The Black Flamingo

by Dean Atta

Genres: YA LGBT & Pride; Young Adult; Book Prizes & Literary Awards

Synopsis

Stonewall Book Award Winner!

A fierce coming-of-age verse novel about identity and the power of drag, written and narrated by acclaimed UK poet and performer Dean Atta. Perfect for fans of Elizabeth Acevedo, Jason Reynolds, and Kacen Callender.

Michael is a mixed-race gay teen growing up in London. All his life, he's navigated what it means to be Greek-Cypriot and Jamaican—but never quite feeling Greek or Black enough.

As he gets older, Michael's coming out is only the start of learning who he is and where he fits in. When he discovers the Drag Society, he finally finds where he belongs—and the Black Flamingo is born.

Told with raw honesty, insight, and lyricism, this debut explores the layers of identity that make us who we are—and allow us to shine.

Release date: May 25, 2021

Publisher: Balzer + Bray

Print pages: 416

Sample

Barbies and Belonging

Today is my sixth birthday

and I’m hiding in my room.

Last year, for my birthday,

Uncle B bought me this

Casio watch. Look—it lights up

and is water-resistant. That means

I can wear it in the bath.

Last night, when Mummy was

making dinner, I snuck into

her bedroom and looked inside

her wardrobe, parting clothes

to see the back where she

always hides my presents.

I picked up the parcel, feeling

the shape of the long, thin box,

inside the silver wrapping paper.

It was definitely the right shape

to be

a Barbie!

I carefully peeled

the tape at one end

and peeked underneath

the wrapping paper

at the top of the box,

to see a green logo:

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.

I told Mummy two months ago,

“If you only get me one present

this year, please can it be

a Barbie?”

“Michael,”

calls Mummy, “where are you?

Come down and open your birthday present.

Your friends will be arriving soon!”

I stand at the top of our stairs

and shout down,

“Is it a Barbie?”

Mummy comes to the bottom step,

smiling gently.

“No, Michael, I didn’t think you were

serious. But I got you something

that I know you’ll love.”

I watch a tear

land on the wooden floor

between my Turtles slippers—

a gift from Aunty B last Christmas.

Mummy comes upstairs, embracing me

in a soft, warm, Mum-smelling hug.

“Oh, darling, I can get you a Barbie

for Christmas, if you still want one.”

Christmas is ages away.

I’m about to cry again when the doorbell rings.

Emily, Amber, Laura, Toby, and Jamal

have all come around for birthday dinner

with their mums.

Callum is the last one to arrive.

His dad brings him but doesn’t stay

like the mums do.

Callum and Emily don’t like each other.

Callum lives in a flat with his dad.

They play video games together

and eat takeout for dinner

and sometimes Callum gets to stay up

and watch TV all night, if his dad is out;

it must be so much fun.

Callum is mixed the same

way as me, a black dad and white mummy,

but he doesn’t live with his mummy

and I don’t live with my dad.

Mummy has made stuffed grape leaves,

stuffed peppers, and Greek salad.

There’s olives, carrot sticks, pita bread

and hummus, which I love, and taramasalata,

which I think tastes yucky but I love the word.

I teach my friends how to pronounce it:

Ta-ra-ma-sa-la-ta. Tarama-salata.

“What is it?” asks Callum. “And why is it pink?”

“It’s fish eggs,” I say, proudly, “and my mummy

told me it’s dyed pink. I think it looks pretty.”

“But it tastes disgusting!” Callum says,

spitting it back out onto his plate. “I hate pink.”

He scowls, looking straight at Emily.

Later, I blow out six candles

on my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles birthday

cake and make

my wish

for

a Barbie.

Emily’s playroom is a bubble-gum-

pink mess. She has forty-two Barbies;

I know because I counted. She also has

four ponies and six Jeeps for them.

Goddess of Beauty looks brand-new.

When Emily shows her to me

she says, “She’s meant to be

the Greek goddess Aphrodite,

but she looks like your mummy.”

Emily has lots of toys but this doll

captivates me, her flowing white

and blue gown and her gold headband.

I pick up some of her other Barbies

with their missing arms, legs, heads.

“Why don’t they have full bodies?”

