Bianca Xunise is a Black goth and describes herself as “unapologetically hood.” An artist from the Southside of Chicago, her work is incredibly diverse, exploring anti-blackness, the reappropriation of problematic personas like Josephine Baker, beauty, gender, and of course, her love of goth icons. She was awarded the coveted 2017 Ignatz award for Promising New Talent for her comic Say Her Name, which took aim at the silence surrounding Black women killed by police violence.

My first exposure to Xunise’s work was at Pitchfork Music Festival 2017 in Union Park. I was looking through the book vendor area, when a print of Poly Styrene—the Somali-English frontwoman for the ‘70s jazz punk band X-ray Spex—caught my eye.

X-ray Spex was a band from that era that actually had a member of color, and seeing her iconic lyric, “Some people think little girls should be seen and not heard, but I think, oh bondage up yours!” memorialized in Bianca’s art warmed my heart.

I bought the print right then and there and continued to follow her work.

From her meticulously chosen outfits—made up of leather harnesses, berets, and ’70s-inspired high-waisted pants—to her unrelenting love of The Craft, and her penchant for singing along to songs by the Damned or David Bowie, Xunise is part and parcel of a very Chicago Goth experience.

As a Chicago transplant, Bianca Xunise seems to be an all knowing insider of the city. I was lucky enough to meet up with her recently to talk about nightlife in Chicago, her unique experience as a Black goth and comic, and the political importance of going out and dancing.

How do you identify your taste in music? I ask because I tend to use the words “new wave,” “post-punk” and “goth” interchangeably.

I use those terms interchangeably too and I feel like a lot of times people misunderstand what I mean by goth. When I say goth, they’re probably like, ‘oh she likes Evanescence and new goth from like the mid 2000s or early 2000s.’ But when I say goth I mean something older—bands like Batcave and Darkwave, The Cure and Siouxsie Sioux and stuff like that.

Sometimes I use the Pitchfork video to inform people. It’s been really helpful…

That video was really helpful! Again, cause I feel like people misunderstand what it means and in our modern society with the internet and everything else, all cultures have begun to be kind of melted into one. A good example of this would be like Lil Uzi [Vert]. He like does trap rap, but he’s also sort of goth and sort of emo at the same time—it all blends together. And say if you’re like 15, 16, 17 and if you think Lil Uzi’s goth, then what you understand as goth is not going to be where it actually came from. You’re gonna have a whole new understanding of what you think goth is.

Often, as far as they want to go is Evanescence or Avril Lavigne, but you gotta keep going further and further back. I just started listening to some older goth music like Virgin Prunes—that’s from the ‘70s—so I am exploring how goth intersects with my Blackness and listening to bands like Screamin’ Jay Hawkins.

Why did you start drawing about these experiences with the goth subculture? I saw one of your comics—Saturday at the Goth Club—where it’s just a little ‘slice of life’ comic where you’re just at the club and you have poison written on your shirt?

One of the reasons is I was just trying to find something to write about. A lot of my work is political. But when I first started out as a comics artist, much of my work was kind of simple—about everyday life—and I missed writing about those things. My work was getting so heavy.

I wanted to bring some more lightness to it. I thought it’d be fun to show people a window into this world—there’s a lot of misconceptions about it, ‘like what do you guys do all day, hang out under the highway underpasses and dance?!’ I think people don’t understand a lot of it is just a bunch of nerds hanging out ’cause we like the same music—we’re all pretty dorky.

What are your favorite goth clubs/nights in Chicago?

I go to Late Bar, which is a big one for me. I used to go to the old Neo when that was still open. RIP. Not everyone agrees with me on this, but I feel interested in what has been happening now, ‘cause I feel like everyone is splitting up and making new safe spaces—like a lot of things happening at Berlin now. And that would be more Wax Trax! [the industrial music label based in Chicago]. Exit is another place that does ‘80s music either on Thursdays or every other Saturday.  

And then there’s the new Neo. That was really rough at first. People were very against it. Actually, one of the things I really like about “Deboneo” as they call it, is how queer it’s become. There’s been a lot more black and brown queer faces showing up there. So for me seeing the goth culture blend with the club kid culture and become this one safe space of, like, weirdos and queers and drag queens and awesomeness—that’s super important to me. That’s when it gets to the best place—when it’s come as you are. No matter how weird. This is a place for you. Let’s all dance to this old shitty song.

What about them makes them feel safe?

Not all the clubs have done this, but I know Late Bar made a statement that they’re a safe space—I think this happened maybe during the election last year. Or maybe even the year before when we heard that Trump was gonna be running. They released a press release and they said, ‘we want to be known as a safe space. This is not a space for discrimination.’ They definitely upped their security after that. There’s always people on the floor.  

But I’ve seen it misunderstood as though they were being predatory—like, ‘there’s this man and why is he coming up and taking my drink away from me. Get away from me.’ But a lot of times when they do that, it’s cause they saw something put into your drink or something like that and they’re trying to make sure that you get home safe—they filter people out all day. And make sure that it stays a place that people can feel comfortable going to.

The best place is when it’s 'come as you are. No matter how weird. This is a place for you. Let’s all dance to this old shitty song.'
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The people there are of every race and gender and you know it’s grown to be a really great thing. I’m not really sure where the crossroads is of different cultures come together, but I think it’s just about the music. A lot of it is being borrowed from each other. Like punk has always been influenced by like the ballroom scene and the ballroom scene in turn is influenced by punk, but it’s all counterculture.

