I wear my Dear Black Gay Men (DBGM) merch everywhere I go. It's something I created and was excited to share with the world. But here's the thing—it wasn't always easy for me. When we developed it, I was resistant to wearing something that said "gay" so boldly anywhere that wasn't a homogenous gay space, especially being based in the South. But how could I be the brand ambassador if I wasn't willing to wear the brand? I had been out for decades now, speaking loudly and proudly about being a gay man on my platforms. But something felt incredibly vulnerable, having my identity seen outside the environments I had control of.
Learning to step into that discomfort was a process. For weeks, maybe months, I had to force myself to wear the DBGM words in everyday scenarios. Going to the gym, the store, and running errands. I could feel the looks as people tried to process what this merch was trying to say. I felt the weight of people's stares as they tried to make sense of the words, especially because "Dear Black Gay Men" is an intentionally unfinished statement.
I began to realize there was safety in blending into the background. For most, it is possible to obscure our sexuality to feel safe or even welcomed. Still, I pushed myself to invite stares and whatever emotions came with it.
Most looks were slight disgust, which I absolutely felt. Other less invasive looks were trying to figure out what exactly I was trying to say with these pieces. Both reactions lingered in ways I could feel down to my bones, but I continued to bury these fears and chose to ignore the stares.
Then, on January 20, 2025, discomfort became much sharper. The newly sworn-in president of the (dis)United States of America, during his inauguration address, effectively erased a whole population of people with five words, "…there are only two genders."
Upon hearing this, my first thought went immediately to my friend Hope Giselle. Hope, a Black trans activist and author, is a force. I watched her work tirelessly to improve the lives of trans, gender non-conforming, and women across the country. I've heard her stories of protest and struggle. She's put herself on the line countless times, sharing her struggles and triumphs on social media while never backing down. And with a single sentence, the president essentially erased her, her work, and her identity. It hurt me, but I could only imagine how much more it hurt her and all the men, women, and gender non-conforming folks who were left scared for their futures and the consequences to come from this declaration of invalidation.
Two days later, I got ready to head to Las Vegas for this year's Creating Change Conference, a gathering meant to bring together the nation's foremost political leaders, changemakers, and citizens in the LGBTQ+ movement. It was cold, so I wore my favorite DBGM hat and hoodie. I'd done the work to think of this merch as any other shirt and hat in my closet. Only this time, walking through the airport, I felt the invasive sting of onlookers just like I did months ago.
It wasn't curiosity and disbelief. It felt like hostility.
My hoodie, hat, and I were an affront to a few. The woman in 31D glanced up from Fox News to glare at me; the lady at the terminal turned her face up at me eating my blueberry muffin, and the gate agent looked in shock as if I had a target on my chest. It was as if my hat and hoodie were suddenly an agitator meant to stoke anger. 47 made a statement about gender—a topic that so many cisgender queer and gay men feel separate from. He overtly declared war on gender, yet it was a dog whistle with impacts on our entire LGBTQ+ community. I am feeling its cultural sting in real-time.
tk captiontk Courtesy Author
Reflecting on the Uber to the hotel, I recalled a conversation I had on a podcast with fellow creators where I listened, exasperated, as cisgender men confidently and disrespectfully misgendered trans women. They created offensive standards of womanhood by claiming trans women must be "passable" or "pretty." They could not understand how offensive and harmful their language was and how it exacerbated the division within queer culture between Black cis and trans, gender non-conforming folks. I sat there hearing my friend Hope Giselle saying in my head, "trans erasure from another Black butch queen."
I hear that voice again now.
When cis queer men choose apathy toward trans and gender-expansive folks, we align with the oppressor. By failing to stand in solidarity, we create division within our communities. A division those in power ruthlessly exploit.
47's words don't just erase trans identities. They erase all of us. His message of exclusion becomes culture. Culture trickles down to me, to you, to us. It's in the looks, the microaggressions, the broad strokes of prejudice we feel in daily interactions. His war on gender attacks me as a gay Black man just as much as it attacks my trans siblings.
Our liberation is entwined.
The work I did to make myself comfortable in discomfort is even more crucial, and I know it is something I have to keep pushing forward with. The looks I received remind me how we must all be present and vocal. My team member on DBGM, John, reminds us at every meeting and every show that being Black and gay (or queer, or trans, or all the identities that gay touches) is an innately political act of resistance. Until now, I have given him lip service and acknowledgment. But now I see the importance of his words. Every single day we exist and thrive is a statement in the face of forces that want us erased.
I'm blessed to have Hopes and Johns in my life to open my eyes and push me toward these realizations. And the truth I have discovered is this: Any day I fail to fight alongside our trans kin is a day I choose my oppressor's side. And that battle plays out in the mundane—the way we hold space for each other, the discomfort we're willing to endure, and the stares we're brave enough to meet wearing a hoodie and hat that says "Dear Black Gay Men." Our mere existence is resistance. There's no neutral ground. How will you show up to fight today?
Jai the Gentleman is the host and founder of the Dear Black Gay Men podcast. Each episode offers a candid, humorous, and always insightful look at life through the lens of Black queer identity. Dear Black Gay Men emerged as Jai's love letter to every hopeful single who yearns for genuine connection and understanding. Jai amplifies the voices and experiences of Black gay men through raw, authentic content and conversations free from taboo, and his national platform has become a trusted space where no topic is off-limits.
