Last year I had the privilege of spending some time with the legendary Miss Major Griffin-Gracy and some of her loved ones, just a few months before she left this world. I was graciously invited by a loved one to come unwind at her compound and retreat space, House of GG, in Little Rock. That weekend was spent journaling outside, having conversations with one of her daughters, with her trusted team of carers, and with other Black trans and gender expansive folks who were also retreating. We swam, we ate well, and we stayed off our laptops because Major explicitly said “no work!”. The orientation for House of GG included stories from Major’s decades of experience in movement, supporting incarcerated, unhoused and otherwise forgotten trans women; inspired is too small a word for how I felt.
All throughout the House of GG, there were signs and notes with the acronym “TILIFI” which stands for “Telling It Like It Fckin’ Is”, a defining theme throughout Major’s history and also the name of her transformative speaking tours where she would share insights and stories that continue to inspire the movements for trans liberation. I think about TILIFI often, especially in this moment of increased repression when individuals and institutions have a lot more to lose from telling it like it fckin’ is. The reality though is that trans, queer and disabled folks, especially those who are Black and Brown, have always faced social and economic consequences for exposing injustice, and it hasn’t stopped us from fighting like hell for the lives we deserve.
Before coming to the academy five years ago, I worked as a union organizer and as an anti-violence community educator. This was possible only because Black, Brown and disabled queer and trans folks taught me everything I know about economic justice and transformative justice. I learned from luminaries like Miss Major, Pauli Murray, Jazzie Collins and Marsha P Johnson, but also from my peers and comrades in the labor and anti-violence movements. People like Joan Jones who founded the National LGBTQ Workers Center, which I was a part of for years as a board member and leader. We met as young union organizers working on a campaign to win better wages for childcare workers in Seattle–after that campaign we remained connected as friends and as people who wanted to see the economic conditions of Black queer and trans people shift drastically. It seemed then (and still does) like such a missed opportunity when queer and trans workers are not centered in union fights because we are often denied raises and promotions, and discriminated against or harassed because of our gender identity or our sexual orientation. But imagine if we could measure our movement’s strength by the harms we can prevent altogether.
I was also shaped by my experience with Southerners On New Ground, which held a 6-month intergenerational peer-mentorship and organizing school in Atlanta in the early 2008/2009. I was an optimistic 20 year old who was learning about organizing with other queer and trans people who were doing legal advocacy, mutual aid, political education and using other methods to get us closer to liberation. Without leadership development experiences like this, I wouldn’t have the political clarity that has guided me for the past 20 years. This is the kind of development that I continue to receive as a member of the Black LGBTQIA Migrant Project, a space that I can come home to as a nonbinary African migrant, and where my political analysis is constantly being sharpened through the good work of Debo, their national organizer, and other Black LGBTQIA migrants who are committed to an anti-racist, anti-capitalist and abolitionist response to immigration in the US.
There are many more groups and individuals that I could mention and reflect on, and I think those reflections would point to the truth that nobody grows on their own and real change doesn’t happen without organization. So we need to keep building the types of organizations that can be political homes for the queer and trans folks who are being activated right now, whether it’s their first experience with social justice work or a return into the work after burnout or years away focused on their own healing and self-preservation. In our unity, we can tap into the courage to keep telling it like it fckin’ is–queer and trans people have always been here and we will continue to be here, pushing this world to be one in which love and human dignity are valued over capital.
