It’s wild how sometimes I’ll trust a TV character with my feelings before I trust a real person with my lunch order. Screens spark trust before people do. I was sprawled out on my couch (classic), rewatching that episode of “Abbott Elementary” where Barbara, the regal church-lady teacher, lets herself laugh so hard she snorts. Not a big plot point or anything—just a tiny, unguarded snort. But I felt it in my chest, like a little window creaked open.
I know that snort. That’s the sound that slips out when you finally let yourself be seen, for real. I’ve spent years buttoned up, sitting at the intersection of Black respectability and queer invisibility, using humor as my velvet armor. But watching Barbara just lose it, soft and unbothered, I felt this little zing of recognition. Like, oh—maybe I don’t have to keep everything pressed and perfect. Maybe the world won’t end if I let my own laugh get a little ugly sometimes.
It’s funny, the way screens can feel like a safer place to try out being true. I’ve practiced saying “I love you” to a TV before I ever said it to a person. Practiced rolling out my queerness in the mirror, coached by characters who never heard my nerves. When Barbara snorted, I thought, that’s a kind of trust. To be witnessed, and to let yourself spill over anyway. I am still learning that, and sometimes the lesson comes from a sitcom auntie with a killer wig.
Somewhere between Barbara’s snort and my own stifled giggle, I realized: I trust these flickering people because they show me what’s possible. I see myself in their small, honest moments. And for a second, I believe the world might be soft enough for my messiness, too. That’s the kind of trust I can carry into the daylight.