Being a queer black non-binary person attending a predominantly white institution, I have felt the discomfort of being the racial minority in the mostly white queer spaces and the sexual and gender minority in spaces with people of color. I didn’t know where I fit, and so I felt very alone.
        

Queer people of color need support, especially trans people of color. Since the capitalist society we live in treats higher education as a necessity to succeed, our safety in these institutions should be treated as a necessity as well. Safety includes being respected, heard, and supported in all of the intersectionalities of our identities. In order for that to happen, it is crucial that we have our own spaces and support systems. I have been subjected to and witnessed a lot of pain associated with race, sexual orientation, and gender. I am here for and will continue to fight for the safety of qtpoc. I encourage you to do so as well.

Anonymous Submission

Age: 20

Description: Black queer girl still trying to learn how to love herself.

I had just moved from New York. Left my friends behind. My community. My home. It’s like my mom ripped me out of the ground and planted me in the soil of Florida. She didn’t even care that she left bits of my roots behind.

But man, I had just turned 14. It was my first year of high school. There’s not much I can say about all of that though. New year. New school. New city.

Principal found a student to walk me to my classes. She was showing me around, trying to give me a sense of their environment and atmosphere. It was mostly her talking about what she thought of the teachers. Or about some girl’s raggedy shoes.

We were talking about which subjects we hated the most when she suddenly asked me if I was a “homosexual.” And I thought, “Wait. What did this girl say?”

I’m comfortable with myself, especially coming from New York and being open and cool with my community. But like, that question came out of nowhere. We were just literally talking about the History and Algebra.

I was too slow. Too awkward. But I’m proud. I’ve always been proud. Open. Loud mouthed. Ready. I told her, “Hell yeah.”

Her face twisted, started to look like a totally different person. The corners of her mouth pointed to the ground. Her eyes squinted like she could barely handle looking at me. I learned even before then how dirty a look can make you feel. And that’s how I felt then.

She shook her head and started hushing me. And she pulled me to the side of the hall, her fingernails gripping into my arm.

She said, “I don’t give a shit about how proud you are. Keep it to yourself. Faggots and dykes aren’t tolerated here. The school doesn’t even care when gays get beat up here. I’m telling you for your own good.”

I pushed her off of me. I wanted to get in on her for even trying me like that with her hands on me but two teachers walked by just as the bell rang. They told us to hurry, so we did. By the end of the day, I couldn’t find her. And really, by the time the last school bell rang, it wasn’t worth it anymore. I just didn’t really understand what she was saying.

To be honest I didn’t take her too serious about kids getting beat up for being gay at all anyway. I’ve just never seen that back at home. I knew gay hate. I knew some neighborhoods back where I was from can get bad. But I’ve just never personally seen it. And like, this is a school. You know?

I saw her in my classes but we never looked at each other since that day. And that’s how it was.

A month after that I made a really good friend. He was called “Strawberries.” Dead ass serious.

Strawberries was out and proud and sometimes loud in heels. That girl seemed so wrong at the time. Because Strawberries was fine. He was always laughing and smiling, and I would too when we’re hanging out. We’re just kids, you know? High school students hanging out, barely tolerating classes and the other students–just the typical shit.

But one day a group of dudes were waiting for Strawberries after school. We just finished grabbing stuff from the lockers and started to walk but the guys blocked off the hallway. They wouldn’t let Strawberries pass. Started spitting at him and shit. They rushed him so fast. Got his shoes and threw them to a distance. They started beating Strawberries down, and my silly ass forgot how big these guys were. I tried to jump in and break it up.

It all stopped before it got too bad. We were all sitting in the principal’s office, waiting for our turns. But the guys hurting Strawberries got to go together. And they left as soon as they got in. They looked at Strawberries and smirked and walked off. Then Strawberries was called in. I heard shouting. Strawberries leaves with a security guard several minutes later. I get up to get his attention but then I was called in to the office.

The principal acknowledged I was a fairly new student and apparently it made all the difference in the world. She tells me that Strawberries always gets into things like that and I shouldn’t get involved let alone associate myself with him, it will get me in trouble. And I’m like, “you know they beat him up b/c he’s gay.”

Her fucking response, I shit you not, “Do not interfere ever again, and if I find out you do, you’ll be suspended. That kind of behavior won’t be tolerated here. If he wants to pretend to be something he’s not, that’s an issue for his parents. Not you and definitely not at this school.”

It wouldn’t be until the end of the school year when the principal and I exchanged words.

Close to the end of the year, I started to become more myself. Somehow word got to my mom. She kicked me out the day she found out.

The school knew. I didn’t show up and when I did. And I shared why I wouldn’t be there. But none of the teachers or anyone from the administration seemed to care. I reached out to the principal and she said, “I hope you can continue your education. Try not to miss any more days.”

I was on my own. I didn’t know how I was supposed to get to school every single day. I had to worry about eating everyday, not getting my homework in. I had to think about how I much money I can make, not how high my scores are on a test. But I tried. I tried to do both. But I dropped out a month after that conversation with my principal and my teachers.

