By Matthew Thompson

I pop myself in an Uber when the day is a bitch. My triggers are vast, easily tripped, often tried. If you see me I might be riding down Broadway, asking for the car’s temperature, speed, and radio to be adjusted. Rolling through the city, looking out the window, maybe listening to the streets. I have this thing about being in cars that reminds me of home. Like how my journal reminds me I have a body, and had a yesterday.

Today I am in a black Ford Nissan, riding past Gramercy theatre as I scroll my social media feeds seeing Rihanna, Nicki Minaj, and Bey. Whole time wondering, what would a diva be without her faggot, or a faggot without their diva? Yesterday I was called both: first diva, then faggot, respectively. So yes, I am asking for the aux cord and definitely do not want to talk.

“Faggot” is not a word I would use to describe myself. Diva, maybe, but faggot, nah. And it’s no shade. I live for “disruptive faggotry,” and acknowledge that I am most me when I am deep in my cunt. But that hard double–g hits my ears too harsh.

This is unlike how “diva” hits when me and my niggas are throwing it around, or when a drag queen stomps the stage and Beyoncé’s “Diva” cuts through the club. There is something, for me, that is more immediately celebratory in those moments with friends. My history with the word “faggot” is a familiar history. A history of ridicule, “coming-out,” shame, and bullshit—although, I do know self-proclaimed divas and faggots, queer and Trans niggas who find power in the aesthetics and experiences of faggotry, and what Viola Davis gives in every gif.

Even with my past, I don’t think of the words “faggot” or “diva” as inherently bad, although I felt assaulted when they were used against me recently. It was the blade-in-cheek nature. How sharp each went by me, threatening to break skin.

To be real, though, it was my boyfriend who called me a diva yesterday. We were prepping for a shoot, he picked my clothes, and I looked over them. The look needed different shoes. I told him the outfit would be more lit with another pair, something taller. “Stop being a diva,” he waved his hand at me, snarling a bit—all wonky in his face. I checked him. Told him to chill. In my mind, I was struck. Diva? Seemed dismissive, a passive violence. Just tell me to shut the fuck up next time.

“Diva” felt demeaning in this context. Being called a diva in that way brought scenes to my mind of Angela Bassett playing Tina Turner, or Nina Simone and her abusive husband: him hitting her across the face before a show. “Diva” has long-time been used to describe an archetype of the wonderfully tragic. Used to uplift and level. To shroud a person in cues: dramatic, difficult, annoying, too-much. Does my boyfriend see me as too much? Does he see a person deserving of praise and harm? What did those boys who called me a faggot see?  

We get good shots around the block. Find some blue railing under the high sun, contrasting greenery. Then come back to my place to prepare for the next look. I changed quick. My boyfriend pulls yellow paint, glitter, and blush from his bag. Blush for my cheekbones, glitter for my chest. He stroked the yellow paint in a thick line down the left side of my face. Surveyed his vision, and then we left to the park for the second part of the shoot.  

At first everyone was chilling. We walked right through the park without any sneering or petty insults. Then a young boy asked me if I am a faggot and I nodded my head “yes.” I felt spotted like once when I was walking home, and a young’n pointed out of his mom’s car, “Look at that faggot!” This time, I was posing in the shaded racquetball court. Two boys, about age 11-13, cross the street and walked by the park.

One of the boys ran his finger along the chain link, then saw me: face beat, barefoot, tight velour tank, ballerina skirt, and donning blue hair. He was closest to the gate. All his teeth showing. He smiled then asked, “Are you a faggot?” Then he said, “Can I suck your dick?” I think, what the actual fuck, but was struck and couldn’t move. “You better say no nigga or I will stab you.” I was leaning all my weight on my left leg, back arched with my hands stretching out clasp in the air. I looked to the camera thinking, did this little nigga just say that to me? Then relaxed out of the pose, fucking pissed.

He and his friend laughed and continued walking down the block. My boyfriend stopped taking pictures and walked up to me. He asked, “You okay baby?” I didn’t say anything. He put his hand on my cheek then said, “This is just apart of it, you’ll be okay. I got you.” I was and am still unsure if when he said this is just apart of it, he meant being a faggot or a diva.