The goth community is a blend of everything.

Also it’s no longer just old white dudes anymore. Brown kids want to be a part of it and you should be allowed to identify with multiple things—you may be into goth music and goth culture but you also may be really into feminism and witchcraft. You might be really into drag and you’re also really into punk rock—you can pick and choose whatever you want. You shouldn’t have to choose what you love. Take it all in and make a new culture out of it.

It’s like, everyone else is kind of shitty, so like why be shitty here?

So your impression of goths and the goth community is pretty positive?

Yeah, I think that’s one of the reasons why I find goths to be pretty nice—they’re so used to everybody else treating them poorly. That’s how I felt about the older goths who set up the bar. They’ve always been kind of kind to me, which I’ve always kind of been a little nervous coming into the scene as a black woman who is used to—especially in like my comics world—white guys pushing back when they see me come and take up space. But in the goth community I see, ‘You’re weird. I’m weird!’ That’s all that matters.

I actually drew a comic about how the goth community is one of the few that I feel I’ve been able to be a part of and the first thing people don’t register about me is that I’m black. In every other space that I take up people think as soon as they see me—Black woman. And then with that they have all these other ideas about me in their head about black women and who they are.

But when I enter a space like Late Bar or Exit or Neo—I don’t feel like people see that right away, they just see somebody that’s just like them and they accept me.

That’s beautiful. Have you had any negative and racist experiences in the scene?

Oh yeah. I have racist experiences everywhere.

I think you mentioned an incident at a Nine Inch Nails show…

I was at a Nine Inch Nails show—actually this was before Nine Inch Nails—it was New Order. I was at New Order and this woman grabbed my hair because I was dancing—as you would—to New Order and apparently my hair touched her face and as I was bouncing or whatever and it brushed her face. So she dug her hand into my scalp and tried to rip my hair out. She grabbed my hair and said, ‘I grabbed your hair because I didn’t like it!’ That was her reasoning.

It was really upsetting and frustrating, but I don’t really attribute that to the community as much as being at a concert. I’ve always had pretty bad experiences at festivals and concerts in general. I’ve gotten into a few fist fights at concerts. It kind of goes hand-in-hand for me there.

In my comics world, white guys pushing back when they see me come and take up space. But in the goth community I see, ‘You’re weird. I’m weird!’ That’s all that matters.
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You try to reason with it and then you realize that racism is the only reason that’s going to work here. I wasn’t the only person there. It wasn’t just me being rambunctious in a group of people sitting quietly on the ground. It was me and bunch of other white dudes that were all dancing. But I’m the one that she decided to attack. I confronted her about that and when I called her out, the dudes that I was dancing with were like no need to call her that. [A racist]. That was really frustrating. And then what was weird was that the two dudes she was with ended up apologizing to my boyfriend and I was like, why isn’t anyone apologizing to me.

But it hasn’t gotten to the point where it’s made me feel unsafe—I also know the punk and goth community have done a lot to combat racism and fascism. I don’t feel like the first person I’m going to meet [in those spaces] is going to be a racist.

You try to reason with something that happened and then you realize that racism is the only reason that’s going to work here.
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I was working on a piece on if you want to check it out, about Rock Against Racism. A lot of the bands that I like—the Clash, X-Ray Spex and stuff—they did what they could do in the ‘70s to try to combat racism.

Going back to going out and goth nights as safe spaces. I’m going to reference your tweets. “I’ve been trying to figure out the point in society where we deemed going out and dancing a sinful thing to do.” I was hoping you could elaborate on this perspective. Why do you think it’s looked down upon and why is it so special and important that you are able to go out and dance? People obviously shit on it, right? Like, ‘you’re just going out and you’re drinking!,’ but to you it’s important. What is it that makes it important, in terms of your identity and your interests?

I definitely got a lot of feedback on that tweet and people brought some stuff up to me that I hadn’t considered before—especially us being a country founded on puritan beliefs and how that’s still affects American society—even in terms of our movies where it’s OK to show violence, but it’s bad to show sex.

We like to market things as sinful and I think that’s where it’s confusing to me—how is it sinful to have community and feel uplifted by this community and feel safe? Where is the sin in that? The drinking part is not super important—you can add or remove alcohol. Yes that exists there, but I also have friends who are sober and still go out to the goth club because it’s not about the drinking. It’s about being around your friends. It’s a chosen family. It’s a family you only want to be around so long and then you want to go back home.

I know I’ve mentioned this a few times but there’s so much happening in the world. I’ve noticed that I’ve gone dancing more this year probably than any other year because I just need that place, a place to not have to hear about Donald Trump, and not have to uplift all the hate that’s going on.

Every time I go to Late Bar they always play this song, “(We Don’t Need This) Fascist Groove Thing.” It’s a place be around people who are gonna give you love. Every time I’m there people ask me, ‘how are your comics? What’s going on in your life? How’s this art show going?’ We know each other enough to know what’s going on in our families and stuff like that. It’s never like a place of hate.

