Black Queer Futures in Academia: Beyond Survival, Towards Belonging

What would academia look like if Black queer people were not simply invited into the room, but had the power to shape it?

James Baldwin wrote in A Talk to Teachers: “Let’s begin by saying that we are living in dangerous times.” Written in 1963, his words remain uncomfortable in their relevance. Baldwin challenged education to do more than reproduce the society around it; he asked us to examine the systems, histories and power structures that shape what we are taught and who gets to belong.

I have been thinking about that a lot recently.

The recent loss of Professor Jason Arday has been difficult for many of us in UK academia. It has forced uncomfortable questions about race, scrutiny, belonging and who gets to feel safe and valued within our institutions. Jason’s contribution to sociology, higher education and widening participation mattered. So does the conversation his death has prompted.

For Black academics, particularly Black queer academics, these questions are not abstract.

I asked two Black queer academics what Black Queer Futures in Academia would look like if they could wave a magic wand and remove every barrier, institutional constraint and limitation.

Their answers stayed with me.

One Black gay academic described entering a room knowing that “my very presence and right to be there is quietly questioned”. He recalled being told: “You speak so well”; “How did you become a Head of Department without holding a PhD?”; and “You don’t look like a Head of Department.”

These comments can be dismissed as casual observations. They are not. They reveal assumptions about who looks like an academic, who sounds like a leader and who is perceived as having earned the right to occupy authority.

His response is to walk into every room knowing who he is and what qualifies him to be there—without waiting for permission.

That should not be resilience we have to learn.

He also spoke about watching what happened to Jason with “helpless horror”, asking himself: if this could happen to him, what hope is there for me?

Yet his story is not only one of discrimination. It is also a story of people who saw beyond his Blackness and queerness, recognised his ability and opened doors.

That distinction matters.

Audre Lorde wrote extensively about the difference between survival and liberation. Survival can require us to become extraordinarily resilient within systems that were never designed with us in mind. Liberation asks a different question: why are those systems still structured this way?

This is where Kimberlé Crenshaw’s concept of intersectionality remains so important.

For Black queer academics, race and sexuality cannot simply be separated into two different diversity boxes. They intersect with gender, class, disability, age and other aspects of our lives to shape how we are perceived, treated and valued. Institutions may create separate strategies for race equality, LGBTQ+ inclusion or social mobility, but people experience these systems simultaneously.

Intersectionality asks us to look at what happens in the gaps between those policies.

And the UK higher education data tells us that the journey is still unequal.

Advance HE data shows that just 3.8% of UK Black academics were professors in 2022–23, with Black professors remaining the most underrepresented ethnic group. Black academics are also more likely to be employed on fixed-term contracts than White academics.

The statistics tell us about the destination.

Lived experience tells us about the journey.

And the journey matters.

Because individual brilliance cannot be the solution to institutional inequality.

We should not have to be exceptional to be believed. We should not have to accumulate qualifications beyond what is expected of others simply to silence questions about whether we belong. We should not have to become experts in navigating microaggressions, code-switching, institutional politics and precarious employment just to remain in the room.

So, if I had a magic wand, I would change the question.

Not: “How do we help Black queer academics fit into academia?”

But: “How do we change academia so Black queer academics can thrive?”

That begins with power.

I imagine institutions run more democratically by staff and students, where those most affected by decisions have genuine influence over them. I imagine equitable recruitment and promotion processes, meaningful sponsorship, and leadership that challenges racism and homophobia rather than quietly managing them.

I want universities to recognise the labour of Equality, Diversity and Inclusion work rather than expecting the same people who experience inequality to fix it in their spare time.

I want Black queer scholarship to be part of the intellectual fabric of universities—not an occasional addition during Black History Month or Pride.

I want curricula that reflect the richness of global majority experiences and recognise the knowledge held within oral traditions, community histories, art, design, performance and lived experience.

And I want us to confront the economics of academia.

Who can afford to enter higher education? Who can afford postgraduate study? Who can take an unpaid opportunity? Who can survive years of precarious contracts? Who has family wealth or a safety net when academia says, “Not yet”?

If we are serious about creating a pipeline of future Black academics, then we have to talk about money.

Free education alone will not dismantle racism or homophobia. But removing financial barriers can change who gets the opportunity to enter, stay and progress. It can make intellectual risk possible for people who otherwise have to prioritise financial survival.

This is about more than creating Black queer professors.

It is about creating conditions in which a young Black, queer, neurodivergent or working-class person can look at academia and think: I belong here. I can lead here. I can change this place.

That is the future I want.

A future where our ideas are credited. Where our qualifications are trusted. Where our identities are affirmed rather than scrutinised. Where we can disagree, challenge, innovate, rest and lead without feeling that we are carrying the expectations of an entire community on our shoulders.

A future where Black queer academics are celebrated, not tolerated.

And despite everything, there is hope.

Hope does not mean ignoring the barriers. It means refusing to believe that those barriers are permanent.

I am also learning to protect my wellbeing along the way. We cannot build liberation while sacrificing ourselves entirely to the institutions we are trying to change. Rest, joy, community and boundaries are not distractions from the work. They are part of sustaining it.

Baldwin reminded us that education should make us conscious of the society in which we live. Lorde taught us that survival is not enough. Crenshaw gave us a language for understanding how systems of power intersect.

Now it is our turn to decide what we do with that knowledge.

The future is not something we wait for.

We build it. We build it collectively. And we must build it differently.