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A line of homemade protest signs including a Black Power fist in a rainbow of stripes to support gay rights lay on the ground in Brooklyn on July 25, 2020.
(Photo by Ira L. Black/Corbis via Getty Images)
Unwavering Hope: The Strength of Our Black LGBTQIA+ Community in Transformative Times
It's okay for us to grieve in this moment. Let’s lend a shoulder, a hand, a smile, a tissue. And then let’s organize like never before.
Nov 29, 2024
I’m going to be honest with you all about my feelings. What voting has shown us is that no matter how hard we fight, we are in a losing battle. It has shown us that our bodies and lives aren’t important. It has shown us that freedom seems to be a mirage in a hot street that upon further inspection, is not water that can fuel our fight.
This grief feels different. This anxiety-inducing, depression-producing feeling has me terrified of the future. Walking through the airport in Orlando recently, I felt like I was being encapsulated by a crowd of people who abhor my existence. It reminds me of the anxiety I felt on a layover there after the shooting at Pulse. Even as I write this, I tremble as I remember being in Room 107 in Texas while the community identified the body of Tracy Single. It feels like isolation and despair and embarrassment. It feels like fear.
I am here to acknowledge though, that even in the face of fear, we can change things. Even in the face of fear, we can accomplish the impossible. As I say that, I think, “How, Ian? How can I do that in the face of the next four years of more hateful policies, bans, and rights being taken and potentially decades of lasting effects after?”
In the words of MLK, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” And that’s not this “kumbayah” type of love that doesn’t see people willingly placing oppression on us; it is more love for those who look, love, and identify with us. It is creating more unity and more resources. They were never coming to save us! We have always needed to be the ones to save ourselves.
As we move along through these next couple of months before the inauguration, know that our community is here to every Black, queer individual, as thought partners, resource sharers, and possibility strategists. Because despite the hopelessness we collectively feel right now, I’m reminded of the ACTUP activists, and the Black Lives Matter movement, and the Bayard Rustins, the words of Langston Hughes, the thoughts of Kimberle Crenshaw, the strategy of Dr. Charles Law, the advocacy of Monica Roberts, the campaign of Kamala Harris and you continuing to show up despite moments of grief.
I invite you to hear the words of Langston Hughes’ poem Harlem, “What happens to a dream deferred?"
"Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?”
I urge us in our grief not to allow our dream to be deferred, to sit by the wayside, to deny us the hope to see it fulfilled.
If not for us, for Trans teens not able to seek care. If not for us, for people who can have children who cannot make a choice on their own bodies. If not for us, for same-sex families in fear they will lose their rights. If not for us, for our future.
We are and have always been who we’ve been waiting for. Your presence on this Earth is hope personified.
An Urgent Message From Our Co-Founder
Dear Common Dreams reader, The U.S. is on a fast track to authoritarianism like nothing I've ever seen. Meanwhile, corporate news outlets are utterly capitulating to Trump, twisting their coverage to avoid drawing his ire while lining up to stuff cash in his pockets. That's why I believe that Common Dreams is doing the best and most consequential reporting that we've ever done. Our small but mighty team is a progressive reporting powerhouse, covering the news every day that the corporate media never will. Our mission has always been simple: To inform. To inspire. And to ignite change for the common good. Now here's the key piece that I want all our readers to understand: None of this would be possible without your financial support. That's not just some fundraising cliche. It's the absolute and literal truth. We don't accept corporate advertising and never will. We don't have a paywall because we don't think people should be blocked from critical news based on their ability to pay. Everything we do is funded by the donations of readers like you. Will you donate now to help power the nonprofit, independent reporting of Common Dreams? Thank you for being a vital member of our community. Together, we can keep independent journalism alive when it’s needed most. - Craig Brown, Co-founder |
Our work is licensed under Creative Commons (CC BY-NC-ND 3.0). Feel free to republish and share widely.
Ian L. Haddock
Ian L. Haddock is the founder of The Normal Anomaly Initiative, which centers Black, queer plus persons to overcome barriers, end stigma and problematic narratives, and actualize a new normal.
I’m going to be honest with you all about my feelings. What voting has shown us is that no matter how hard we fight, we are in a losing battle. It has shown us that our bodies and lives aren’t important. It has shown us that freedom seems to be a mirage in a hot street that upon further inspection, is not water that can fuel our fight.
