The Stonewall Book Award winner The Black Flamingo is coming to the U.S.! Yes, it’s already out in the U.K., but it’s decked out with a new cover here and we’re so excited to share it with you. The Black Flamingo by Dean Atta is a fierce coming-of-age novel-in-verse about identity and the power of drag.
Michael is a mixed-race gay teen growing up in London who’s been navigating 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.
It’s a raw, honest, and insightful debut that explores the layers of identity that make us who we are—and allow us to shine. Start reading The Black Flamingo now!
PROLOGUE
I was born in London,
two months before the end of the world,
on 31st October 1999.
Mummy tells me,
‘When we got closer to the millennium,
people thought planes would fall from the sky
and clocks in computers would go back
one hundred years. But time cannot go back.
We can only move forward.’
I am a baby, just hatched.
My only feathers are my tiny eyelashes.
Over my gurgling, I don’t hear my father
telling Mummy, ‘I’m too young to be a dad.’
Mummy tells me all this, when I’m old enough.
How six days before the millennium,
she burnt their Christmas dinner
and he shouted, ‘You’re useless!’
before throwing his plate down, turkey
stuck to the kitchen floor, and I cried,
startled by early indoor fireworks.
That was the end for them. The beginning
for Mummy and me.
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 Sellotape 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 Brown,’
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 round for birthday tea
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 takeaways 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 vine leaves,
stuffed peppers and Greek salad.
There’s olives, carrot sticks, pitta 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 42 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 “angel”
or “messenger”.’
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 side 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:
‘Change of Name Deed, Michael Angeli’.
But I read: ‘Name Dead’
and it makes sense.
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 Kickers boots,
like a shedded snakeskin,
like a second shadow,
like the thick vapour trails
of the Red Arrows,
diesel mixed with coloured dye,
making a mark in the sky.
I don’t need a plane because
with my new name I can really fly.
That night
I have a dream
in which Mummy is killed
when a British Airways Boeing 747
crashes into our house.
The left wing cuts through her
bedroom window but I survive.
Would I live with my Uncle B,
Aunty B or Granny B?
Or would I become an orphan?
Mum’s gone out and her new boyfriend,
Trevor, lets me watch a horror movie
called Nightmare on Elm Street.
I am fascinated by the man
in the red and green striped jumper
who visits people in their dreams
and kills them. At school I describe
what he does and the glove he wears.
Knives for fingers. I swipe at the air
and children run away screaming,
except Callum, who just laughs and then
says, ‘Go on, then, rip my guts out!’
Smiling and holding open his navy blue blazer.
The next day, the head teacher calls
Mum after complaints from the other parents.
‘Children are having nightmares,’
she tells me when she sends me to bed
early, but I sit at the top of the stairs.
‘What were you thinking?’ Mum shouts
at Trevor. ‘He’s only seven years old.’
Trevor speaks quietly and I can’t make out his reply.
‘You really don’t think you’ve done
anything wrong, do you?’ Mum laughs.
‘He’s not your son. It’s not for you
to decide what he’s old enough for.’
‘So why did you leave him with me?’ Trevor shouts.
‘Because you said you wanted to
bond with him. I didn’t think you meant
by showing him Freddy-effing-Krueger.’
I hate hearing her shout.
It makes my tummy feel funny.
But mostly I feel bad
for getting Trevor into trouble.
I am eight
when my sister,
Anna,
is placed
into the nest of her
white-wicker Moses basket,
newly hatched,
a chick
for me to help
Mum
raise
for the whole of the summer holiday.
Crying
for her thumb to suck
when I tuck her hands
under her
tiny torso.
Anna is a living doll.
A brown-skinned Barbie.
Mum lets me pick out
her outfit each morning.
When
school starts again,
I count down the hours
until
I can run
home and see Anna.
My favourite thing
is to sing to Anna:
‘Itsy Bitsy Spider’,
‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’,
‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star’
and other nursery rhymes.
Mum asks if I want
to have singing lessons.
Trevor takes me
in his cool silver Audi
every Saturday morning.
Anna has a different dad
but we have the same surname.
Mum decided
and Trevor didn’t argue.
In the dining hall at school,
I explain to Callum: ‘Trevor is Anna’s dad
but not mine.’
Callum asks, ‘If you have different dads,
isn’t she your half-sister?’
When I get home,
I ask, ‘Mummy, are we only half?’
‘Don’t let anyone tell you
that you are half anything.
You and Anna are
simply brother and sister.
Don’t let anyone tell you
that she’s your half-sister.
Don’t let anyone tell you
that you are half-black
and half-white. Half-Cypriot
and half-Jamaican.
You are a full human
being. It’s never as simple
as being half and half.
You are born in Britain.
You need to make space
for what British means.
What it means to you
to be British, Cypriot
and Jamaican, too; but
it’s only for you to decide.’
SANDCASTLES
At school, we play Kiss Chase.
When we were in the little playground we had
toys to play with but here in the big playground
we just have each other.
I usually chase Amber and Laura,
who slow down when I chase them,
and speed up when Callum runs after them,
but he always catches up, eventually.
