I’m a Queer, Black, Disabled Woman. It’s Not My Job to Educate You

“A lot of Black LGBT people choose to blame the straight community for experiences that all Black people face,” he wrote. I saw where this was going: My New Year’s Eve crush had revealed himself to be a person who had already established his perspective and was not looking to change it.

Here’s the thing. I could have kept conversing with him. I could have told him to follow activist, therapist, and writer Araya Baker (@arayabaker) on Instagram to reflect more on oppression for those who exist at the intersection of their Black and LGBTQ+ identities. I could have sent him articles about transpeople who lost their lives because of targeted violence fueled by racism, transphobia, and police violence. I could have recommended Crenshaw’s TED Talk, “The Urgency of Intersectionality.” As a queer, Black, disabled woman I could have even shared my personal stories about the very complicated ways in which privilege and oppression interact in my life. For example, I experience oppression as a queer woman, but I also experience privilege as a cisgendered person. I want to feel affirmed and cared for by society regarding my queerness and womanhood, and I also have a responsibility to leverage my cisgender privilege to make sure the trans community is heard.

But this is also true: It is not my job to educate him—or anyone for that matter, if they are not here to reflect and learn so we can achieve progress for all our Black community members in this movement.

Mr. NYE continued to send more messages after that, but I chose to put down my phone and take a deep breath instead. These are certainly important conversations and I’m down to have them. But when people come into my space only wanting to prove themselves right, I have to draw the line. Because if I am going to survive this movement as my fullest self with all of my identities affirmed and cared for, boundaries for my self-care and emotional bandwidth are critical. These discussions have real impact on real bodies.

I rested my head on my couch, stared at the ceiling, and went through my Activist Self-Care Checklist.

“Do I have the bandwidth to entertain this person? Do I care enough about them?” How personally invested I feel in an individual will make a difference in whether I engage in a conversation with them or not. Conversations like this hit close to home because they are literally tied to my life and the lives of others, so I have to choose wisely.

“Do I feel safe around this person?” Emotional safety is a huge factor. If we are not creating a safe space to have empathetic conversations, or if I feel the person is only willing to hammer home their own opinions, I have to stop the conversation for my emotional safety. And with everything that’s been going on in the world, I’m safeguarding the number of spoons and edges I have left out here.

“Are they receptive to another person’s perspective, or have they already made up their mind?” It’s draining to argue with a brick wall. If the person simply wants a thought exercise or debate partner, then I quickly hop to my last two questions: “Is this person open to storytelling experiences and resources for their own self-learning?” and “Are they compensating me for my emotional or informational labor and time?” One question answers whether they are here for learning purposes and will continue the work to unlearn toxic societal programming without me being present. The other question provides me with some security for my invested time and energy—just in case people want to squander that investment away in the spirit of “dialogue.”