The faggot-diva dichotomy has been on my mind heavy for a minute. Divas are such a huge part of my life, like faggots are. Especially since so many of my friends are in the Beyhive, and social media algorithms curate my digital world—filling all my feeds with endless gifs, photos, and sneezes of divas I follow. SZA, Naomi Campbell, and Taraji P. Henson are some of my favorite divas. But that whole thing yesterday got me thinking: What is a faggot if not a diva? And since faggots are, maybe inherently divas, is Beyoncé a faggot? Is that a stretch? Are these questions just the musings of a fag in search?

That little nigga was wilding, and, like any threat, he made me think back on my history of shit like this. Like, when I was called a faggot by my girlfriend of 4 years. It was 2015 and after hours of emotional-wrestling, and trying to get her to drop the conversation about what I was hiding—I told her I am attracted to men. She got quiet. I said shit like, “You don’t have to be here for me.” I apologized for what I now would never apologize for. She asked questions that I can’t remember. We stared and looked away until we both fell asleep, wracked with exhaustion.

The next morning I woke up and she wasn’t beside me in bed. She stepped out to smoke a cigarette on the back fire exit escape. I rolled my back to the door of my bedroom, staying awake until she got back. Once she nodded off, I went and smoked a cigarette on the fire escape. All time blurred like snow in the wind. Then it was the afternoon. We both were awake, and silent.

That day was awkward as fuck. We shuffled around each other. She asked me bad questions about butt jokes and butt sex. Her hair was up in a bun of purples and pinks. We smoked cigarettes, she talked about the future. The next day she left to go back to school. I knew we still had beef. We didn’t talk about anything honestly enough. There were so many questions left unasked, and intentionally unanswered.

While she was still on the road she called me before I had to leave for work. She said she had a question, then asked me, “Do you watch gay porn?” She broke the fourth wall. I told her “yes.” She screamed into the phone, “You fucking faggot!” After that shit my anxiety would rattle whenever my phone rang. No amount of weed or Mary J. Blige ballads were able to settle me. So even before that boy told me that he will stab me, I know someone wanted to.

When my boyfriend and I finish shooting for the day, we have to walk through the middle of the park to get to my house quickest. Past the boys playing basketball, parents standing watch, and kids splashing near the elephant facade shooting water into the air. Or, we could walk a longer way and avoid any potential homophobe drama.

We cut right through the middle of the park, pumping. As we near the exit we see the boy from earlier, and he is still with his friend, both sitting near the slides and swings. The same boy yells, “Faggot!” at us again, and his friend provides the refrain, “You’re gunna die. You’re gunna die,” whispering low like the hum of a refrigerator. My boyfriend wraps his arm around my arm, laces his fingers with mine and uses his other hand, to give them boys the middle finger. Tells them to “Fuck off!”, and we continue to walk through.

Once we get back to my place I remove my velvet top and ballerina skirt. I grab a towel, heading to the bathroom sink. Remove my makeup. My eyes raccoon then I wipe harder at the lacquer. Run my right middle finger over the lines under my eyes. Throw on a t-shirt and shorts, and we sit relaying the scene on the couch to friends. I guess intent, community, and environment to determine how I think of myself as a faggot or a diva.

I guess I know real tea—the audience loves its faggots the same way it loves its pop divas: performing, in-harm, smiling through pain. I guess regardless of what I want to be called these are my people: Nina Simone, Ru Paul, Patti LaBelle, Miss Jay, Janet Jackson. A spin of faggots and divas circling each other, blurring who is who, like gum stuck to gum.

Suggested Readings:

“On the Radical Potential of Faggotry” Alex Borinskly, Slate, 2018

“Brother to Brother: New Writings by Black Gay Men” Essex Hemphill, 2007

“Getting Close” Ty Mitchell, 2018

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Matthew Thompson is a writer, model, and filmmaker from Cleveland, Ohio. Follow him @sirrubylu on Twitter & Instagram. 

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