Before This Week, I Have Never Felt Afraid for My Life as a Queer Person the Way I Have Routinely as a Woman and as a Black Person

I highly recommend Staceyann Chin’s powerful, poetic response to the Orlando Massacre.

Staceyann speaks from her perspective as a black, lesbian immigrant, about the experience of coming to this country to evade persecution as a lesbian twenty years ago and being lulled into the false sense of security that so many of us have that things are getting better for queer people – and about what happened when we wake up and see how unsafe we are – and what to do about it – to wave our rainbow flags – to love and celebrate and take action to make change, because, as she says:

“After 20 years of safety, my lesbian body is awake to the terror of what black body, my woman body, my immigrant body, has always known. These barbaric ideologies are only getting bolder and bolder by the proverbial hour, as a whole.

As a whole person I have never been more aware of how race and class and religion and sexuality and hate can converge into some bizarre concoction of violence and rage and prejudice and the vulnerable target of an unsuspecting crowd.

These young men in a dance club, in a dance club in Orlando, were simply looking for a space to love and live and be safe and be celebrated inside the borders of a country whose history whispers the tradition: “Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.” ”

In that first sentence I quoted, she essentializes the truth that has so upended me for the past week. For 22 years, I have been aware of myself as a queer person and for 22 years, I have had the great good fortune and the extraordinary privilege to feel safe in my body as a queer person.

I spent most of those 22 years in the San Francisco Bay Area, so surrounded by queer community that I have had the privilege to feel safe walking down any street holding hands with my lovers, making out at intersections or across the table at restaurants or in airports or in front of kids or cops. As a queer woman, I have not felt afraid that to do so would garner anything more violent than a surprised or rude look or comment.

I have known discrimination as a queer person and I have feared discrimination as a queer person. I have experienced overt and covert homophobia. But, before this week, I have never felt afraid for my life as a queer person the way I have routinely as a woman and as a black person.

I am conscious of my blackness and of my femaleness as sites of past, future, and potential life-threatening violence almost daily.

What must it be like to go through life unlikely to be raped, shot by the cops, or massacred by racists or homophobes? What must it be like to walk down the street, entirely unconscious of your embodiment & what you are wearing & whose hand you are holding, because it is entirely unlikely to be a factor in your assault or your untimely death?

No wonder I and so many of the strong, brilliant, beautiful queer people I know and love have been losing our minds with grief and fear and anger over what has happened in Orlando. It didn’t just kill those 49 people and harm 53 others and those who knew and loved them. I hazard to say that it impacted almost every queer person in this country in a fundamental way. It obliterated our illusion of safety.

Taking away someone’s sense of safety impacts a person on a bodily level, as well as an emotional level. It impacts the physiology of the human being. It isn’t just a theoretical thing that happened; it isn’t just mental or emotional. How many of us are dealing with some kind of trauma based in the realization that our bodies are not safe and have never been safe and may never be safe again?

It is no wonder that queer people all over the country are losing our fucking shit over this. Something happened to each and every one of us, not just to the people who had the horrific misfortune to go dancing at Pulse on the night of the massacre.

I want to acknowledge that not all of us have felt safe. Many of us – maybe even the majority – have known very keenly that we might die for being queer or trans or gender nonconforming. Many of us have lived with that daily fear – the same daily consciousness that hatefulness might result in murder or assault – that I have known as a woman and as a black person. For the very many that have always known fear as queer or trans people, this event may have confirmed and validated the fear that has always been there.

But for many (especially those of us who are younger and cis – perhaps especially cis female – and living in liberal cities) it has been a horrible waking up out of an illusion of safety, a dream that things have been getting better and safer for queer people over the years. I want that to be true so badly that when the worst shooting on American soil in my lifetime targeted brown queer people, I almost lost my mind with the cognitive dissonance of it all.

I am in the center of a bullseye that too many different systemic forms of hatred are taking shots at.

A year ago, almost to the day, I was shaken and unsettled by a massacre that targeted black people. My embodied sense of vulnerability as a black person was renewed. Now it is my vulnerability as a queer person that is getting burned into my nervous system.

This is what intersectionality feels like in my black, queer, female body.

Today, in Doylestown, Pennsylvania, a white male stranger on the street hailed me and asked, “Do these pants make me look gay? She thinks these shorts make me look gay.” The “she” in question confirmed that she thinks he looks gay in those bicycle shorts and should get rid of them. I reeled. This is a question that a stranger might casually toss out to a person on the street? How socially sanctioned is casual, microaggressive homophobia in this town that you can enlist a stranger to participate in it, less than a week after a queer massacre? I felt sick to my stomach and my heart started pounding and my eyes lost their ability to focus as my fight flight reaction engaged. While I wished I had said, “Well, as a gay person…” and then launched into some succinct and powerful retort that helped wake them up to the impact of their casual homophobia, that is not what I did, because I am newly in fear for my life. Because I am more aware than I have ever been that homophobia is potentially life-threatening, my amygdala took over and I could barely think. I stammered something inarticulate and vaguely gay-friendly and I fled.

