An Ode to Boystown

I had a thought.

I wouldn’t be the feminine woman I am today- the makeup, the brand choices, the opinions about luxury, the confidence, the no-bullshit attitude, if it hadn’t been for the men I surrounded myself with in my mid 20’s and beyond.

And to be more specific:

Queer,

Black,

Chicago men.

Chicago raised me.

Anyone who knows Chicago and truly loves it understands what that means. Chicago sharpens you. The humor is fast, the style is intentional, and the cultural literacy runs deep.

My Mother is a Chicago woman, her mother too.

It’s a city where presentation matters, but authenticity matters even more. Chicago doesn’t reward pretending. 

Someone will catch it immediately.

And Queer, Black, Chicago men move through the world with a particular brilliance. Wit as survival. Style as language. Confidence as structure. They can read a room in seconds and detect nonsense even faster.

Those were the rooms I learned in.

But if I’m honest, that dynamic started even earlier.

I grew up in circles of boys.

My brothers. The boys in the neighborhood. My drumline brothers in high school.

My earliest social training happened in spaces where communication was honest (usually), direct, loud, competitive, and then…over. Conflict surfaced and resolved. Loyalty was clear. Hierarchy was visible.

There were no sisters in my house. No early training in the subtle relational politics (translation: psychological/emotional warfare) that can exist in all-girl environments.

So my operating system formed differently.

Later, when I found myself safely immersed in the lives of queer Black men, something clicked. In those spaces femininity wasn’t passive. It was examined, sharpened, exaggerated, curated.

You learned quickly that how you present yourself is communication.

What you wear says something.

What you carry says something.

How you enter a room says something.

Luxury wasn’t just consumption. It was literacy.

A code.

And if someone was performing something fake? Clocked. Immediately.

Spaces like that sharpen your perception. You learn to read rooms quickly. You learn confidence as structure. You learn that style can be armor, but also art.

Most women are socialized inside femininity without dissecting it.

I grew up adjacent to it. Then inside queer reinterpretations of it.

That changes your lens.

It also means I never really learned the competitive culture some women describe from growing up in houses full of girls. I’ve heard the stories from friends (a lot of ex-friends lol) the comparison, the subtle exclusion, the emotional maneuvering. That wasn’t my training ground.

My training ground was simple: 

Say it.

Stand on it.

Move on.

So when I later encountered the quieter forms of competition that can exist in some female spaces; the smiling while undermining, the reputation whispering, the subtle status games—it was destabilizing.

Not because I’m naïve.

But because that wasn’t the language I grew up speaking.

Male spaces, and especially the spaces I’ve shared with My Men, were clear.

Banter meant affection.

Conflict meant honesty.

Loyalty was visible.

That clarity felt like home.

And when I say “My Men,” what I really mean is that’s where I first learned belonging.

They taught me that femininity could be intentional. 

Chosen. 

Stylized.

Not something you accidentally inherit.

They taught me audacity.

They taught me that presentation is power.

They taught me that you don’t shrink.

And maybe the biggest thing they taught me was how to watch.

Because when you grow up in rooms where perception matters, you learn to observe everything; the power shifts, the performances, the hypocrisies, the signals people send without even realizing it.

And that lens followed me into adulthood in ways I didn’t fully understand at first.

It followed me into the households I’ve worked in.

Into rooms of extreme wealth.

Into environments where luxury isn’t just aesthetic, it’s identity, hierarchy, and sometimes armor.

When you’ve spent years around people who can read a room instantly, you start to notice things others miss.

The difference between real confidence and purchased confidence.

The difference between wealth that is secure and wealth that is constantly proving itself.

The difference between kindness and performance.

Luxury households are, in many ways, performance spaces. Not in a cynical way, just in the sociological sense. 

Image,

Reputation,

Presentation, 

Belonging. 

All of it is being communicated constantly.

And when you’ve spent your formative years around people who treat style and presence like language, you become fluent in those signals.

You can see the room.

You can see the tension.

You can see when something is real and when something is a costume (and costumes aren't inherently bad, especially if it’s intentional…like Drag)

People sometimes interpret my no-bullshit attitude as hardness.

But it’s not a defense.

It’s clarity.

Clarity sharpened in rooms full of brothers, drummers, and brilliant, Queer, Black Chicago men who understood that survival sometimes requires wit, style, observation, and the courage to say exactly what everyone else in the room is pretending not to see.

And if I’m honest, that education has served me everywhere.

Especially in the most ‘luxurious’ rooms in the world.