“Their heads came off when I was brushing

their hair,” Emily says, but I’ve never seen

Emily use a Barbie hairbrush. The one

for Goddess is still in its packet. I take it out

and gently brush her hair.

“I’m going to ask my mummy to get me

this one for Christmas,” I tell Emily, proudly.

Christmas morning,

I race downstairs to find

a present under the tree.

No wrapping paper, just

a pink bow on the box.

Mummy has bought me

a Barbie!

But she got it wrong.

It’s not the Goddess

but I hug her anyway.

“Thank you, Mummy.”

This Barbie doesn’t have long, dark, curly hair

or dark eyes like Mummy’s,

like the Goddess.

I decide to name my doll Phoebe.

Phoebe looks like Emily.

I don’t cut Phoebe’s long, blonde hair

or pull off her head or any of her limbs

like Emily would.

Phoebe is not

the Barbie I wanted

but she’s the Barbie I’ve got,

and I decide to take care of her.

Uncle B arrives in his black BMW

to pick me up to take me to Granny B’s

for Christmas dinner with my dad

and the rest of the Brown family.

As I leave, Mummy grabs my shoulders

and turns me around, smiles,

and puts out her hand. “Michael, please

can you leave Phoebe here?

I need her to help me clean up.”

It’s only a ten-minute drive in Uncle’s BMW

but it feels alien.

I wish Mummy was coming with us.

I’m happy when we arrive, because the family

cheer and I think it must be for me.

Aunty B yells, “Finally, we can eat!”

“First, we muss pray,” says Granny B.

Everyone bows their head.

“Faada God, we tank you dat Mikey

can be wid us dis special day, we pray

dat he is neva a stranger to you or to

dis family. In Jesus’s name, amen.”

Everyone at the table repeats, “Amen.”

My dad comes down from his bedroom.

There is a spare seat and place laid out for him

next to me. He silently piles his food up and

takes his plate back upstairs.

“Hey, Mikey—that’s great!” Uncle B says,

looking around the table at everyone else.

“That’s two Christmas crackers we can

pull together!”

Boxing Day.

Emily and I are playing

in my room.

She’s brought Goddess Barbie with her,

who has a shaved head now.

Emily sees Phoebe and asks,

“Couldn’t your mummy afford

the one you wanted?”

I feel myself getting hot.

I reach under my bed for my

black Action Man toy from Uncle B,

kept in his box, which he says is vintage.

On the front is Action Man’s name,

“TOM STONE,” and in his picture,

holding a big gun, he wears a green hat

and camouflage outfit.

I proudly say, “Look what my uncle got me.

Shall we get him out?”

Emily closes her eyes to make him disappear

and says, “He looks scary.”

A few days later, we’re in Emily’s playroom.

Emily pulls out a brand-new Barbie from her

fairy backpack.

Versace Barbie.

“Versace is a fashion designer,” Emily says.

“Mummy has two dresses by Versace. Daddy

bought them for her.” She pauses. “Michael,

do you have a daddy, too?”

“No, my mummy buys her own 

dresses.”

For my seventh birthday, instead of

another Barbie, I tell Mummy I want to change

my last name. I tell her I want to match her.

I want to change my surname from

his Brown to her Angeli.

Mum once told me, “Angeli means ‘angels’

or ‘messengers.’”

She kneels down and puts her hands

on my shoulders, asks, “Are you sure?

You’re very young to make these kinds

of decisions. What about Granny Brown

and Aunty Brown and Uncle Brown?

They all do such nice things for you.”

I reply, “They do, but you do the most

nice things.”

She smiles and hugs me tightly.

I hug her back; I count ten seconds

in my head and then drop my arms

to my sides but Mummy doesn’t let go for

another nine seconds. Nineteen seconds

is the longest hug I have ever had.

On my seventh birthday, after my presents,

Mummy hands me a piece of paper:

Certificate of Name Change, Michael Angeli.

I don’t want his name

dragging behind me like a dead dog on a lead,

like toilet roll on the sole

of my new Converse All Stars,

like a shedded snakeskin,

like a second shadow,

like the thick vapor trails

of the Red Arrows,

diesel mixed with colored dye,

making a mark in the sky.

I don’t need a plane because

with my new name I can really fly.