Being Black and Bisexual in a Monosexual World

Introduction

You’re just confused.” “Pick a side.” “It’s just a phase.”

These are phrases I’ve heard too many times to count. In a world that desperately wants to sort everyone into neat boxes labeled “straight” or “gay,” being Black and bisexual means living in the spaces between—constantly explaining, defending, and sometimes hiding who you really are.

The intersection of race, sexuality, and gender creates a journey that’s uniquely challenging and beautiful. Through this piece, I want to share what it’s like navigating life as a Black bisexual person in a world that often fails to see us clearly.

Finding Identity in a Limited Lexicon

“I don’t have a word for what I’m feeling.”

This thought haunted me for years. Growing up, many of us didn’t have the language to describe our sexuality. We existed in communities where “bisexual” wasn’t part of the vocabulary—where “gay” was tossed around as an insult in hallways and at family gatherings.

How do you name something when the words available to you are loaded with shame? When I finally discovered the term “bisexual,” it was like finding a key to a door I didn’t know existed. Suddenly, I wasn’t alone.

Without the right words, we struggle to understand ourselves. And in a society that questions the very existence of bisexuality, finding that language becomes an act of resistance. Every time we say “I am bisexual,” we create space for someone else to find themselves in that word too.

Navigating a Conservative Background

Sunday mornings in church. Family prayers before dinner. Bible verses memorized by heart.

For many Black bisexual people, faith isn’t just a belief system—it’s the foundation of family and community. And when that foundation teaches you that your desires are sinful, the internal conflict can be devastating.

I remember sitting in pews, hearing messages about “abomination” while hiding a crucial part of myself. The constant battle between faith and identity left scars that some of us still carry. For many, the path forward meant painful choices—sometimes even walking away from family and friends who couldn’t accept us.

The courage it takes to say “I can be both faithful and bisexual” or “I need to find a new spiritual home” shouldn’t be underestimated. For some of us, healing meant finding new interpretations of faith; for others, it meant creating distance to protect our mental health.

Lack of Visibility and Representation

Growing up, I never saw people like me on TV. In books. In music. Nowhere.

When Black bisexual characters did appear, they were often stereotypes—hypersexual, untrustworthy, or “just experimenting.” Without positive reflections of ourselves, many of us wondered if people like us could lead happy, fulfilled lives.

The internet changed everything. Suddenly, we could find communities, stories, and role models who shared our experiences. A tweet, a YouTube video, or an Instagram post could confirm we weren’t alone. These virtual connections became lifelines, especially for those of us in isolated communities.

Even with these advances, representation matters. When a Black bisexual character appears on screen with depth and humanity, it’s not just entertainment—it’s validation that our stories deserve to be told.

Misunderstanding and Marginalization

“So, you’re basically straight, right?” when I’m with a man. “I thought you were a lesbian?” when I’m with a woman.

Black bisexual women often face a painful paradox—hypersexualized and fetishized while simultaneously having our identities erased. We’re seen as “spicy” additions to heterosexual relationships or “just experimenting” in queer spaces.

For Black bisexual men, the struggle is equally difficult but different—often facing harsher judgment, accusations of being “on the down low,” and stereotypes that reinforce harmful ideas about masculinity.

Despite making up more than half of the LGBTQ+ community in many places, bisexual people remain invisible in conversations about queer rights and experiences. When you add race to this equation, the marginalization multiplies. We become footnotes in both Black and LGBTQ+ narratives, fighting to be seen in movements that should be our homes.

Intersectionality and Oppression

There are days when I’m not sure which part of me is being judged.

Was that comment about my race? My sexuality? Both?

Black bisexual people navigate a complex web of oppressions that can’t be untangled. We face homophobia and biphobia within Black communities while encountering racism within LGBTQ+ spaces. This leaves many of us without a safe harbor—constantly code-switching and hiding parts of ourselves depending on where we are.

The mental toll of this navigation is exhausting. Studies consistently show higher rates of mental health challenges among bisexual people compared to gay, lesbian, or straight individuals. Add the impacts of racial discrimination, and the burden becomes even heavier.

Our existence at these intersections isn’t just about multiple oppressions—it’s also about the unique perspectives and strengths that come from navigating different worlds. This position gives us insight that can bridge divides and create more inclusive communities when our voices are actually heard.

Challenges of “Coming Out” – Again and Again

“Actually, I’m bisexual.”

I’ve said this phrase hundreds of times—to new friends, to potential partners, to people who assumed I was straight or gay based on who I was dating at the time. Coming out isn’t a one-time event for bisexual people; it’s a recurring process.

Each new relationship can mean coming out all over again. Dating someone of a different gender can mean having your identity questioned or erased. The constant need to reassert who you are becomes exhausting.

Even within LGBTQ+ spaces, bisexual people often face skepticism. “You’re just not ready to come out as gay.” “You want straight privilege.” These accusations from people who should be allies cut deeply, leaving many bisexual people feeling unwelcome in spaces meant to be safe.

Internalized Biphobia and Homophobia

“Maybe they’re right. Maybe I am just confused.”

The most painful battles are often the ones we fight within ourselves. Growing up surrounded by negative messages about bisexuality, many of us internalize these ideas. We question our own feelings, wonder if we’re “queer enough,” or feel shame about our desires.

I remember the sting of being called “confused” by lesbians I considered friends. Their rejection reinforced doubts I already harbored—maybe I was making it all up? Maybe I was seeking attention?

Breaking free from internalized biphobia is a continuous journey. It requires questioning harmful beliefs, finding affirming communities, and practicing self-compassion. Over time, I’ve learned that other people’s inability to understand my sexuality isn’t my problem to solve.

The Power of Self-Love and Spirituality

Embracing my spiritual path through Ifá was a turning point in my journey toward self-acceptance. For many Black bisexual people, reconnecting with African spiritual traditions offers a sense of homecoming that organized Western religions often deny us.

Unlike the faith traditions that rejected parts of me, Ifá offered a space where my full self could exist without contradiction. Through this spiritual practice, I found a foundation for self-love that wasn’t contingent on others’ approval or understanding.

This spiritual grounding transformed how I approached relationships. When you truly love yourself, you set higher standards for how others treat you. You recognize manipulation and rejection for what they are—reflections of others’ limitations, not your worth.

While spirituality isn’t the answer for everyone, finding sources of meaning and community that affirm rather than erase our identities is vital. Whether through spiritual practice, art, activism, or chosen family, creating spaces where we can be fully ourselves is revolutionary.

Conclusion

Being Black and bisexual in a world that struggles to understand either identity—let alone their intersection—presents unique challenges. We navigate multiple forms of discrimination while fighting to be seen authentically in all the communities we belong to.

But this journey also offers gifts. The ability to see beyond binaries. The strength that comes from creating your own path. The deep empathy born from living at intersections.

There is no single Black bisexual experience, just as there is no one way to be Black or bisexual. Our stories are as diverse as we are. What unites us is the courage to live truthfully in a world that often wants to simplify us.

Through self-acceptance, community building, and sometimes through spiritual practice, we find ways to thrive, not just survive. In claiming our complex identities with pride, we create possibility models for those coming after us—showing that Black bisexual joy isn’t just possible; it’s our birthright.

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Thank you for reading.