This grief feels different. This anxiety-inducing, depression-producing feeling has me terrified of the future. Walking through the airport in Orlando recently, I felt like I was being encapsulated by a crowd of people who abhor my existence. It reminds me of the anxiety I felt on a layover there after the shooting at Pulse. Even as I write this, I tremble as I remember being in Room 107 in Texas while the community identified the body of Tracy Single. It feels like isolation and despair and embarrassment. It feels like fear.
I am here to acknowledge though, that even in the face of fear, we can change things. Even in the face of fear, we can accomplish the impossible. As I say that, I think, “How, Ian? How can I do that in the face of the next four years of more hateful policies, bans, and rights being taken and potentially decades of lasting effects after?”
In the words of MLK, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” And that’s not this “kumbayah” type of love that doesn’t see people willingly placing oppression on us; it is more love for those who look, love, and identify with us. It is creating more unity and more resources. They were never coming to save us! We have always needed to be the ones to save ourselves.
As we move along through these next couple of months before the inauguration, know that our community is here to every Black, queer individual, as thought partners, resource sharers, and possibility strategists. Because despite the hopelessness we collectively feel right now, I’m reminded of the ACTUP activists, and the Black Lives Matter movement, and the Bayard Rustins, the words of Langston Hughes, the thoughts of Kimberle Crenshaw, the strategy of Dr. Charles Law, the advocacy of Monica Roberts, the campaign of Kamala Harris and you continuing to show up despite moments of grief.
I invite you to hear the words of Langston Hughes’ poem Harlem, “What happens to a dream deferred?"
"Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?”
I urge us in our grief not to allow our dream to be deferred, to sit by the wayside, to deny us the hope to see it fulfilled.
If not for us, for Trans teens not able to seek care. If not for us, for people who can have children who cannot make a choice on their own bodies. If not for us, for same-sex families in fear they will lose their rights. If not for us, for our future.
We are and have always been who we’ve been waiting for. Your presence on this Earth is hope personified.
Ian L. Haddock
Ian L. Haddock is the founder of The Normal Anomaly Initiative, which centers Black, queer plus persons to overcome barriers, end stigma and problematic narratives, and actualize a new normal.
I’m going to be honest with you all about my feelings. What voting has shown us is that no matter how hard we fight, we are in a losing battle. It has shown us that our bodies and lives aren’t important. It has shown us that freedom seems to be a mirage in a hot street that upon further inspection, is not water that can fuel our fight.
This grief feels different. This anxiety-inducing, depression-producing feeling has me terrified of the future. Walking through the airport in Orlando recently, I felt like I was being encapsulated by a crowd of people who abhor my existence. It reminds me of the anxiety I felt on a layover there after the shooting at Pulse. Even as I write this, I tremble as I remember being in Room 107 in Texas while the community identified the body of Tracy Single. It feels like isolation and despair and embarrassment. It feels like fear.
I am here to acknowledge though, that even in the face of fear, we can change things. Even in the face of fear, we can accomplish the impossible. As I say that, I think, “How, Ian? How can I do that in the face of the next four years of more hateful policies, bans, and rights being taken and potentially decades of lasting effects after?”
In the words of MLK, “Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.” And that’s not this “kumbayah” type of love that doesn’t see people willingly placing oppression on us; it is more love for those who look, love, and identify with us. It is creating more unity and more resources. They were never coming to save us! We have always needed to be the ones to save ourselves.
As we move along through these next couple of months before the inauguration, know that our community is here to every Black, queer individual, as thought partners, resource sharers, and possibility strategists. Because despite the hopelessness we collectively feel right now, I’m reminded of the ACTUP activists, and the Black Lives Matter movement, and the Bayard Rustins, the words of Langston Hughes, the thoughts of Kimberle Crenshaw, the strategy of Dr. Charles Law, the advocacy of Monica Roberts, the campaign of Kamala Harris and you continuing to show up despite moments of grief.
I invite you to hear the words of Langston Hughes’ poem Harlem, “What happens to a dream deferred?"
"Does it dry up
like a raisin in the sun?
Or fester like a sore—
And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?
Or crust and sugar over—
like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags
like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?”
I urge us in our grief not to allow our dream to be deferred, to sit by the wayside, to deny us the hope to see it fulfilled.
If not for us, for Trans teens not able to seek care. If not for us, for people who can have children who cannot make a choice on their own bodies. If not for us, for same-sex families in fear they will lose their rights. If not for us, for our future.
We are and have always been who we’ve been waiting for. Your presence on this Earth is hope personified.
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