How is it 'sinful' to have community and feel uplifted by this community and feel safe?
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I’ve gone to normie clubs that everybody else goes to and I can see why people hate them. I feel like it’s a different experience. When you add “club” to something then people have this idea that’s it’s going to be this bump and grind, overly sexual, predatory space. In fact, I was at the Owl last Saturday and I was there for half an hour and I think I got groped like 8-10 times just from walking back and forth. Someone put their hands on my butt; they put their hands on my shoulder and tried to put their hands in the curve of my side. And I was like, I don’t want to be here.

Most dudes that I’ve dealt with at the goth club ask permission to dance with you or they have the nice Catholic school space between each other—where it’s just enough room for the holy spirit.

It’s good exercise too. I think everybody needs a space to be able to turn their brain off and just exhale. It saddens me that I try to explain this to my parents and they think I’m out living this life of sin when I’m really just sitting around with a bunch of nerdy people and we’re talking about Stranger Things.

What songs are a must for a perfect new wave night?

Love Will Tear Us Apart — Joy Division

Ant Music — Adam Ant

Girls on Film — Duran Duran

Spellbound — Siouxsie and the Banshees

I Know What Boys Like — The Waitresses

Let’s Go To Bed — The Cure

At the long end of 1986, two households emerge and I absorb the remnants of the home that split four people open. After my parents’ separation, I am always looking around for the rest of me, making sure I am still there. I am several parts of one body, holding two homes and four people’s memories.

When the phone rings at my mother’s house, my father’s berating increases to make up for the fact that he can no longer yell at her in person. Instead of embodying different parts of myself with each parent, I begin to present all of me with my mother and a shadow of me with my father. When I am with him, I am a mistake to be corrected. Most of what comes out of my mouth is wrong, so I eventually stop talking.

In my sixth year I learn that I should never have to go to the bathroom away from home. When I need to, it’s very bad and it upsets my father, but I do not know how to stop. He asks me why I don’t go before we leave, but I don’t have to go then or I do and then I have to go again. I do not know why my body works this way, but it must be wrong because he gets very irritated and lectures me for a long time—whether we find a public restroom quickly or not.

Dinners at his house feel like sharp teeth on me. He picks at me for how I eat, how much I eat and the baby fat I gain in adolescence. I come to realize he is using meal time to poke at my brother and me; asking us questions that no kids could answer, only to laugh at us then lash out at us for getting them wrong. Eventually my brother loses patience with the picking and starts to respond back. This results in a Ping-Pong game of verbal confrontations that bounce back and forth between them and latch onto my skin, assaulting me. I want to escape to the basement or the attic but my limbs are stiff against me. My body is still though I am slowly floating away from me.

In my 13th year, my brother begins to taunt me. We are at my mother’s kitchen table when he smiles, insisting I am holding my fork wrong and people will shun me for it. I melt into my plate and realize I am being eaten down to the core of me. When I look for myself in my body, I can barely find a trace of me.

How old were you when your face fell through? Did you hold it in your hands? Did you catch it in your skin? Did you lose track of where they end and you begin?

In my 17th year, I am in my first year of college when I meet Daniela*—the older cousin of one of my best friends. She becomes part of our friend group and we’re envious when she starts dating the cute guy we’re all curious about, until we find out he pulls her hair by the root when he’s angry.

We are parked in front of the house Daniela grew up in when I notice my skin becoming heavy, as though I am falling out of myself. I feel a draft in my body as though a door has opened that cannot be closed. It is on this day that I learn from my friend, that Daniela’s brothers used to throw her down the basement stairs when they were angry. I look up and stare at the house, as if for the first time, and something cracks in my bones.

I am ripped open and that tear becomes the catalyst for my sociology project—women rappers using art to discuss gendered power dynamics and abuse. When I take the risk of telling my brother and father about it, I do not mention the door of the house, the staircase or the hair pulled from Daniela’s head. I do not tell them the focus is on Eve’s Love is Blind. I simply say that I did a presentation on women rappers using music to illuminate social issues. I explain that I worked really hard and I know my professor doesn’t care for hip-hop, but I have the sense that she might be able to look at the genre in a different light after this.

For a moment, neither of them are saying anything, but they’re both smiling and they eventually begin to laugh. They make fun of me for thinking I had an impact on my professor and I begin to disappear into the length of my hair. I sail away to all those nights at the dinner table, the staircase at Daniela’s house, and the distance from the top of that first step to the basement floor.

I imagine the door to my father’s basement, the safety of his attic and the way edges of houses hold some little girls together, but pull other ones apart. When I float back, they’re still laughing. I know how quickly they erupt when disagreement is present, so I draw a smile on my face too.

Were you tangled in your words, when your flesh fell to your ankles? Could you see yourself around? Were you stuck inside your own sound?

In the last week of my 28th year, my agoraphobia and sensory processing disorder spill out on either side of me. Preparing to get on a plane for the first time since high school, I am terrified. I am washing my hands in the airport bathroom when my mother appears, telling me it’s time to board the flight.       

I check my hair and make-up and walk back to where she and my brother are sitting, only to find him exploding at me. I try to figure out what I’ve done, but I am fading down to the seams of me. I am transported back to the ‘90s to the small apartment we shared with my mom. My skin snags on the image of him shouting in my doorway. I remember the shape of the bedroom door, the contour of his mouth, and the screams that shook my skin out. I think back to the day I found my room trashed and the way I held the damage like souvenirs. I recall the string of punches that came after I interfered with his business call; I remember the rhythm of his fists hitting my arm.