Emily shakes her head at Callum
and says ‘Time out’ when he runs towards her.
Emily and I have agreed not to kiss.
‘Because best friends don’t kiss,’ says Emily.
I don’t mind not kissing Emily.
I don’t tell Emily that
when no one else can see, behind the big tree,
I kiss Callum and Jamal and Toby.
Once a week, Mum lets me have
one friend over for dinner after school.
This week I’ve invited Callum.
Whilst Mum is cooking, we play husband
and wife, in my bedroom.
I play the wife. In an imaginary kitchen
I cook and Callum pretends
to return from work, hugs me from behind
and kisses me on the cheek.
I say, ‘Dinner’s ready!’
Serve his imaginary meal, tell him
what it is, so he knows how to enjoy it:
‘It’s spaghetti,’ I say. ‘You’ve got to use
the spoon and fork.’
Callum asks, ‘Why can’t we have pizza
like the Turtles?’ Pointing to the poster
on my wall.
‘Because we’re not playing Turtles now,’ I say.
‘How was your day at work, darling?’
I script and direct this role-play game,
I play it with Toby and Jamal, too.
Just not with Emily, Amber or Laura.
All the girls in my class like me.
I’m the only boy invited to their sleepovers.
‘Michael, are you free Friday night?’
‘Michael, do you like Disney and ice cream?’
I share blankets on the floor with four,
five, six girls or more.
Emily is always invited because
she’s the most popular girl in our class.
Callum says, ‘You’re so lucky!’
These girls are my friends.
I do feel lucky.
‘When is Trevor coming back?’
I eventually stop asking Mum.
She takes me
to my singing lessons now.
Trevor returns
in his stupid silver car,
demanding
to see Anna.
But he never asks to see me.
The night I realise
Trevor isn’t coming back,
I have the dream
in which mum is killed
when a Boeing 747
crashes into our house.
The left wing cuts through her
bedroom window but Anna and I survive.
Would Trevor take Anna
but leave me an orphan?
Anna gets Phoebe, my old Barbie doll,
and my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.
Anna gets my dungarees
and all my other old clothes, too.
I notice when Anna plays
with my Turtles, no one asks her why.
I notice when Anna wears
my dungarees, no one comments.
I’m glad she is free to play
and dress however she feels happy.
Mum takes me and Anna to Brighton Beach.
Anna brings my yellow bucket and spade,
which she insists on holding for the whole
train journey. I already know – and Mum
explained – that the beach has pebbles and
rocks, not sand.
Walking from the station towards the beach,
I dread Anna’s disappointment
but when we get there she takes my hand
and lets go of Mum.
‘Stay where I can see you two,’ Mum shouts
after us, as Anna leads me to the water’s edge.
She kneels down and piles pebbles in
the bucket. ‘Sandcastle,’ she says, beaming.
‘Sandcastle.’
I sit on the bench under the tree
playing Cat’s Cradle with Emily,
when Laura and Amber come over.
‘Michael!’ ‘Please sing!’
‘Come on, Michael.’ ‘Pretty please, sing us
a pop song!’
‘I don’t want to be a show-off,’ I protest.
I prefer musicals anyway.
‘Of course you do,’ says Emily.
‘Why else do you have singing lessons?’
There is one pop song I love
right now: ‘Lady Marmalade’.
I sing the verses by Christina Aguilera,
Mýa and Pink, and Lil’ Kim’s rap.
A big group of girls, and some boys,
gather around, some giggle but most cheer.
I hear a wolf-whistle and I think
it comes from either Jamal or Toby.
I direct the song to Callum, who is at the back
of the crowd. When I point at him, they all
turn around. He shakes his head. Walks away.
The bell rings and everyone starts heading
into school. Emily grabs my navy blue blazer.
I turn back to face her. ‘What’s up?’
She looks down at her Kickers, then back up.
‘Do you know what the French words mean?’
she asks.
I shake my head. She whispers
in my ear, a new truth. I never knew it was
about more than kissing.
It’s non-uniform day.
Mum has picked out a brand new Levi’s denim
jacket. It’s stiff and uncomfortable.
I take it off at the start of the day, hang it
on my cloakroom hook.
When I go back
before home time, it’s gone.
At the school gate I say, ‘Mummy,
I think someone took my jacket by mistake.’
She shouts, ‘What do you mean
someone took it? You stupid boy,
you have to look after your things!
Do you know how much it cost?’
‘I didn’t like it anyway,’ I say, embarrassed
that people might be watching.
She slaps me hard across the face.
My eyes fill up but I don’t blink.
I look her straight in the eye,
‘You’re not allowed to do that.’
‘Uncle B, Mum hit me.
I think she’s worried about money.’
Uncle B has always been there for me.
The only person in the Brown family
that I see regularly.
He tells me that Mum is doing her best.
He tells me how hard he worked
to build himself a better life,
get the family out of poverty.
He buys me gifts
but this is not why I love him.
He likes planes and astronomy;
he has his head in the clouds,
reaches for stars.