All American: Homecoming: A Queer Analysis

Highlighting Queer Erasure and Character Tropes in Black Media

In film, media, and literature, tropes are recurring archetypes, clichés, or patterns. They often involve common traits, behaviors, or situations that audiences immediately recognize. Some examples include (but are not limited to) the brainiac, the popular girl, the scaredy-cat, the hero, the villain, the sidekick, the jock, etc. Oftentimes, when a Queer character is written in mainstream media, their storyline is limited; they usually appear as a background or supporting character, and their Queerness is heavily toned down to keep the general public—also known as straight, cisgender people—from feeling offended.

While this does show progress from the past, where Black Queer characters were portrayed as sassy, flamboyant caricatures to serve as jokes for straight audiences, the progress is still not enough.

I decided to start this series because I wanted to provide a necessary critique on the representation of Queer people in Black media. It is 2025, and we still have not made the appropriate progress in recognizing and affirming the identities of Queer people in Black-led media—and not enough people are talking about this. Anti-Queer rhetoric remains normalized within the Black community, and the media plays a huge role in maintaining that. In this series, I will be breaking down the Queer tropes that show up in modern Black television, one show at a time.

This week, I will be discussing the TV show All American: Homecoming and highlighting some Black Queer tropes and overall inadequacies in the series.

When I first witnessed the promotional materials for All American: Homecoming, I was immediately filled with excitement. Nearly every advertisement featured an exceptionally beautiful gender-queer character with a flamboyant and intentional fashion sense. The marketing strongly suggested that this character would play a meaningful supporting role as the best friend to the show’s protagonist at an HBCU (Historically Black College or University). This felt monumental—particularly because the original All American series almost completely erased the existence of Queer people assigned male at birth. 

The promise of Homecoming felt different. I was genuinely overjoyed at the idea of seeing an openly Queer person navigate life at an HBCU, a setting that is frequently romanticized in Black media yet rarely examined with nuance. When was the last time we saw an openly Queer, Black character in an HBCU-centered film or television series? That sense of anticipation quickly turned into disappointment as it became clear that the show was engaging in queer baiting rather than meaningful representation.

Queer baiting occurs when media includes the appearance of LGBTQ+ characters or relationships to attract Queer audiences while maintaining ambiguity, underdevelopment, or narrative distance from their actual lived realities. In Homecoming, the gender-queer character’s storyline is so thin and underexplored that their presence generates more confusion than confirmation. Their identity exists visually, but not narratively. They are seen, but not understood.

This failure is especially glaring when considering the abundance of rich, necessary storylines that naturally emerge from the lived experiences of Black gender-expansive students at HBCUs. Issues surrounding the institutional enforcement of the gender binary—within classrooms, housing assignments, athletics, greek life, and access to public spaces such as restrooms and locker rooms—are unavoidable realities for many students. Yet Homecoming largely avoids engaging with these tensions, opting instead for a version of queerness that is aesthetically present but structurally invisible.

The All American franchise centers on sports, yet none of the Queer characters are allowed to meaningfully participate in athletics. This omission is not accidental; it is a form of Queer erasure. By keeping Queer bodies out of sports, the writers reinforce the idea that queerness has no place in it. This decision reflects an underlying discomfort rooted in respectability politics and conservative attitudes toward gender and sexuality that continue to exist within the Black community.

Additionally, many HBCUs are located in Southern states, regions where Republican-led legislation increasingly targets gender-diverse people through policies that restrict bodily autonomy, self-identification, and access to safe public spaces. These political climates embolden acts of discrimination, misgendering, and harassment, creating layered challenges for gender-queer students that extend far beyond interpersonal discomfort. The near-total absence of these realities in Homecoming is not an accidental oversight—it is blatant disrespect. 

By refusing to engage with the structural, cultural, and political realities that shape Queer life at HBCUs, All American: Homecoming opts for a version of representation that is safe, non-disruptive, and ultimately meaningless. Visibility without depth is not progress. When Queer characters are reduced to accessories rather than fully realized people, the result is not inclusion—it is erasure dressed up as representation.

