There’s this thing that happens when you see yourself on screen for the first time, and I don’t mean the “oh cool, a Black queer character” checklist kind of way. I mean the feeling that sneaks up behind your ribcage, taps you on the shoulder, and says, “Hey, that’s us.” I caught it the other night, watching this show I almost skipped because I figured it would miss me. But then there was this kitchen table scene — simple, nothing fancy. Two women, both Black, laughing through their nerves, hands touching for half a second too long. The camera didn’t cut away. I could almost smell the coffee, taste the nerves.
Something about the way one of them reached out, fingers shaking just a tiny bit, made my whole chest warm up. I remembered every time I tried to reach for someone like that, pretending my hand wasn’t trembling. I remembered learning how to laugh soft instead of loud, just so I wouldn’t scare the moment away. It was like the show gave me permission to see my own tenderness — the kind nobody ever taught me how to have, especially not for another Black queer person.
I kept thinking about how rare it is to see Black folks get to be this soft together, onscreen or anywhere. Not performing, not surviving, just living in those small, electric touches. Sometimes I forget that’s allowed. Sometimes I forget I even want it. But that scene reminded me — oh, right, I do. And I’m not the only one.
It’s funny, I didn’t cry or anything. I just sat there, feeling a little less invisible, a little more possible. Like maybe the world is learning how to see us the way we see each other: full of nerves, full of laughter, full of love we’re still learning how to hold. That’s the kind of screen time I want more of — the kind that feels like coming home to myself, even if it’s just for a minute.