As a gay Black man who one day wants a biological family, TreVaughn Roach-Carter long ago reconciled that his path to parenthood wouldn't be a typical one.

He's embraced it—so much that he wanted to help other queer families with their journey.

In 2019, the San Francisco resident began the journey to become a sperm donor, making it through the first of two initial appointments with The Sperm Bank of California before he hit a roadblock.

"They had invited me back for a second test just to make sure that everything is viable," Roach-Carter told The Reckoning in early November. "Before I could even make my appointment for the final test, I got the email that the FDA doesn't want gay sperm."

The incident, first highlighted in a Washington Post article that's gained national attention, has spotlighted what critics call an outdated, discriminatory policy that potentially impacts Black men – and would-be Black families – most of all.

That US Food & Drug Administration policy, enacted in 2005, restricts donations from men who have had sex with other men within the previous five years, citing HIV transmission risk. The ban drew widespread criticism as a misguided directive aimed at "stigmatizing all gay men rather than adopting a screening process that focuses on high-risk sexual behavior by any would-be donor, gay or straight."

On November 18, writer and director Elegance Bratton's "The Inspection," starring Jeremy Pope, Raúl Castillo, and Aaron Dominguez, with Gabrielle Union and Bokeem Woodbine, will hit theaters across the country in limited release. Bratton ("Pier Kids," "Buck"), who is openly gay and a former U.S. Marine, has written and directed an epic American drama that is unapologetically Black and queer. These two ingredients would have almost ensured a mainstream film to be dead on arrival before the 2017 Best Picture Oscar win for "Moonlight."

Inspired by actual events, "The Inspection" tells the story of Ellis French (Pope), a young Black gay man rejected by his mother, Inez French (Union), because of his sexual orientation. After being kicked out of the family home, French is thrust into homelessness in New York City. With few options for his future, he joins the Marines to win his mother's love. In the era of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell," the former discriminatory policy prohibiting out LGBTQ service members, French faces the grueling requirements of boot camp, blatant homophobia, and an unrelenting determination to succeed.

Six years in the making, Bratton tells The Reckoning, "The Inspection" began as part of the narrative of a planned autobiography that he ultimately decided to shelve. He credits his husband and producing partner, Chester Algernal-Gordon, for encouraging him to bring his life story to the big screen.

"You need to tell a story that brings audiences to a place they could never go unless you take them there. It has to be really personal," Bratton recalls Algernal-Gordon saying to him at the time. "He insisted that The Inspection would be the one that would change our lives."

Ian L. Haddock, 35, Executive Director of The Normal Anamoly Initiative, vividly recalls the strange dichotomy of his late mother, Valerie Walker, hurling anti-gay slurs at him. But as hurtful as her colorful language could be, she was steadfast in her determination to keep him away from the illegal drug activities and prison sentences that consumed the lives of his two older brothers in Texas City, TX.

An effeminate Black queer child raised in a trap house with his mother and brothers, Haddock says he played football for a while to prove his masculinity. But he ultimately immersed himself in the Black church experience as one of two options given to Black boys in the football-centered Texas town as alternatives to the less desirable and dangerous elements chosen by many Black men in his orbit for survival.

"I knew I was different," Haddock says. "Showing up as any part of myself as a young kid was very difficult because I was really smart. But I was bullied for being a geek. I was bullied for being poor and dirty, and I was bullied for being feminine."

The bullying wasn't isolated to Haddock's experience with other students at LaMarque High School, where he attended. It was also a constant presence inside his home.

"My brothers tried to beat it out of me," he says. "My mother tried to ridicule it out of me. When I was younger, I was very much in fear of my brothers. My brothers would fight my mama. They didn't care. It was a very abusive situation."

Since 2019, Larry Aldrige, a senior at Morehouse College, along with his best friend, have used the family-oriented nature of Thanksgiving to create something to quell the loneliness of the holiday for their fellow college students at Clark Atlanta University, Spelman College, and Morehouse College, three schools under the Atlanta University Center (AUC) umbrella.

Aldrige wasn't planning to attend Morehouse. His first choice was Clark Atlanta University. It was at the urging of someone he'd grown up with that suggested he attend Morehouse. He applied and got in but was still determining if he wanted to leap. A product of the Black Pentecostal church, Aldridge did what he learned to do when faced with a major life choice, he prayed.