The series concluded after three seasons, yet it was not until the third season that viewers were finally given meaningful information about the main Queer character, Nathaniel “Nate” Hardin. It should not take three seasons for a show to clearly state a character’s gender identity or pronouns—especially when that character’s gender expression plays a huge part in their storyline. This delay is not subtle storytelling; it is narrative negligence.

Watching the first season was genuinely confusing for me—not only as a Queer person, but as someone who was educated in and currently works within a Queer setting. If Nate’s identity was unclear to someone with both lived experience and professional training, I can only imagine how confusing it must have been for viewers with little to no exposure to Queer and gender-diverse identities. That confusion is intentional. Media is one of the primary ways people learn about identities outside of their own, and when writers fail to offer clarity, they reinforce misunderstanding rather than challenge it. They don’t want the general public to understand Queer people, so they make our stories confusing on purpose. 

A simple solution existed from the very beginning: introduction through pronouns. College campuses are environments where introductions happen constantly—new professors, classmates, student organizations, campus jobs. Pronoun sharing has become a normalized practice in academic spaces, particularly among Generation Z students, all of whom (in the show) would have been born in the 2000s. It is deeply unrealistic to suggest that a gender-expansive student could move throughout an entire college campus without ever introducing themself or clarifying how they wish to be addressed. Nate’s fluid gender expression is already communicated visually through styling, so the absence of verbal confirmation feels intentional rather than accidental. This is precisely what I mean when I argue that Queer characters are underdeveloped in media: writers include the aesthetic of queerness while neglecting the most basic elements of personhood.

Nate’s characterization also relies heavily on tired stereotypes. They embody the familiar “Gay Best Friend” trope: the hair stylist, the fashion authority, the emotional caretaker, the person everyone turns to for advice. Nate consistently displays the highest emotional intelligence in the room, yet very little attention is paid to their own inner life. Queer characters do not exist to advance the emotional growth of straight, cisgender people, and yet that is exactly how Nate is positioned. Even Nate’s career aspirations—studying law in order to defend others—reinforce the idea that their purpose is service rather than self-actualization. Ironically, Nate is one of the most compelling characters in the series, yet their story remains the least explored.

Compounding this issue is the show’s inconsistent and unexplained use of pronouns. Throughout the series, Nate is frequently referred to using she/her/hers pronouns by other characters, which only deepens the confusion. If a character assigned male at birth is consistently referred to with traditionally feminine pronouns, many viewers would reasonably assume the character is a trans woman. However, nothing in the writing, performance, or narrative framing confirms this identity. Instead, the show gestures toward multiple Queer identities without committing to any of them, leaving viewers without the language or context needed to understand what they are seeing. This ambiguity does not educate—it obscures.

As a result, many viewers are likely to interpret Nate simply as a gay man. When it is later revealed that the character is non-binary, the disclosure feels delayed rather than deliberate. The consistent use of they/them pronouns from the beginning would have provided clarity, honored the character’s identity, and allowed the audience to engage with Nate’s story with greater understanding and intention.

The show briefly attempts to address housing discrimination through a storyline involving Nate living in a women’s dorm. It is important to emphasize how brief this storyline is: less than five minutes of a forty-minute episode. Transgender and gender-expansive student housing—particularly at HBCUs—is an incredibly complex and contentious issue. In reality, straight cisgender students regularly protest inadequate housing options, discriminatory policies, and unsafe living conditions. None of that complexity is explored here as it pertains to Nate. 

To summarize the situation: Nate’s best friend, Keisha McCalla (she/her), is another Queer character whose bisexuality is largely sidelined and visually erased through consistent pairing with male partners. As a resident advisor, Keisha has access to a private bathroom and sacrifices that privilege so Nate can avoid harassment. However, this sacrifice is never shown on screen—it is merely mentioned in dialogue. Conflict arises when a cisgender woman, Wilinda, becomes hostile toward Nate’s presence and submits several written complaints requesting to have them removed from the dorm. The situation resolves almost immediately when Nate threatens to expose Wilinda for sneaking her boyfriend into the all-women’s dorm.

