I often wonder what kind of life younger me would’ve had if he’d had someone like Moi Renee as a possibility model.
I grew up feeling alone, invisible, and disconnected from my culture and heritage as a Trinidadian-American because of how homophobia showed up in my family and Caribbean culture. But what if younger Me saw today’s Me, someone whose life is a byproduct of Renee’s audaciousness? What kind of future life could he imagine for himself?
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The hug my Mami gives me when I arrive at the small airport in my hometown has enough love behind it to knock me off my feet.
Moi Renee was a proud queer Jamaican who was a legend in the NYC nightlife scene and known for his catchy bitch track “Miss Honey,” which was revived and thrust into popular culture by Beyoncé’s queer-forward 2022 album Renaissance. Since 2019, I’ve been producing a documentary about his musical legacy. And in working on his life story, I’ve been able to re-envision my own as a queer Caribbean-American.
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The first time I’d seen Moi Renee, I was a sophomore at Morgan State University. Me and my “house of bears” gurlfriends had just got back from the cafeteria and were watching ballroom clips on YouTube. Somewhere down the rabbit hole, we saw this Marge Simpson-like gay man swaying his hips with two other men whose dances were no better. We cackled at the performance and bitchiness of the song.
Through the years—decades—since, I didn’t know then that this man or his song would be a cornerstone in the expansion of my sexual and gender expression.
It’s been an enriching process working on a documentary about Renee, particularly holding space with so many people who knew Renee professionally and personally. Elders who taught me more about who Moi Renee was outside of the green wig. Moi Renee’s friend, the Legendary Makuta Chanel Versace, would share how Renee would saunter down the streets of Flatbush “with these pum pum shorts on that will cause a lot of problems in the community.” Others I interviewed shared one of Moi’s popular phrases: “I’m Jamaican, y’know.” They’d mimic his expression, which I received as a proud declaration of his heritage shared through his flamboyance.
Hearing these stories fuel me with courage and pride. Granted, today we live in a time where LGBTQ+ people are generally more accepted, but Moi Renee lived loud and proud as a gay Caribbean man during a very different New York, see: don’t ask don’t tell, and Buju Banton’s infamous “Boom Bye Bye.”
I see much of young adult me in the reflections of Moi Renee. Moi Renee, a proud Caribbean American gay boy who left the homophobia of Jamaica for a life of freedom in the States, and found it in NYC. Myself, a newly loud and proud faggot who’d left the homophobia of his environment, eventually found my own liberation in NYC. Moi Renee was known for his very avant-garde and androgynous style. As Makuta tells it, “that bitch had caution tape. She will make an outfit out of caution tape. Moi Rene was really giving, ‘I’m gonna pick up something and make it art.’” Now, I’m nobody’s good with a needle and thread, but teenage Brandon did have a flair for fashion. I won best dressed in high school for wearing rainbow tank-tops over polo shirts (with the collars popped), suspenders, pants from Hot Topic, and whatever shoes matched the look. In hindsight, I’ve always existed in the spirit of Moi Renee even before I knew him.
It was bittersweet hearing Moi Renee had a good relationship with his family. His childhood friend Beau McCall recalls Moi Renee’s close relationship with his sister and how Renee and his father had a similar walk, that they both had a commanding sway in their step. As I hear this, I’m reminded of how my father would get on me about my “flighty” walk and the ways I shrank and morphed myself for my safety. The homophobia and intolerance that my father bears has always strained our relationship, so much so that I’ve never had a strong connection with my paternal family.
This is sadly still a common trend among the Caribbean diaspora. A 2023 study showed that the lack of family support is one of the top three major issues facing LGBTQ+ persons in Jamaica. This lack of support may lead to experiences of homelessness, suicidal ideation, and other negative consequences experienced by LGBTQ+ persons. More than half of those studied knew someone who was violently killed or murdered within the last year. As I write this, Trinidad & Tobago recently recriminalized homosexuality through reinstating sodomy laws. These types of laws move us further away from progress and equality.
In 2023, my husband and I went to Oakland for my queer aunt Meshell’s celebration of life. She’d been diagnosed with ALS and wanted to be surrounded by her loved ones during her final days. I was honored to be present. After the celebration, we went to her and her wife’s home, and my aunt’s childhood best friend from Trinidad cooked for everyone. She taught us how to make roti, curry channa, and chicken, all from scratch. I’m no cook, so I persuaded my husband to learn for us. But I watched in awe as food became a practice and a demonstration of love. We sat and ate together as a family. This was only the second time I can recall having a loving familial experience with my paternal family, the first was at Meshell’s wedding in 2017.
Thinking of food as a familial labor of love, I recall Makuta speaking passionately about how often Moi Renee would cook for him and others. How Moi Renee made the best brown stew chicken with rice and peas. I’m not much of a cook, but outside of living on Eastern Parkway and having front row access to the Labor Day parade, my only real connection to my culture was through food. I might not be ready to make chicken roti from scratch, but I love doubles, the savory street food. I get them from Ali’s on Utica Avenue every time I’m in Crown Heights—it’s a ritual. When I get the nerve to try my hand at cooking authentic Trini cuisine, my Aunt Darlene has a recipe waiting for me.
ALS took the life force from my aunt, but not her spirit. Before I left Oakland, I sat with Aunt Meshell in her backyard that she’d spent her life transforming into her botanical oasis. I told her how grateful I was to be there, and about my regret of not having more of these moments sooner. I told her that I was proud of her, that she was my role model on what being a Nicholas looks like. Through labored and struggling speech, she shared similar regrets. She hates how homophobia and hate ruptured our family, but wanted me to promise that I would not lose touch with family. Since then I’ve been building my own relationships with the Nicholas family tree through my other aunt’s Kalisha and Darlene.
Working on this Moi Renee doc helps me reconcile my guilt and shame around being Caribbean and queer. Today, I’m sitting comfortably in the living room of the apartment my mother has lived in for the past decade, watching the Game Show Network. Tug of Words is on. Under the TV are various pictures she printed: me, her, and my brother on her wedding day, my college graduation photo, and a Lifetouch school photo of me from Middle school. I look unhappy in the school photo, arms crossed, not smiling and trying my best to hide the sadness in my eyes. Othered, and shamed for being soft. But I think if younger me met Moi Renee, 12th grade me, or even today Me, this photo would be much more fierce.♦
Brandon R. Nicholas is a queer Caribbean-American storyteller and photographer. He’s the director of Miss Honey: the Catsuit and the host of Let’s Get Back To Queer.
