Black love is revolutionary. In a country that literally ripped Black families apart, its persistence through the centuries is an act of joy, resistance, and self-preservation. So it makes sense that seeing renditions of this on a screen would make a mark on anyone.
Throughout pop culture, there have been countless iconic Black TV and movie couples, both in predominantly Black projects and those not dedicated to our demographic. There are, of course, the classics, like Dwayne Wayne and Whitley Gilbert from A Different World to Nina and Darius in Love Jones. And more modern depictions like Issa and Lawrence on Insecure or Justin and Keisha in Forever.
Whatever your preference—be it TV or movies, yesteryear or contemporary—one thing is consistent in them all: a thoughtful portrayal of Black love and Black romance.
Below, Cosmo’s Black editors talk about six different fictional Black couples from TV and film that shaped our view of Black love and relationships. Because, after all, in the immortal words of the late iconic poet Nikki Giovanni, “Black love is Black wealth.”
Dionne and Murray, Clueless
Dionne and Murray, from Clueless, of course, immediately come to mind for me. Looking back on my middle school/early high school years, I could have easily viewed my two Black parents and their married Black friends as inspiration, but their ages and aunty statuses made it difficult. Then a box of DVDs my brother deemed “mandatory homework” introduced me to Clueless and, suddenly, I had older teenagers to idolize that felt within my reach. Dionne, who was smart, stunning, and lived the Black-girl-white-school lifestyle that I did, immediately caught my attention. I loved that, despite falling into the “best friend” archetype, she felt completely equal to Cher in every way. While Murray was dealt a heavier hand of stereotypes, he also had a refreshing emotional intelligence (I still think about how he soothed Dionne in the aftermath of her freeway scenario). These characters undoubtedly added humor to the film, but they were not there to struggle or be laughed at. They were cool, they were impressively whole, and they provided the relief that comes when you see parts of yourself in other people.
Cher throws out an insulting Ike and Tina reference to describe Dionne and Murray’s bicker-heavy relationship but, ultimately, I think they serve as a template for her throughout the film and, subconsciously, they’ve done the same for me. Do they fight? Of course. They’re both poised for drama, I’ll admit that. But as a member of the “Protect Your Peace” generation, it’s rare to see a young couple move through their arguments, recognize them as temporary, and keep their relationship intact. I have college essays worth of analysis on this (literally), but I’ll keep it brief: I love that distinctly Black love could be an example of tenderness, patience, and conflict resolution when it is so often portrayed as the opposite. And I especially love young people loving each other through everything. Whatever happened between them in the TV reboot is, respectfully, none of my business!
—Mikhaila Archer, editorial assistant
Chiron and Kevin, Moonlight
I remember the moment when I first heard of Moonlight. My mom and her cousin had watched the film in theaters ahead of the 2017 Oscars and were both in agreement that it was destined to be a winner (they were right). I hadn’t seen the movie, but as a fresh 15-year-old closeted lesbian, its name and general premise stuck with me.
It wasn’t until a couple years after its initial release—and around the time I had come out to my family—that I watched it for myself. Yes, it’s heartbreaking to see the times Kevin rejects Chiron in an effort to save face and protect himself, but it’s necessary. It’s reality. But the film also displays moments of softness between the two that are equally real to life. And it’s in those few moments of affection between Chiron and Kevin where they hold each other and they stumble over their kisses that I had witnessed something that I didn’t even know was possible. Up until that point in my life I had never seen such a tender display of love between two Black gay characters.
In a time where Black queer and Black trans lives are continually put at risk under the current presidential administration, I can’t help but still view this showcase of Black love as a beacon of hope. I feel grateful to know that this film and these characters are awaiting so many young people for when they need it, and while I may not revisit the film very often, knowing that it’s always there is enough for me.
—Corinne Bickel, social media specialist
Clair and Cliff Huxtable, The Cosby Show
There’s no way to celebrate the idea of fictional Black love without mentioning Clair and Cliff Huxtable from The Cosby Show. I want to preface this by saying that, in this moment, I am intentionally separating art from reality. There is nothing redeeming about the atrocities Bill Cosby was convicted for or the harm and damage he caused. The moral gymnastics my heart and mind are having to do in order to even write this is frustrating, but I’m asking you to do it with me for just a moment because I cannot undervalue the significance his fictional television character played in shaping my ideals of Black love and Black excellence. And let’s keep it real: Cliff Huxtable was nothing without Clair. Actor Phylicia Rashad’s brilliant, beautiful, badass matriarch was my blueprint. Every week, I was awestruck by how she juggled a wildly successful career, a partnership with an equally successful husband, and the raising of five vastly different children—all while navigating a world that was (and still is) grappling with systemic racial and gender inequality.
Clair and Cliff did all that and more with a level of humor that still has me giggling at the mere thought of some of the show’s shenanigans. Their witty banter wasn’t just cute; it was intellectual foreplay. It was love expressed through laughter, debate, teasing, and deep respect. Even when they disagreed (and they did) their reconciliations were acts of compromise and connection, not domination or ego. That mattered. Especially then.
I clocked the deference Cliff gave to Clair not just as the mother of his children but as a whole, complex woman. A woman whose intellect was never dimmed to make her partner shine brighter. In a media landscape that so often flattened Black women into tropes, Clair Huxtable stood firm as proof that tenderness and authority could coexist. That ambition and motherhood weren’t mutually exclusive. That joy could live alongside rigor.