When I drift back to the airport he is still yelling, grating me down to my ankles. Apparently, my having to pee was very selfish and those two minutes I took to look myself over meant that the three of us could’ve missed our flight. As the screaming tapers off, I find the edge of my abandoned body, pick it up by the shreds and drag it onto the plane.

In the coming months I begin to wear my silence like armor. It becomes the protector of me. I find that the only way to be around my brother and father is to be a ground down version of me, an acceptable facsimile; it stands in for me as a way to survive. This makes me feel like I am not a real person or they are not real to me. I start to feel like I don’t really have a father or a brother. The two of them are essentially strangers to me, flaming things that mostly know how to rage at me.

Do you live inside the skin of you? Are you the girl behind the face? Did you find yourself in the shadow box? What’s left of you after the chase?

As my twenties begin to evaporate, I begin to part down the length of me. I feel enamored with men, but when they’re standing in front of me, it seems like there’s a wall between us. I think there must be something wrong with me that cannot be fixed or reconciled, so I eventually stop dating them—but the pull towards them remains.

When I tell my therapist about it, she asks if I am more attracted to men’s or women’s bodies. I tell her that is not the right question. I ask a friend for advice and they tell me that if I enjoy having sex with women, then I am queer. I know that is not the right answer. I feel drawn to men inside my bones, but when I get close to them, it feels like the best parts of me drop out of my body. I know there must be a reason why thinking about it makes me feel like I am holding my breath. I know there must be a reason why they light up so many parts of me, then leave me split up in messy piles.

On the raw edge of my 29th year, my long-term partner starts transitioning and something is pulled up and out of me. I begin thinking about the way people both transcend and encompass gender. I think about the way I am absorbing and categorizing gender and I begin to ask what I mean when I say I cannot connect with men. I begin to ask if I mean that I cannot connect with cis men. Like my other relationships at the time, there is unwarranted anger and an inability to show up for difficult conversations. But when I think about all the ways he is different than my recent partners, the most obvious difference on both a superficial and spiritual level is that he isn’t a girl.

I freeze into myself when I think about the way our relationship took shape. We are best friends and it is New Year’s Eve—one week after my 27th birthday.

He’s coming from work as a bartender, but I’m the one who’s been drinking. He starts a violent argument with me in the public hallway of my apartment building and I fall out to the edge of me. His words draw a fence around me, yelling that he can no longer play this “friend role.” I am confused and tired, but I understand he feels I’ve wronged him and now I owe him a right. I am drunk and drowning in this hallway. I just want it to stop. I cannot imagine losing him, so I have sex with him. When I come, it’s the kind of orgasm I wish I could take back.

I know there must be a reason why men light up so many parts of me then leave me split up in messy piles.
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Five years after the waves rush out and over our relationship, I read Jenny Lumet’s letter to Russell Simmons, and I am cut through to the other side of me. Her words are gentle but unapologetic and I am reminded of the intimacy that is having patience with Black men, even after experiencing harm at their hands. I wipe my face with my own hands and count how many years I’ve held on to things for fear that the men who have hurt me, would feel some of the same hurt if I use words to say what they have done to me.

She talks about making a trade—”just keep him calm, and you’ll get home” and I am yanked down to the tightest threads of me. I think about the way silence and sex turn into offerings when men decide you owe them something. My eyes spill out to my formative years and then back to adulthood. I remember the weight of being covered by flesh that never asked.

I think about all the times my eyes stood still while my body stiffened into a “no” because my words couldn’t do it. I’ve been making trades with trauma since I was 14.

Did you make oceans with your eyes, when your legs dropped out from under you? Do you recognize your body, when you split right down the length of you?

In the wake of 4:44, I awoke—30 years after I first swallowed my mouth closed. Three decades after one house became two, I widened out like unfolding fists. When I heard those words, “You had no father, you had the armor,” it felt as if they lived inside my fingers. When Jay Z says, “You got a daughter, gotta get softer,” I am holding both lines in both hands; I am holding the child me and the grown-up me in the skin of my palms.

I consider the way the world conflates hyper-masculinity with Blackness and vulnerability with femininity. I think about the way self-reflection is conceptualized as something men do in honor of daughters—but not wives. I remember my mother’s ability to hold my father’s rage. I think about the length of my emotional intelligence and how little I was when I learned to shut my mouth. I consider the way abuse patterns wrap around us like rope.

Of all the things that tried to split me, it was the juxtaposition of having a white mother and a Black father and the pain of being accepted by her and rejected by him that ultimately severed me in half. It was the confusion of not being Black enough for my father and feeling like I was supposed to partner with men who acted like him in order to prove that rejecting his abuse does not mean rejecting my Blackness. It was the cut of feeling so guilty; I would see his face in other people and believe I could undo what had been done to me by having it done again by them.

Feeling like men were in charge of me made me feel like my body wasn’t mine long before I knew what words like consent meant. So when it came time for me to say yes or no to a man, I would tighten into my mouth and fall out of my skin. I would later attribute it to my Selective Mutism, my Non-Verbal Learning Disability, and a confusion around my sexuality.