While this may initially sound like a compelling storyline, its resolution is wildly unrealistic. In reality, this conflict would likely have escalated to higher administration, and Keisha would almost certainly have faced consequences for relinquishing her RA housing. By choosing an easy resolution—having Nate live alone—the writers avoid engaging with the real institutional discrimination Queer students face. This narrative shortcut feels like a deliberate attempt to cheapen Nate’s story. 

The show similarly mishandles a storyline involving Nate attempting to join a sorority. This occurs before Nate’s gender identity is explicitly stated, further muddying the narrative. The writers appear to be telling a story adjacent to that of a trans woman, yet they do not cast a trans woman or commit to that identity in the script. Nate is accepted into the sorority, only to later decline membership after realizing they are being used as a diversity token. While tokenization is a real issue, the premise itself strains credibility. It is difficult to believe that an all-cisgender sorority would be portrayed as this progressive without significant resistance or conflict. Once again, the show opts for wishful storytelling over realism.

Finally, the absence of meaningful interactions between Nate and the male characters is glaring. Despite all of the main characters frequently occupying the same spaces, Nate primarily interacts with cis women. The cis men neither engage with Nate nor ask questions about their identity. This is deeply unrealistic. In real life, gender-expansive people are often subjected to curiosity, discomfort, interrogation, or outright hostility. The total lack of inquiry suggests a failure in writing rather than an intentional narrative choice. By refusing to depict these interactions, the show sanitizes Queer experience instead of reflecting it.

Because Nate is positioned as one of the first characters of their kind within this franchise, it is important to acknowledge that All American: Homecoming attempted to do something good. However, intent does not outweigh impact. While the show deserves credit for trying, it ultimately did not try hard enough. Nate is written as fabulous, confident, and naturally inclined toward leadership. The emphasis on positive traits over harmful stereotypes is appreciated. Still, I would have far preferred a realistic portrayal over an aspirational one. The near-utopian campus environment Nate inhabits does not reflect the lived realities of Black Queer students at HBCUs.

There is also an inherent contradiction in writing a sports-centered series, placing a Queer character in a leading role, and then deliberately excluding them from athletic spaces. This decision feels especially hollow given the show’s attempt to address tokenism. How can a storyline critique tokenization while simultaneously tokenizing Nate? 

Many of my critiques of Homecoming mirror broader issues in contemporary television, particularly in shows like Euphoria. Both series include Queer characters with underdeveloped storylines that confuse rather than educate their audiences. When Euphoria was at the height of its popularity, I worked as a resident advisor for college freshmen. Students regularly hosted viewing parties, and I distinctly remember several of them telling me they did not realize the character Jules was transgender. That revelation was shocking to me, but it clarified an important point: the writing relied heavily on nuance without offering confirmation. I understood Jules’ identity because I was familiar with the actor, recognized hormone injections, and could distinguish Queer dating apps from heterosexual ones. The average viewer did not have that context. Some interpreted Jules administering hormones as drug use. That is not subtle storytelling—it is narrative failure.

When media presents itself as groundbreaking, particularly in its portrayal of trans and gender-expansive people, there is an added responsibility to be intentional and clear. Representation is still scarce, and when it finally appears, it carries significant weight. Stories that gesture toward Queerness without fully committing to it do more than miss opportunities—they shape public understanding in incomplete and sometimes harmful ways. If television is going to tell Queer stories, especially within Black spaces that are already underrepresented, it must do so with care, clarity, and courage. Anything less is not progress; it is simply visibility without accountability.

Author’s Note: This op-ed was written and developed by Princex Aimis. All ideas, interpretations, and original arguments presented here are the intellectual property of the author. © 2025. Reproduction or redistribution without permission is prohibited.