By: Asher Firestone
In early June 2020, thousands of queers rolled up to the Brooklyn Museum for the Black Trans Lives Matter rally, adorned in all white platforms, leather, garlands and, of course, masks. Some of us made the trek from upstate, and when Black trans folks were asked to lead the flow of bodies, Saije Jalida found themselves strutting through a sea of applause to the cries of, “I believe in Black trans power!”
While these tidals of rage splinter across the country, and Black people continue to be murdered by agents of the state, many protesters silently return home and anxiously scroll through their feeds in an attempt of solidarity.
But when Saije and I drove the two hours home, they spoke of our network upstate in Poughkeepsie where they could manifest these organizing tactics.
They told me that the platform they were given in Brooklyn actually made them feel like they were taking up too much space, because of the socialized expectation that Black trans femmes be invisible. They said that in order to defy this narrative, they “want to do this in Poughkeepsie so people have the opportunity to take up that space that they deserve.”
Cue in the Queer Justice Committee (QJC), a small trans*-led group of abolitionists in the Hudson Valley. With Saije’s leadership, we held a much smaller ceremony and march to amplify the voices of Black trans folks in a metropolis surrounded by rural bigotry. We handed out white dahlias and carnations to the trans folks in attendance, each of whom held the name of one of the Black trans lives lost, and tossed them into the looming Hudson River.
Saije Jalida leading the Black Trans Lives Rally in Poughkeepsie. Photo by Jeffrey Francis
The balance of outrage, chanting, and holding on this day was gently crafted from the precise values that the QJC practices.
In our daily work, we collaborate with other activist networks to respond to immediate community needs. We counter-protested back-the-blue fascism, backed up Saije when cops profiled and pulled them over on Route 9, and shamed Legislator John Metzger for funding prison expansion while he tried to eat a cozy dinner at home. But beyond the fervor of these altercations, we gather in community to learn together, to recharge, and to reevaluate our strategies to ensure that our movement is sustainable.
Our humble leader, Rae Leiner, has been spearheading radical healing and accountability their whole life, after seeing and experiencing burnout firsthand.
They said,
“The reality is most organizing is reactionary and comes from a place of responding to crisis, and that is a habituated response that Black and brown people have been programmed/socialized for. We don’t have the time to strategize because we’re constantly being bombarded with systemic injustice.”
On top of this, they emphasized how “it can be a lot to not be seen in your humanity, especially if you’re a person of color who’s not supposed to be seen in your humanity, and then add being trans and you’re seen as a freak show.”
These dynamics are why Rae is so intentional in the QJC space to do deep relationship building and give people the opportunity to grow into themselves. They are unapologetic in both uplifting the potential of leaders around them and critiquing the ways they take up space, ensuring we all practice the community accountability we preach in our abolitionist politics.
One of the characteristics of white supremacy culture (lovingly compiled here by Standing Up for Racial Justice) that I personally succumb to is a sense of urgency.
In our capital-brainwashed society, I constantly worry about the reckless nature of institutions whose monetary incentives far outweigh any moral duty to minimize their oppressive tendencies, and the impact that these have on vulnerable communities.
When I attempt to combat this by rushing through programs without an intentional process in our committee, I am in danger of replicating the same structures that sacrifice the interests of communities of color in the name of progress. Rae reminded me that “the healing work starts with how this shit shows up for us as individuals, when we’re expected to show up as robots who can crank out a campaign. We can only be as effective as we can practice accessing our own humanity.”
Rae Leiner speaking to a crowd of protesters at the Black Trans Lives Rally. Photo by Jeffrey Francis
As many communities are now doing, we hope to institute a first responders team in the Hudson Valley to cop-watch, provide eviction support, and generally show up for POC who are systematically targeted. To avoid sending out allies who could unintentionally further harm a situation, we need to do the long-term work of establishing trust among community members and training folks in de-escalation tactics.
One of the ways we do this is by engaging and activating community members through the QJC’s study group using “Are Prisons Obsolete?” by Angela Davis. Alisha Kohn created this group to “bring compassion and humanity to folks on the inside, so that people actually can get comfortable having conversations with incarcerated folks.”
As a formerly incarcerated trans woman, she knows what it looks like to have a community take care of its own, whether prisoners are dealing with rape, physical violence, theft, or overdose.
She said,
“Our survival in the system depended on all of us working together, doesn’t matter if you’re in a gang, white, Latinx, queer.” Alisha challenges participants to investigate the way abolition affects their own lives and to see the radical necessity of never calling the cops again.”
At the foundation of our existences as gender non-conforming people, we undo decades of colonized gender norms and creatively reinterpret our freedom in trans* bodies. A direct extension of this capacity to restructure worldviews is the boldness to envision a future without prisons and without police.
As the generative space of the QJC has shown me, it is our responsibility as trans activists to unconditionally advocate for this platform, and to model the anti-racist values at its foundation. While protest spaces are inherently urgent, I hope other activist communities take the time to investigate their strategies in tandem with these actions. Let’s ensure our pursuit of justice is communally grounded and amplifies accountability.
To follow along with the QJC’s work, visit our website
To donate to Saije Jalida’s gender-affirming transition costs, click here