"I said [to God], send me where you want me. Tell me what you need me to do," he says. "My apostle was preaching, but after a while, I got in prayer, and I couldn't even hear him anymore. All I heard was Morehouse. And I was like, okay."

Aldridge, who identifies as queer, hadn't told anyone yet, because he didn't even realize it himself.

Gov. Ron DeSantis (R) has made Florida ground zero in the latest manufactured Republican culture war targeting the LGBTQ+ community. This development follows the passage of his controversial Parental Rights in Education Bill, commonly referred to as the “Don’t Say Gay Bill” that went into effect on July 1. 

The law bans “instruction” about sexual orientation or gender identity “in kindergarten through third grade or in a manner that is not age appropriate or developmentally appropriate for students per state standards.” A provision in the law also requires school staff members to alert parents about “critical decisions affecting a student’s mental, emotional, or physical health or well-being,” which many advocates believe will result in the involuntary outing of students. 

In Lee County, FL, the recent adoption of an LGBTQ Guide is amplifying advocates' fears. 

According to its authors, The LGBTQ Guide is “intended to create guidelines for teachers and administrators to help students who need it and to outline state laws for employees.” A provision in the LGBTQ Guide will notify parents — by form — if a student who is "open about their gender identity," is in a physical education class or on an overnight trip. The guidelines further instruct: “Upon notification or determination of a student who is open about their gender identity, parents of the affected students will be notified of reasonable accommodation options available.” 

There was a bedtime and morning ritual in the Malebranche household. A kiss from the family patriarch to his son David and daughter Michelle that was so routine—his decision to replace David’s kiss with deafening silence—reverberated loudly throughout their home in Galway, NY, in the summer of 1992.

Despite being an exceptional student with degrees from Princeton, Emory, and Columbia Universities, Malebranche, now 53, had become accustomed to achieving a level of success that appeared to impress everyone but the Haitian-born surgeon he called dad. Yet he was not accustomed to being viewed as a disappointment by the man he idolized.

“Donna, is our son trying to tell us something?” Malebranche recalls his father asking his mother almost daily, particularly after getting his ears pierced, and choosing to wear an earring in the right ear only on this particular day, which in the early 90s was a cultural indicator that a man was not heterosexual.

“He would ask her that question every morning. He would not let it go,” Malebranche said. “So after the third or fourth morning, she'd say, ‘What do you want me to do? I can’t cover for you.’”

“I'm 23. If he's not man enough to ask me directly, he’s not man enough to hear it from me, so you tell him,” he said. “And so she did. Those three days that I was home, he didn’t speak to me at all.”

In June, Alphonso Mills, 30, and his fiance Ja’Mel Ware, 33, will become fathers. They shared the news of their expanding family in a short video posted on their respective social media accounts on Feb 22, marking the 22nd week of their baby’s development. While Black queer couples are frequently raising children that are both biological and adoptive, especially in the South, Ware, who identifies as a queer transmasculine man and was assigned female at birth is carrying the couple’s first child. On testosterone for over a decade, Ware says he never imagined that he’d one day have to decide to stop receiving gender-reinforcing hormones in order to conceive, but that was before he met Mills.

Ware proposed in October 2020, during a trip to Walt Disney World after dating Mills for two years. It was a surprise affirmation of their commitment to each other that Mills later reciprocated with a proposal of his own.

“There was just something about our connection that made me realize as long as I could do this, I would do it,” Ware says.

I knew I was not alone. I had spoken to other Black gay men who were caregiving, but it was not something that was often discussed openly. Caregiving can be a very solitary role, where you end up isolated, and unable to find an outlet for all the emotions that you’re experiencing. Because, for some, you are caregiving 24 hours, and unable to leave your care recipient.

I was taught growing up that men were the providers, and as a Black man, I was supposed to leave the home to earn a living to take care of my family. The emotional and physical care wasn’t something I was taught would be my burden to carry. The truth is, there was never going to be any other way this would go. My parents have two sons. We were going to have to shoulder this burden or consider a home for our parents.