But my tendency to lose my words was born out of a trauma that developed from being unable to speak freely in my home as a child. And my difficulties with non-verbal communication were informed by a childhood that left me feeling like I was safer when I didn’t speak.

In my 36th year, I learn about the R Kelly sex cult accusations and several memories converge as if on cue. The idea of a man controlling women so much that he has power over their eating and going to the bathroom makes me fall backwards into my six-year-old self. I realize that I have spent my entire life being unsure if it is ok for me to speak, eat, go to the bathroom or do anything that reveals me as human around men.

You are not a shadow box, an after-thought or a vacant sketch of you.

My father did not get softer, as a result of having me. He simply reproduced what had been done to him as a child. And my brother’s ability to replicate my father’s abuse came from absorbing my parents’ dynamic and being able to identify more with losing yourself to a fit of violence, than being able to identify with the body that holds the scars after the fit.

I know now that people rage when they are disconnected from their person. Having so much rage projected onto me eventually resulted in my belief that I am too much of a person. Men regarded my most basic needs as something to get rid of. So I believed that if I wanted to be with a man, I’d have to get rid of myself.

When I was able to connect with queer and lesbian people, I thought it meant there was something queer about my attraction to masculinity. I started to think there was something inherently queer about me—something internal that exists outside of my attractions. But as my queerness became wider, it felt like the puzzle was being solved outside of me. The more I tried to grow into these understandings, the more I seemed to grow out of me.

When I learned I was dating a man, I simply thought the way in which I was attracted to men had revealed itself as a different shape. I thought my attraction to him could explain why my chemistry with cis men never translated properly. But I left the relationship still feeling like there was something wrong with me.

It is only now after spending years of my life depriving myself from relationships with all men and then cis men specifically as a way to protect myself, that I realize the only relationships I’ve ever had were replications of the abuse that led to the repression.

And most of the sexual experiences I’ve had with men reinforced that my body was theirs. So I became averse to the abuse and called it an aversion to men.

As I thaw out into the larger part of me, I know that the thing standing between myself and other people in relationships is not their gender. It’s the way my body viscerally responds to gender, since my early understandings of masculinity and intimacy were tied up in abuse. It’s about the way my skin translates injury, after years of experiences taught me to anticipate blood instead of love from men.

I am finally starting to ask if I am truly a poor fit for cis men or simply not attracted to men who act like my father and brother.

You are real raw love and gorgeous flesh. You deserve to be held like the entire shape of you.

In the aftermath of the home that broke open, I know that girls like Daniela* and I will have a steeper climb towards finding home in the arms of a man, because of what happened at the hands of men in our homes. I know that relationships aren’t about breaking somebody down or taking away their person, as a way to regain yours. I know that intimacy doesn’t feel like being trapped inside a house. I know that love doesn’t feel like the wrong side of the basement door.

When I look at the place inside me that split, I can see the wound and feel it closing. I know that people are neither good nor bad, but in a constant state of becoming. When they engage in harmful behaviors it’s because they’ve been profoundly hurt and they’re perpetuating that learning. I know unlearning is a process. I know I’ve survived both my child and adulthood due to my ability to read people who were so checked out from their person, they didn’t care if what happened next froze me out of my person.

I know that brain structure, systemic and familial post-trauma can complicate the ability to say or hear a no. I know that doesn’t make it a yes. I know the thing that causes people to control and rage is the same thing that allows them to keep going during a sexual act, after a face has gone blank. And I know I don’t owe it to anyone to be an emotional punching bag while they work through their trauma superficially through me.

On the long end of my 36th year, I figured out why that complex, primal, physical and emotional longing for men never went away. It is part of me, but it is no longer a gash on me. I am learning how to stop the blood. In the wake of my healing, I know that trying to love people in similar pain as me was an attempt to grow the skin over the cuts that once divided me.

I am not broken, but I have existed in pieces and I know that being deeply harmed during childhood is a particular kind of bruise. I have a higher level of empathy because of it and I know that empathy will translate into the highest level of love for myself as I continue to learn that I cannot love the rage out of a person. And if you are navigating that kind of trauma, you deserve to learn it too.

You deserve to be loved like survival, like the spelling of your name, like the softest whisper and the loudest yell that sounds like the entire length of you. And you deserve to hear it over and over again until you know it’s true.

Immediately upon hearing about the annual conference featuring people dressing up as characters from movies, TV, and comic books, I knew I wanted to be get involved. I spent a year deciding on my costumes and getting my shit together so I could be a part of the spectacle. I wasn’t concerned about my size, my color, or what people would think of me, mainly because I didn’t know that going in costume made me an interactive part of the convention. I didn’t realize that any of that mattered.

I didn’t know that I would be openly rejected because of my brown skin or my size. Or that people wouldn’t be able to recognize my character because I wasn’t white. I didn’t realize that a smaller woman in a bikini would always erase my visibility. I didn’t know that my being there was an act of protest…but I learned.

I didn’t know that my being there was an act of protest.
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As cosplay has grown in popularity and visibility, I’ve heard more stories of people being sidelined for being a POC, fat, or differently abled. To protect myself from that, I’ve learned to surround myself with diverse people who love cosplay and geek life as much as, if not more than, I do. Over the years, I’ve watched every one of them grow in different ways as they engaged in this passion.

It’s a passion we’ve been told is a waste of time — that we‘ve been mocked for doing. But we see, feel, and live the difference it’s made in our lives.

