“People need representation,” Haze stresses. “It means a lot to have any sort of representation.”
All the more impactful, then, that Haze has been increasingly more vocal about their gender.
“I feel like my agenderness and my gender identity have evolved,” they say. “I spent a lot of time, in my earlier years of limelight, suppressing myself.”
That age of suppression is coming to an end. They add that in their language — Haze is Creole, Cherokee, and Blackfoot Indian, and a self-taught speaker of Tsalagi — their identity means two-spirited. “It’s normal that people can feel like they’re two things trapped in one body.” They will continue, through their various forums of advocacy, to further this message of normality. No big deal, nothing to see here — nothing, that is, besides a really, really good rapper.
Though Haze’s gender identity has evolved with the passing years, and their stint on Truce prompts their week-to-week evolution in the television personality game, there is one thing that seems, always, to come easy. “Performing is natural,” they tell me. And I’m inclined to believe them, if only because their force of presence behind the mic — their vitality, their singular style, their certain brand of fearlessness — always makes it seem so.
Onstage, Haze says, “everyone knows what I’m about. What I’m going to do.”
Y’all wanna read an interview about an incredible rapper by a reporter who properly genders them throughout the article? Of course you do.