces—it’s about actively challenging those structures and working to create spaces where people of color are not just tolerated but celebrated. It’s about ensuring that our experiences are heard and validated, not just when it’s convenient or palatable to the majority, but in ways that make space for us to fully inhabit our identities, desires, and dreams.

This is the work I continue to do every day—both in my personal life and in my academic career. I am determined to create spaces that center the experiences of queer people of color, where we are not made to feel as though we have to justify our existence or fight for recognition. We deserve more than just visibility; we deserve respect, inclusion, and love that is free from the constraints of racial hierarchies.