We create and share our Black joy in this community. We do it and we love it for a plethora of reasons. When we don’t find what we need, we construct it ourselves, developing the cosplay scene we want to exist in. Even if it’s just small pockets of monochromatic space, we bring color, fire, and life as we build the cosplay experience we desire.

We create and share our Black joy in this community.
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Being in Atlanta has helped me connect with a spectacular geek community. From tailors and prop fabricators to stylists, photographers, and fun-loving artists, I am now part of a group of creatives who each bring their distinctive personalities to the hobby. Atlanta is where I learned cosplay existed, where I built my community, and where I continue to enjoy and grow in this hobby.

Here’s a look at some of the people who keep my love for this creative and dynamic scene growing.

Cosplay as truth.

Dru Phillips, of AMP Cosplay, is an accomplished photographer who has a fun and beautiful approach to cosplay: Treat it like fashion photography. This approach works well for him, and makes his work stand out. He was producing high-quality, beautiful cosplay images back when people were still treating it like a side hobby.

Dru’s love of cosplay grew from his passion for comics and drawing, which led him to photography. It was while earning his BA in illustration that he realized he wanted to change his focus and pursue photography. Now, Dru works as a full-time photographer, enabling him to combine his love of the medium with his love of comic art.

Cosplay exposes a deeper, often more joyous and authentic side of the people who participate.
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For Dru, cosplay exposes a deeper, often more joyous and authentic side of the people who participate. From the care people take in choosing a character to the effort and attention cosplayers take in creating their vision, he seeks to capture the passion people have in making a full fashion garment from scratch. Revealing this depth that is, ironically, only visible when people are striving to look like someone else is a curious phenomenon that he feels compelled to share.

Dru is not only a creative force behind the camera. He’s been known to don a unitard and bring his love for the craft in front of the camera as he embodies some of his favorite characters. You can see his full portfolio of work here.

Cosplay as style.

One of the least understood aspects of cosplay is that it requires style. And whatever that style is, it needs to be intrinsic. It’s that special something that one personally brings to their cosplay — not the exact replica of the costume, but that which makes the costume meaningful to them.

While many people, myself included, had to learn this, JaBarr of Barr Foxx cosplay seemed to understand it instantly.

When you look through JaBarr’s portfolio on his Facebook page, you see that yes, his cosplay is immaculate, but he also keeps personal aspects of himself in his representation of the character. Although creating an exact replica is impressive, our humanity is what gives these characters life. JaBarr modifies his costumes to ensure that he melds with his character, rather than erasing himself to be someone else. In fact, this is one of the things he discusses as a cosplay panelist at conventions.

Cosplay requires style. And whatever that style is, it needs to be intrinsic.
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His approach to cosplay is no doubt influenced by his behind-the-scenes work in television and film. He’s worked in casting, writing, editing, and most recently, production with The Edit Factor. As such, he knows how to work with lighting and angles to get the best shot. He often steps out of his role as cosplayer to direct portions of the photo shoots to maximize the impact of both the photographer’s and cosplayer’s work. As a result, his cosplay has been featured in Cosplay in America Volume 2, on the Marvel homepage, and in various articles spotlighting cosplayers to watch.

Cosplay as family.

Sometimes you meet people at conventions and they become like family. While they aren’t in the spotlight demanding any attention, you always expect to see them at the con, and it feels like something is missing when you don’t. DeAnna Cooper is one of those people.

A veteran cosplayer and congoer, DeAnna Cooper has been on the scene for 15 years. Drawn to the hobby through her love of anime, DeAnna’s first cosplay was a hentai school girl uniform. Since then, she’s regularly been spotted at conventions across the country, dressed as characters from comics, movies, television, and anime . . . some recognizable, and others original creations.

For DeAnna, cosplay is a very personal endeavor. She’s developed a cosplay family made up of people she’s met and her actual relatives. If you encounter her at a convention, expect to meet some member of her cosplay family because she keeps them close to her. In fact, she can be found participating in group shoots, such as her Conan the Barbarian shoot, with some of her cosplay family. One of her favorite cosplay is Ryomou Shemei from Battle Vixens because of the close bonds she made both creating and wearing it.

Cosplay as creation.

Cosplay is a creative art. It is the ability to recreate, and sometimes actually physically create, clothing and items that only exist as art on a page. Many times, biology and physics are not considered when comic artists create these costumes, yet for cosplay, someone must breathe life into those images and make them a wearable reality.

For cosplay, someone must breathe life into images and make them a wearable reality.
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That’s where Walter, owner and operator of Dean’s Lyst, comes in. The physics of cosplay is a complicated arena, but he makes it look painless. This is quite the feat considering that he’d never made or sewn anything prior to 2007, when he bought his first cosplay. By 2013, he was making his cosplays from scratch. And now, in 2017, Walter takes cosplay commissions, builds his own props, and continues to pose for the camera as a cosplay model. Some of his most notable cosplays are Asgardian Storm, Aqualad, and Falcon.

Cosplay as Black geek love.

DragonCon is all things cosplay, and many of the people on this list met because of their love of the convention. This is true for the team of Dr. Law’s Photolab. Leigh Willis, Jeffrey Hall, and Latoya Simmons bonded over their love of geek life and decided to take on a larger role in the DragonCon photography scene.