Tomorrow, I will figure out how to be brave. Today, I am still integrating the reality of just how unsafe I am.

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I Am Not Your Rent-A-Negro

expecting marginalized peoples

Source: CisHits                                                                                                                                             .

As much as I am personally invested in daily discussing race, class, sexuality, and gender honestly, openly, and as generously as I can, I still do not do it on demand or even on request.

Because I do speak very openly about race in particular, I receive a lot of inquiries to help or to teach or to give guidance to white people (in particular) about how they can improve their hiring practices, their dating mojo, their etiquette, or their organization’s racial skillfulness, among other things.

This is extremely challenging emotional and practical labor which I do not enjoy nor wish to volunteer for. Furthermore, I often experience requests for that kind of assistance as an experience of entitlement that is, in itself, racially loaded. These days I don’t want to even respond to these requests with a conversation about why the answer is no. It is hard to hold my boundary around it and explain it all skillfully, compassionately, and empathetically to some dear friend or well-meaning acquaintance when I’m feeling triggered. That is tricky, complex labor that I am not volunteering to do.

When I am speaking across difference to someone in a position of greater power than myself about the particular experience I have as a person in a more marginalized position with respect to that particular power, it is complex, intricate, nuanced, and often wearying work. I do it when I wish to and when I am in a strong place and/or when I am feeling generous and willing, and mostly, I do it on my terms. Love you as much as I do (and I do), I do not do it to benefit your business or your sex life or your conscience.

I imagine there are people and books and organizations and websites that are devoted to helping folks develop these skills. I hope that you will kindly pay good money to some individual whose chosen work it is to do this labor, and not just reach out to me (or others) as your one black (or whatever category you’re looking for support with) friend to ask all the questions you are wanting to know the answers to.

I am afraid this message sounds unfriendly. I think my tone may be sharp when it comes to this, because I think it isn’t understood what the cost of the interaction is. The cost is significant to me. The reason you may be met with silence when you ask this labor of me is because I have not found a friendlier way to talk about it. My silence is friendlier than my words about it would be.

Sometimes it comes up in another context – with myself and an intimate partner – and here it is more complicated. My white friends, lovers, and partners have asked me to let them know if they say or do something that is triggering on the basis of race, in particular. Sometimes, I am going to be able to do this. Oftentimes, I am not. Even when I would wish to. Sometimes, it is just too hard or too slippery to talk about or I’m feeling alienated or unsafe and the safest thing I can do is to pretend that nothing happened while I regroup and try to remember that you are not a stranger and are not an enemy but a friend who, like myself, is the product of profound amounts of conditioning. I haven’t succeeded in overthrowing all of my conditioning, so why should I be expecting you, dear beloved human, to have overthrown all of yours?

This explanation is in lieu of an apology for my silence.

Thank you for listening.

Article: Dating While Fat, by Ashleigh Shackelford

Ashleigh Shackelford: Dating While Fat: 5 Things I Consider Before Commitment

Ashleigh Shackelford’s article “Dating While Fat: 5 Things I Consider Before Commitment” is excellent. The dominant mainstream narratives about fat people are dehumanizing, discriminatory, and damaging. They are also false. They profoundly malign and shame fat people (and, to a lesser degree, by association, those who love them) and the effects of these narratives are incredibly widespread and pervasive. People make micro-aggressive (and macro-aggressive) comments to and about fat people all the time. Discriminating against fat people is actively condoned in all sorts of ways in all sorts of places, from who people date to who people hire for jobs. It’s utterly horrible.

I am appreciative of those people who are doing the incredible labor of sharing their personal stories so that other narratives may exist, yet it is awful that this work has to happen at all. Over and over and over again, people in oppressed groups have to keep sharing their stories and giving step-by-step instructions to people who are not in that group of people so that (maybe, hopefully) people will be a little less abusive, discriminatory, hostile, dehumanizing, uneducated, ignorant, thoughtless, clueless. (Imma pause here to give a shout out to the Muslim community who are dealing with so much of that right now.) It breaks my heart that this work is needed.

I hope that someday, people won’t have to work so hard to have their humanity recognized and respected. I hope someday that is easy and obvious.

In the meantime, here’s a personal account from the perspective of a fat black queer femme, discussing dating. It’s a worthy read. Good modeling of self-care and self-love and a good set of questions for those of us who are not fat to ask ourselves and to really sit with awhile. If the answers to these questions are no, why not? What beliefs do you have installed in your brain that might be worth examining critically? Where did those beliefs come from? What would need to happen for this to change?