Their portrayal of love was both an act of resistance and aspiration. Hijinks met higher education. Romance met responsibility. At a time when Black families on television were rarely afforded nuance or longevity, the Huxtables served up a vision of marriage rooted in mutual admiration and shared values. Watching them, I learned that Black love could be playful, principled, and oh so real.
—Julee Wilson, beauty editor-at-large
Taylor and Chad, High School Musical
It was around September of 2007. I’d spent my entire summer out of the country visiting family, so I regretfully missed the live 8 p.m. ET/7 p.m. Central premiere of High School Musical 2 on Disney Channel. I was shaking with anticipation the entire trip home, ready to be reunited with my one true love, the star who carried the ensemble cast on his back. Not Zac Efron, the boy with the charming side bangs, but Corbin Bleu, aka Chad: the man with armpit hair that both intimidated and intrigued me.
To my delight, not far into the movie, it’s revealed that in this latest installment, Corbin’s character is in a full-blown love affair with the decathlon princess herself, Taylor McKessie (the leading lady’s beautiful Black sidekick who was always given criminally little screen time). What a joy, I thought as a grade-schooler. Not only would this romantic storyline give the audience a bit more time with two out of the three main Black people in the franchise (shout out to the crème brûlée guy), but Taylor also offered the perfect self-insert opportunity for my 8-year-old psyche.
She was an educated, confident Black woman who, though underutilized throughout the trilogy, was a decathlon whiz with an excellent array of headbands. Seeing these two fall for each other over the course of the films was delightful. They had the perfect jock-meets-math-wiz dynamic that made for playful exchanges and a truly perfect promposal scene. But more importantly, they were a subtle early affirmation: Young Black love doesn’t have to be tragic or filled with drama. Sometimes it can bring you peace and add a bit of music to your life.
—Annabel Iwegbue, associate culture editor
Jay and Michael Kyle, My Wife and Kids
One of my favorite shows growing up was My Wife and Kids, a sitcom starring Damon Wayans, who plays the silly but strict patriarch Michael Kyle, alongside actor Tisha Campbell, who played his wife Janet “Jay” Kyle. Together, they navigate the challenges and humorous antics of raising three children in suburban Connecticut.
What I loved about Michael and Jay’s relationship was how humor and general lightness were always present—even when they were in an argument. Whether it be physical comedy or witty banter, fights never felt tense and were always cut with jokes. As parents, they created a household where both they and their children were allowed to express the fullness of their emotions with vulnerability without fear of rejection or punishment (playful teasing not withstanding though). Jay’s wasn’t just the “hysterical nagging wife” trope; her fluctuating moods were accepted and taken seriously. Sure, Michael may have poked fun Jay’s erratic temperament (even though he oftentimes was the cause of it, let’s be real!), but he would always try to meet her halfway and make things right between them. Watching them as a kid made me feel like I was watching my own family and the home life I wanted to replicate when I got older.
Other Black sitcoms I loved at the time, like Everybody Hates Chris and The Fresh Prince of Bel Air, showed a polarizing Black family experience of Black poverty and Black wealth. My Wife and Kids, though, didn’t show those extremes. And while the two aforementioned shows had two sets of loving, iconic fictional Black parents with enviable Black love displayed in their own ways, the normalcy of My Wife and Kids made me feel seen, and in large part, it was due to Michael and Jay. The show felt like an aspirational window into a stable and healthy yet pretty mundane Black family dynamic—not just from the standpoint of material wealth but from emotional expression and safety.
—Khadija Horton, senior designer
Beth and Randall Pearson, This Is Us
This was a really hard selection for me, especially because Overton and Sinclair from Living Single are right there, and they, and their dynamic, mean so much to me. But when it comes to a fictional Black couple that impacted my view of Black love and relationships the most, it’s hands down Beth and Randall.
There’s much to be said about Randall’s relentless pursuit of Beth and the certainty he had about her from the moment they met at a freshman mixer in college. Beyond that, though, “R&B” showed me that Black love lasts and withstands. It’s enduring but not in the struggle-love-trauma type of way, and not just in longevity either; in the “hey, life gets really fucking wild sometimes and you’re the person I want to navigate that with” sense. It’s with you as babies come, as long-lost birth fathers are found, when parents become sick, when jobs get quit, when campaigns are won, when anxiety attacks leave you hyperventilating in a corner, when foster kids are added to the brood, when you uproot your family, when there’s a home invasion, when you remember who you are and your dreams and finally go after them.
Many of these moments tested Beth and Randall’s marriage, but they showed me that a prioritization of your partner coupled with an uncanny understanding of them, their needs, and their complexities will always help you pass—together. They never shied away from hard or uncomfortable conversations and were always deeply honest with the other, no matter how real and raw those truths were.
And simply put, they also just had a really beautiful friendship. Beth was the calm to Randall’s intensity, the cool to his endearing corniness. They rode for each other heavy, trusted the other to their core, and were each other’s safest place. All of this ultimately helped my then-20-something brain understand and define partnership.
Messy and complex doesn’t always equal toxic. Sometimes that’s just life! That’s just your family! (Like, hello, did y’all watch the Pearsons?!). Beth and Randall grounded aspiration in the realities of day to day life. They loved in the mundane, the discomfort, the gutting, and the unbridled joys. It was real as hell, pure, and full. And if art truly imitates life, then Randall and Beth showed me that this type of Black love—one that grows and evolves with you along the ebbs and flows of life—above all else, was possible.
—Christen A. Johnson, senior lifestyle editor
