The club. Let me be clear about something I’ve learned as a gay Latino: No place is entirely safe, no building is a sanctuary. I have encountered violence and prejudice, or at the very least exclusion, in every social space. Like home, like school, the gay club was another complicated network of human interactions. It was not always pretty, it was far from perfect, but it felt necessary because my queerness was necessary, because my body hungered for attention, for the pleasures of movement on the dance floor where I was in close proximity to the other bodies I desired.
When I was forced to stop looking at my identities as if they exist in a vacuum, I realized that being a black trans woman is a major risk and accepting myself would be just the first battle with a society obsessed with compartmentalization.
My family is made up of these girls now turned women. My aunts, grandmothers, and mother have all been these girls at one point in their lives, the – unapparent to many – backbone of our family, and even of the Vietnamese people in general. There’s evidence to suggest that Vietnam was once a matriarchal society, and remnants of that in the way Vietnamese people revere the strength of mothers and daughters despite the very strong influence of Confucian patriarchal ideals. These girls have not only been the unofficial heads of our households, but also our warriors, our queens, our leaders.
ALL THE DEAD BOYS LOOK LIKE ME by Christopher Soto in LitHub
I was studying at NYU, where he was teaching, where he wrote shit
That made me feel like a queer brown survival was possible.
On the afternoon of Saturday, April 23, a Colombian columnist and her Mexican colleague put out the call on Twitter for women to post about their first time being sexually harassed. The hashtag, #miprimeracoso, or #myfirstharassment, took off.
My mother grew up in rural Mississippi, an educated, white-looking black girl in a town with suffocating race and class divides. I can picture her incredulous scoff if she’d been present for this exchange. Her thin eyebrow would’ve arched upward; her lips would have drawn in tight. Her eyes would have narrowed in that way that always frightens anyone in their path. She would have been livid over my neighbor’s dismissal. But my mother wasn’t there—I was. And all I felt was a kind of hardening toward whatever larger offense I might have taken. A growing lack of emotion over these types of encounters, which are all too common.