the politics of being perceived

I’ve been told I’m radiant.

I’d like to believe I’m pretty bright.

A beacon, if you will;

relaying rays and leaving a legacy of luminescence and luster

Wherever and whenever I decide to turn on my gravitational pull.

I’m a star;

Hard to miss, hot to the touch,

Don’t stare too long.

People always do, though.

Gawking agape at my glimmer and gleam

Like they’ve never seen a n**** in a skirt before.

I am considered by some people to be a campus celebrity. The title itself is broad, being tacked on to anyone from the one weird guy you keep seeing on your walk to class versus your all-time-top-secret friend crush. However, I have a lot of friends, and I’m pretty easy to remember meeting, especially in a place like Chapel Hill.

Being Black, visibly queer, and fashionable is fun — but it comes with a perceived invincibility that’s hard to shake off. Rain or shine, sleet or hail, they expect the exact same Tolu, every damn time. People desire and prefer the convenience of knowing one, and only one version of me.

To some people, I’m an “icon,” “queen,” “legend,” and not much outside of that. To them, I’m not really allowed to have bad days. Or even “off” ones. If I walk into a room, and I don’t crack a joke or do a little dance within 20 seconds of entering, the general consensus seems to be: Oh my God, is something wrong with Tolu?

Sometimes I feel like a queer court jester, constantly fighting to keep my king (the masses) happy for fear of exile/execution (breaking the status quo/hurting some white woman’s feelings).

…What if I just wanted to chill out for a second? Or sit and listen to what everyone else had to say? What if I was really tired?

I realize now that being a so-called Campus Celeb™ is not all it’s cracked up to be, because somehow I still managed to be misunderstood by so many people after fighting so hard to get to tell the world who I am.

My image serves as their half-baked blueprint, they’ve cracked the code to queerness

Because my personhood is perpetuated by the people who perceive me,

Not me.

Venomous virtue-signalers who made me into a caricature,

I am a concept rather than a complete person,

I can’t be more than a character.

Then again, I’d be dishonest if I didn’t say I feed into it sometimes.

If someone approaches me expecting CUNTY FEMININA BOW BOW BOW… sometimes, it’s easier to put on my metaphorical kinky boots and go to werk, hunny.

This is where the other issue begins: I’ve spent so long not only being assumed to be one thing or another, but having that projected onto me several times a day, to the point where I’m not sure where everyone else’s opinions stop and my personhood begins.

I enjoy a good ki: who doesn’t? But I don’t really enjoy or prefer titles like queen/king/monarch in a regular-ass conversation because… I don’t talk like that? People throw those titles at me in good faith, so I’ve learned to just go with it.

Sure, I’m a queen. Thanks.

Yes, I really appreciated that you complimented my outfit. I’m not sure how I felt about the “YASSSS” and finger-snapping in response to my sensible jeans, collared shirt, and Sambas, but I’d be rude for not smiling.

You yelled across the quad that you loved my skirt and I love that, thanks! You also ran up to me while I was already having a conversation, and are a little too close to my face right now, but you’re excited because you met a Big Black Queer (BBQ) and they’re being nice to you, so it’s fine. I guess.

This Pride Month, I’m trying to exemplify some of the most important parts of Pride by starting to be a little more honest with everyone. I’m constantly trying to excuse things and allow people to have a say in how I show up in the world simply because they don’t have the foresight (or the sense) to figure out who I am first. You know what they say about assumptions, after all.

I’m not a queen, and I’m definitely not yours. Please tell me you like my outfit and leave it there, thanks.