This place is a prison; these people aren’t my friends

Desperate for friends, and time in nature, I joined a Facebook group called “BWW: Black Women Who.” The group apparently stared as a kayaking meetup and then evolved into a general outdoors meetup for Black women. When I arrived in Galveston State Park I was immediately soothed by the landscape. It reminded me of the small barrier islands off the coast of Maryland like Janes Island.

I was the youngest there by at least 10 years and then the next oldest person was about 20+ years older than me. I roomed with a woman who was covered nearly head to toe; a display of modesty but I don’t think it was technically a hijab. At one point, I mentioned some friends who I used to organize with; one of the spouses is nonbinary. In the brackish water of the Gulf of Mexico my roommate inquired repeatedly “are they a man or a woman?”

The trip was a wash.

When I mentioned this all to a (nonbinary) friend, they simply said they don’t participate in events for “women.” I thought nothing of the gender marker at the time.

I’ve been toying with what “womanhood” means when I care most about humanity. For me, western sexuality/gender is a bit of a prison. In Houston, I’ve noticed how nonbinary I feel myself! I find many women here to be more femme than I ever felt. More femme than the femme women in my family. I also find myself needing to “come out” since I’ve met so many new people. Every time feels like a first time. I never “came out” to my family. I fell in love w/ a woman and brought her to my family as my girlfriend. But when my aunt recently asked “but you still like boys, right” I was taken aback at her insistence. I gave my canned answer: “I never liked straight boys when I dated boys.”

So few cis people think of their gender at all. Meanwhile, trans people carry the burden of their grief with little support.

I love all bi/pan people and the question of “still liking boys” trends very well in the heterosexist era we are in. Heterosexism gets us to hate our neighbors and buy more shit to perform our genders. Genocide scholars are sounding the alarm that America is in the early stages of a genocide on trans people. Sitting with the horror of that sentence requires actually knowing, loving and caring for trans people. It requires an understanding of the ways gender is codified and policed. It requires a queer political framework. So few cis people think of their gender at all. Meanwhile, trans people carry the burden of their grief with little support.

I started a draft (months ago) of this post with a non-exhaustive list of things I believe are “anti-queer.” As I made the list, I realized that my framework was built by intimate relationships with queer people and also a political scientist (my father). It was bolstered by the few gender and sexuality studies courses I took in college. It is constantly in flux and also living in the American South reminds me that queerness must be a focal point of my politic. What built your politic?

Writer Maggie Nelson described the dilation of the cervix during birth as “an extreme thinning.” I feel the labor pains of whatever new world is coming; can you? The cruelty isn’t hidden at all. I respond to the thinly-veiled lies about the atrocious genocides with a renewed commitment to the truth. Truth is that people are dying because we care more about gender than humans. The truth is that Black people were once the capital and now we are being force fed capitalism as excellence. The truth is that we require much more care and consideration than ever before because the ice/cervix/mask is getting thinner. I saw my astrologer recently and he confirmed that neutrality is not my birthright. I am meant to probe and question. I’m asking heavier questions and I am concerned that I can’t hold the weight of it all.

My political framework is only built on the things I know. The terrible jobs I’ve had. The queer people who showed me how expansive love and life can be. The old cities which buckle under the weight of their population while their prices bloat. The Black cities which are hollowed out under the guise of “revitalization.” The pets who cuddle up with me when I am crying. I am learning more so I know more. My ultimate dream is that this all points to loving more.

But loving is painful under these circumstances. We are all we got and all we need. But imagine that? We are all we got and this is all we need? We need a queer politic!

My loved ones are artists and fags and drug users and sluts (possibly the last sluts in the world if I’m learning anything from my time in Texas). My loved ones need safe places to fuck, get tested and smoke/snort/swallow whatever their fix is. My loved ones should always be housed without fear of their medical needs being neglected. My loved ones need to be free. They do not need another war for oil. They do not need to see femicide and mass shootings every damn day.

Nevertheless! We! Persist! Life continues and “democracy in America has always been fascism for the negro,” as Jimmy Boggs said. It’s grounding to acknowledge that when these folks said “again” there are books and ancestors and guides who have seen this shit before. I think they are communicating with me through my tears/laughs/sighs. I think they are grieving with me.