I won’t go too far into detail. But eventually I was able to find a home. I moved away to another part of Florida. Did my online schooling and got my GED. I haven’t seen my mom in years. But I wonder what would have happened if my teachers cared. Like what if they had spoken up? What if they cared enough to help me and Strawberries and others feel safe? What if my principal stood up against bullying? Because we had a no tolerance policy. That’s the normal school thing in schools. But that’s kind of pointless if we don’t have principals who were willing to make it happen. I don’t know, man. Life is hard but it shouldn’t have to be that hard.

Anonymous Submission:  

About the poet: Cis, gay, black. Detroit born and raised. This is a poem about being black and gay. It is something my white friends–straight, gay, trans, or cis–won’t understand. This is about something my white teachers definitely never understood.

Title: Safe

From school to the gay bars
it is a white space for my black face.

So yes

I’m black

and sometimes proud.

I’m black

and sometimes hopeful.

I’m black

and sometimes brave.

But I’m black

and never safe.

So tell me where and when I can feel safe.
Tell me.

When I’m out in public?
Eric Garner.
What if I was on the floor?
Oscar Grant.
When I’m walking home to my family?
Trayvon Martin.
When I’m taking the trash out with mom watching?
Darius Simmons.
How about when I’m hurt and asking for help?
Renisha McBride.
Maybe when I’m shopping for my newborn baby?
John Crawford.
How about the day of my wedding?
Sean Bell.
How about as a child in a park?
Tamir Rice.
What if I knew my rights?
Sandra Bland.
What if I was a seven year old girl dreaming?
Aiyana Jones.
What if I was in school?
University of Missouri.
What if I was praying in church?
Charleston.

From school to prison bars

there’s no safe space for my black face

And yes

I’m black

and sometimes proud.

I’m black

and sometimes hopeful.

I’m black

and sometimes brave.

But I’m black

and never safe.

“As a black, queer female student of the Atlanta University Center, I must navigate spaces that often require me to choose which identities I being into any given room. In an HBCU setting, a culture that is often cultivated in patriarchy and heteronormativity, position race as the central marginalized identity in discussing matter of oppression.

In the fever of achieving equality, an “oppression Olympics” ensues, denying my lived experiences that are much more nuanced than a linear discussion of just race. Daily, I find personal empowerment is disrupting those systems by consistently bringing all of my identities into space unapologetically. I am not letting the experiences of my full self be denied or silenced. It is my action in greater fabric of resistance done daily by folks by folk who stand at the crossroads of intersectional oppression. It is not enough to just speak out of my blackness, but also what it means to be black and queer specifically, black and a woman specifically, a black woman and queer specifically, and much more. All of those factors make for a truth that disrupts the monolith of my existence that is always being made. I am not just a black student. But a black, queer, radical, femme woman AND more. And It is an act of radical self-love to resist being factored down to any singular category. ” –Lexus

“Growing up I never really had a lot of questions about my sexuality. It was never really a huge topic of discussion and I was never really comfortable having those kinds of conversations with my parents. I still liked women but I never tried to be with a man before. I’d had some sexual experiences with a friend before but it was nothing I’d ever really tried to understand or took seriously—oddly it just seemed a little normal.

It wasn’t until I met someone my freshman year of college that I stopped questioning myself and knew that I was bisexual. He was wonderful, and he made me happy. He told me at the time that he was bisexual. It wasn’t until after that conversation that I became comfortable with identifying as bisexual. My friends were very supportive for the most part, but they treated me like just another one of the gays. Though it felt nice to have friends who understood me to a degree, I felt invisible; I felt like my same-sex attraction made me be perceived as someone I wasn’t.

My family, more specifically my mom, wasn’t helpful to any degree. She’d always said things like “I’d still love you if you were gay.” At some point she even barked at me, “YOU GAY??” I answered her honestly, “No.” The guy I met would come over sometimes and we’d spend time together away from school. One day she asked me if he was gay. I told her, “No, he’s bisexual.” She looked at me—I was trying to focus my gaze elsewhere—“Are you bisexual?” I told her, “Yes.” Her immediate response was: Why would you do this to me? From that moment forward I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. She treated it like a taboo, like a sickness, or bad memory that you never wish to speak of. Any of my partners were my friends if they were male.

As the time went on I’d have to convince my straight friends that I was bisexual. My best friend since 6th grade even doubted my claim to my sexuality. My mother continued to say things like that’s nasty and you need to choose, pick one or the other. For a while I didn’t know how to handle it. I didn’t know any other bisexual people, only gay people. I felt very alone in a crowd of people that were supposed to be supportive.

Looking back on it all, as I tell ‪#‎MyStoryOUTLoud, being bisexual was never a problem that I had to deal with. Everyone else made it a problem for themselves. I tell my story in hopes that others can do what I never had the courage to do for myself back then: stand up for who you are. Do not let others beat you down because they simply can’t understand. Live in your truth and with the love you have because it will take you farther than you realize.  Most importantly make sure that you turn that love inward before you try and turn it outward.‬‬‬”

Gerrard D., Graduate Student- American University