Leigh has always had a love for photography, but it was a hobby that he fell out of doing until he attended his first DragonCon. A lifelong geek, Leigh found himself overwhelmed by the artistry of cosplay. He promised himself that he would bring his camera to capture the embodiment of characters he’d only seen in the pages of comic books. Over time, he began participating in DragonCon’s large group shoots, and this year he served as lead photographer at the 2nd Annual Black Geeks of DragonCon photoshoot.

“As a photographer, I could hear the comments other photographers made about Black cosplayers. I had a front row seat to the comments and exclusion. I knew I had the power to change that and that’s what I try to do — I focus on giving love to the Black cosplayers and cosplayers of color.”

Jeff, a Photoshop lover, was happy to feed his inner geek alongside Leigh. Acting as the team’s second photographer, Jeff is able to capture much of the overwhelming cosplay magic at DragonCon. After the convention, he works his Photoshop magic on the images, adding hyperreality and recreating the drama of the comic art form.

The third member is Latoya Simmons. You’ll learn more about her in the next entry.

Cosplay as connection.

Latoya created her first cosplay, Marvel’s Monet St. Croix, with her friend, Dwayne Woodard. The duo used the process to reconnect and reminisce while participating in a fun, artistic endeavor. Despite his recent passing, she continues the art to pay homage to her love of fandom and as a tribute to her friend. It also allows her to work with other creatives, like fashion designer Mikos Laron.

Since that first outing, Latoya’s been steadily bumping up her cosplay skills — not that she ever needed to. Drawn to cosplaying women characters of color, Latoya has cosplayed Akasha from Queen of the Damned, Black Panther’s sister, Shuri, and Marvel’s Roma. In 2016, Latoya unveiled her Moana cosplay.

As creative director of Dr. Law’s Photolab, Latoya is responsible for creating, researching, and managing the fantastical aspects of cosplay photoshoots. Her role includes reaching out to cosplayers, developing concepts for photo shoots, and cosplay modeling.

Cosplay as therapy.

Let’s be honest. Real life is often boring. The monotony, the routine, the same shit different day that we can all experience. For Ebeneezer Grinch, aka Sheridan, cosplay is a way to escape that tedium. It provides an outlet to be silly and creative. It also provides a fun and safe opportunity to temporarily embody other characters by learning some of the mannerisms and thought patterns of others.

Sheridan began cosplaying in 2012, when he first dressed as Scarecrow from DC Comics. Since then, he has cosplayed DC’s Black Mask and Hugo Strange, as well as Marvel’s Dr. Doom. His need to create has expanded past the cosplay arena and into creating custom decoupage shoes, usually with comic themes. For him, the freedom to create is everything, and it keeps him grounded when everything feels like it’s falling apart.

Cosplay as party time.

Forget all the giving back and being an inspiration. Planning, creating, and wearing cosplay is just fun. Taking pictures is fun. Strategizing poses, photo shoots, shopping, styling, socializing — it’s all fun as hell. And DragonCon, the convention where many of us were introduced to cosplay, is a four-day, 24-hour party. And Larry is there for the party. In fact, you may have seen him smiling while dressed as stoic Luke Cage, villainous Black Adam, or ever uptight Icon.

If it’s not fun, why bother?
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Since childhood, Larry has seen himself as a superhero. As an adult, Larry busts his behind styling and creating the cosplay he envisions. That could require everything from doing research on the character, to creating and painting certain pieces of the costume, to working out the logistics of group cosplays. But ultimately, it’s a good time wrapped in the persona of a character he admires, which is primarily why any of us do it.

If it’s not fun, why bother?

Cosplay as confidence.

As much as we say cosplay is for everyone, sometimes it takes that push for us to believe it. This was the case with Randy, who has been an avid con-goer for years but only began cosplaying in 2013. A friend suggested he cosplay Wilson Fisk, aka Kingpin.

“I’ve wanted to cosplay for years. I never thought I was good enough to do it. Too short, too fat, etc. Then, one day a friend suggested I do Kingpin. After thinking about it I thought, ‘fuck it, he’s right’ and I cosplayed Kingpin.”

Since then, he’s smashed the game both as Kingpin and his now infamous Thulsa Doom, a cosplay that’s won him free nights at hotels and earned international notice. Randy is now iconic in the cosplay world. He’s expanded his repertoire to include cosplays from his favorite movies and ‘80s cartoons. Most recently, Randy’s cosplayed Venger from Dungeons and Dragons and Ja-Kal of Mummies Alive.

And to think, he didn’t think he was good enough to cosplay. Now he’s owning the game.

Cosplay as art.

Cosplay can be as much about art as engineering, something Dwight Dunbar of Shattered Images knows well. He has a background in 3D animation, which has been instrumental in his endeavors to build cosplay armor. For years, he’s leveled up his cosplay skills, building full Iron Man suits.

Dwight isn’t limited to foam armor; he builds helmets, wings, goggles, and a multitude of props for himself and other cosplayers. He is known for his attention to detail when it comes to bringing his cosplays to life. He’s drawn to complex cosplay pieces that challenge his skillset. Some of his past costumes include Archangel, Black Manta, and Ultron.

Cosplay can be as much about art as engineering.
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These days, he’s transitioning his love of design to creating statues and action figures using 3D printing technologies. His goal: to create new 3D art for the fandoms he loves.

