Black History Month: ‘This film is a masterpiece that every Black LGBTQ+ person should discover’

Black History Month occupies a special spot in the calendar. For many people, it’s a time to learn something new about the Black community, the sacrifices, the wins, and the moments of progress that we can perhaps take for granted today.

For me, it prompts a sweeping and introspective look at our contemporary landscape. I find myself wondering how the activists and artists who came before us might view our community now. If they looked at how we treat each other, how we build relationships, and how and who we love, what would they think? We talk a lot about public progress, but I find myself thinking more and more about our interpersonal worlds, our intimacy, and how we love. 

As a Black queer man in the UK, navigating the modern dating and social landscape can often feel like trying to find your footing on a revolving floor. One of the most exhausting, confusing elements of this journey has been learning to recognise and understand fetishisation. It is a strange, isolating experience to realise that someone is looking right at you, but they can’t see you. That they aren’t interested in your story, your personality, your humour, or your mind, but are instead projecting a hyper-sexualised stereotype onto the colour of your skin. 

I realised that the modern anxieties we face on dating apps aren’t new, they are part of a long historical continuum

For a long time, I didn’t have the language to articulate this feeling. I internalised it and confused it with genuine connection, constantly questioning my own instincts rather than spotting the bias at play.

Only when I turned to literature did the confusion begin to clear. I realised that the modern anxieties we face on dating apps aren’t new, they are part of a long historical continuum. To understand our present, we have to look at the foundational Black queer voices who wrote about these exact power dynamics decades ago. 

The first book that radically shifted my perspective was James Baldwin’s classic 1956 novel, Giovanni’s Room. While the book famously features white characters, Baldwin’s lens on the anatomy of desire, shame, and the internalised terror of being truly seen cut right to the core of my own experiences. Baldwin, a Black writer, exposed how easily we can use other people as tools to validate ourselves, rather than loving them as full human beings. 

The language of desire and objectification isn’t just on the page; it’s woven into the history of Black queer cinema

It reminded me that the confusion between love and objectification is an old human trap. Reading his work was a sobering reminder that if we don’t heal our own wounds, we risk participating in the very dynamics that harm us. 

The language of desire and objectification isn’t just on the page; it’s woven into the history of Black queer cinema. Isaac Julien’s iconic 1989 avant-garde British film, Looking for Langston, is a masterpiece that every Black LGBTQ+ person should discover this month. The film is an honest exploration of the private life of Langston Hughes and the Harlem Renaissance, but at its heart, it is a visual meditation on the Black male body as a site of intense beauty, desire, and historical fetishisation. Julien beautifully captures the gaze, both white and Black, and forces the audience to look at how Black queer men have historically been adored, consumed, and marginalised all at once. 

Seeing these dynamics laid bare in texts that are thirty, forty, or fifty years old was incredibly validating. It taught me that I am not the first, nor will I be the last, to think through these heavy questions of identity and belonging. These historical works provide a protective armour, they show us that our survival mechanisms and our struggles with intimacy have real lineage.

Back in 2022, I became the first-ever LGBTQ+ columnist for The Voice newspaper

Unpacking these exact nuances, the intersections of race, sexuality, and community in the UK, is a passion that has come to define my career. Back in 2022, I became the first-ever LGBTQ+ columnist for The Voice newspaper. Stepping into that role felt like a profound responsibility, but it also made me realise how vital it is that we constantly hold up a mirror to our own communities. 

Reading these ancestral texts through the lens of my own research and journalism has been particularly rewarding because it underscores the fact that our modern conversations are rooted in a legacy of survival. Understanding that ancestry makes witnessing our current creative landscape even more thrilling. We are living in an incredible moment for Black queer storytelling, where modern creators are standing firmly on the shoulders of these giants. While things may not have changed much, I think they’d be proud! 

I was thinking about this balance recently when I interviewed BAFTA winner Dean Atta. His stop-motion animated short film, Two Black Boys in Paradise, adapted from his own poetry works, recently won Short Animation at the 2026 BAFTAs. The film is a stunning, 9-minute piece of art that uses animation to show two young Black boys finding a literal paradise and a sense of emotional safety away from the grey reality of their everyday lives. While it is deeply rooted in the Black queer youth experience, its themes of first love and radical self-acceptance reach far beyond sexual and racial identity. 

There’s something immensely valuable in simply going to these events, listening, and seeing what stays with you afterwards

It feels like the ultimate antidote to the isolation of fetishisation. If the historical texts taught us how to spot the trap, modern art like Dean’s is showing us how to build a sanctuary. 

If you want to experience that creative energy in action, checking out local screenings, independent panels, or exhibitions this month is less about fulfilling a calendar obligation and more about experiencing some of the most exciting work being made right now! 

There’s something immensely valuable in simply going to these events, listening, and seeing what stays with you afterwards. This Black History Month, the most interesting question we can ask ourselves isn’t necessarily, “What should I do now?” but simply: “What will I take from this?” It doesn’t have to be a loud series of realisations. It can be a quiet, solitary journey of self-improvement and artistic discovery, one that reminds us to be fiercely proud and equally hopeful.