Cosplay as engineering.

On more than one occasion I’ve heard Tanya say that if the world had been different, she would be an engineer. We don’t like to admit that racism and sexism can dramatically influence our career decisions, but they do. Thrill Builds creator, Tanya, loves how cosplay provides her the opportunity to do applied engineering in ways that are interesting and fun for her.

Tanya has attended DragonCon since its inception in 1987. For a long time, she was a fabric-only person, but in 2014, she created her first armor cosplay — a Pacific Rim drive suit. Armor building opened an entire new world for her, as she learned to use 3D modeling software to build wearable armor. Tanya also livestreams her work on her Thrill Builds Twitch channel a couple of times a week. If you are looking for someone who shares your love of building, she’s a great resource.

“I love the process of creating my costumes and am constantly amazed at the things other people are able to conceptualize and create. I encourage anyone who is interested to participate in whatever manner they find most enjoyable. At the same time, I really think everyone should try to build something at least once. I hear a lot of ‘Oh, I could never do that. I wouldn’t know where to start.’ The internet is bursting with information, just try it. You might surprise yourself and discover a new passion.”

Cosplay as everything.

Last, but not least, me, TaLynn Kel

For me, cosplay is everything. It’s my friends and family. It’s helped with my confidence. It’s art, creativity, fandom, engineering, connection, style, and a party. When I started this, I had no idea the impact it would have on my life — the relationships it would forge and the way it would strengthen my voice. Cosplay gave me back a piece of myself that I sacrificed in my bid for independence and survival. It gave me a fun reason to keep earning that paycheck.

Cosplay is another form of my personal truth. It gives voice to aspects of myself that often have no place in society. It gives me a way to express my creativity, rage, love, fear, and pain in visible, yet protected ways. It has helped me shape a community of peers who not only enjoy the same activity, but also strive to make it as safe and acceptable as possible for anyone who wants to participate. We know how it feels to not fit, so we try to make a place for others to feel free to be who they are. And if they don’t fit here, we hope they learn that they can create the spaces they need for themselves.

Cosplay gives voice to aspects of myself that often have no place in society.
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We are not all one thing. And none of us bring the same things to cosplay. The fact that we are different, doing our art our way, strengthens the entire cosplay community. There truly is room for everyone who wants to be here, and all I want is for more people to recognize, understand, and work to expand that idea.

We are not cosplay diversity. We are the norm.

flickr/Scott Penner

By Ijeoma Oluo

I remember it clearly, my white mother talking to her black friends as my brother and I, six and four, played underfoot.

“These kids need to be around you, I’m afraid they won’t learn how to be black.”

I understand now, as an adult, what my mom was saying. My white mother was concerned that she would not be able to raise two black kids fully in their blackness, on her own. Many black children raised by white parents do indeed suffer from being cut off from their heritage, from feeling different and erased.

But hearing those words, at six, I felt adrift. I walked over to the always-on television, and turned it to MTV where Prince was guaranteed to be on within minutes.

By six, I was already an awkward, bookish kid and by four, my brother was already a highly sensitive, creative weirdo. These were our personalities then, and they are our personalities today. But for many people we encountered, our very personalities were a sign that our “blackness” had never fully developed.

To kids at school we weren’t “really black.” Older black folk shook their head at our weirdness, “This is what happens,” they would say, “when black kids aren’t raised right.” White people saw us as black, but as the stereotypical idea of black that they were comfortable with — so they didn’t see us at all.

And at an early age, my brother and I both desperately wanted to prove ourselves to our community, but we didn’t know how. We were who we were, and we were made to feel like we were broken.

But even at six, I had an idea that there might be a place for us. I didn’t know where Lake Minnetonka was but I knew it was home. Watching a black man in lace and ruffles and leather slide across the screen in complete confidence was a revelation to me. He owned the screen and the stage, and he was so damn weird. Everything that my brother and I were told not to be as black kids, he was. He was sensitive, he was flamboyant, he was sexy, he was bold, he was as feminine as he was masculine. He lived in a place where nobody questioned why his voice didn’t sound “black enough,” he lived in a place where nobody asked why a black dude would love rock n’ roll, he lived in a place where nobody told him to “toughen up” the way they were always telling my brother, he lived in a place where he could wear heels and lace and eyeliner and nobody told him to “be a man.”

And nobody questioned Prince’s blackness. Not a single person.

The same people who bullied my brother and me for not being “black enough” sat next to us to watch “Purple Rain” time and time again. The same people who just this week were pulling up pictures of my once blue hair and lighter skin in order to revoke my “black card” are likely listening to “Let’s Go Crazy” today and mourning the loss of an undisputedly black man who defied all their norms. Prince was my safe haven at six; he helped give me the confidence to be who I am today.

Prince was, and is, magic. He got the entire world dancing and singing along to a music that defied genre, played by a man who defied every constraint placed on black and male identity. He was a beacon for all of us who were told that we must cut out a part of ourselves in order to fit. I never considered a world without Prince, it did not seem possible that a man made of art and beauty and sex and the boldest chords and the brightest colors could ever die.

Prince will live on, in the hearts of every music lover in the world, and in the defiant existence of black weirdos everywhere.

So many of us exist, as we are, because of him.

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