Black Mothering Communities as Homeplaces for Black LGBTQ+ Youth

Abstract

In our critical duo-ethnography, we reflect on our shared childhood as Black queer youth growing up within a Black mothering community in an urban context. Our analysis illustrates how our Black mothering community created homeplaces centered around the themes of resistance, restoration, and re-storying. And we draw on our analysis to articulate the possibilities of creating more inclusive K-12 spaces within urban contexts for Black LGBTQ+ youth. Specifically, we offer concrete examples from our Black mothering community to assist schools and education stakeholders in transforming schools into sites of resistance, restoration, and re-storying for Black LGBTQ+ youth.

Keywords

Black queer youth critical duo-ethnography homeplace Black mothering resistance restoration re-storying

Donna's Kitchen

We were just kids then, prancing around Jaron's room preparing our serenade. This performance was a big deal. Together with Shamari's baby sister, Latisha, the three of us had been practicing all day to showcase our version of Destiny's Child's “Cater 2 U” for our beloved “Donna Do.” Donna Do is the affectionate nickname we use for Donna. We called her Donna Do because her mantra was “Donna can do it, but Donna don’t do everythang!”

In preparation to honor Donna Do by song, we spent countless hours rehearsing our transitions between formations, and making sure everybody knew where to be for each phase of our performance. The eight counts that we would repeat every 30 s, would have to be flawless. And we constantly reminded each other that although we were lip syncing to the music, the mics would be on so our mouths better be moving the entire time. What a creative and free time in our lives. There we were, Black queer cousins, joined by Latisha, preparing to show our love to Donna Do the best way we knew how: the meticulous work of song and dance.

These performances had become a staple there in Donna's kitchen. In her kitchen, she not only worked culinary magic with her hands, but it was her space to be, relax, cook, mother, and enjoy freedom as a Black woman (Haddix et al., 2016). Donna's kitchen doubled as a space for us to be, relax, create, sing and dance, and enjoy freedom as two Black queer boys coming of age in the southwest region of the United States. When the time came for our serenade, we began our performance just as we rehearsed. As we reflect, we think the performance started off well.

However, Donna stopped us mid-way through our show and made a comment about the song being “too slow and serious.” She exclaimed that she much preferred our upbeat numbers which had faster dance steps, interesting soundscapes, and much more intricate movements. And her feedback was not disappointing. She simply encouraged us to do what we had always done as two Black queer boys, break rules. A tribute performance or serenade did not have to be done to slow “grown up” songs like Cater 2 U; It would be perfectly okay to perform a tribute to William Devaughn's “Be Thankful For What You Got.” And so we did. And Donna Do was proud. To honor her legacy, Donna Do is posthumously named as the third author of this piece; Shamari is her nephew and Jaron is her son.

Introduction

In the opening vignette, we recount an indelible memory with our beloved Donna Do. Unfortunately, we lost Donna Do in 2005. We chose to share the above episode because it demonstrates how in Donna's kitchen we enjoyed a freedom and creativity we seldom found in other areas of our lives as two Black queer boys in an anti-Black and anti-LGBTQ+ society. Additionally, we intentionally share our story of Donna's kitchen to counter the narratives that reduce Black mothers, and by extension Black communities, to deficit narratives which overlook how Black mothers have participated in creating various homeplaces for so many Black youth (hooks, 1990; Love, 2019), including Black LGBTQ+ youth (Reid, 2022a).

Similar to the obsession with damage-centered narratives of Black mothers (Allen & White-Smith, 2018; Sankofa Waters, 2016; Sealey-Ruiz, 2013; Tuck, 2009), discourses around Black LGBTQ+ youth often center their victimhood and experiences of struggle (Brockenbrough, 2015; Hillier & Kroehle, 2021). And while we recognize it is important to directly engage with the trials Black LGBTQ+ youth encounter so that we may understand how to work with them to ensure their success, we also find it dangerous to present their lives solely as tragedies and characterized only by victimhood (Boylorn, 2013; Reid, 2022a). Thus, in this piece we invert the questions commonly asked about the failure of Black mothers and Black LGBTQ+ youth victimhood.

Here, we reflect on our shared childhood as two Black queer boy cousins. And in our reflections, we intentionally pay close attention to how our Black mothering communities created homeplaces (hooks, 1990) and spaces for us to explore our identities outside rigid constraints flowing from anti-Blackness and anti-LGBTQ+ sentiments. In addition, we chose to highlight our experiences with a community of Black mothers to honor the collective mothering work on behalf of our mothers, their sisters, and their daughters or mothers, sister-mothers, and auntie-mothers (Collins, 1987; Walker, 1983). We end with a discussion opening up the homeplaces our Black mothering communities created for us as Black queer youth and the possibilities of this work to create more inclusive K-12 spaces within urban contexts for Black LGBTQ+ youth.

Lastly, as Donna encouraged us to do in her kitchen, we draw on our Black queer imaginations, audacity, and creativity to push up against and often outside the lines of traditional scholarship. That is, in what follows we creatively present what some might consider a literature review, theoretical framework, methodology, analysis, and implications; though our presentation may not always align with what has become familiar in scholarly discourses with regard to these components of an academic article.

Setting the Scene

The lives of Black LGBTQ+ youth in and out of schools are complex and often informed by dangerous societal beliefs around race, gender, sexuality, and class (Reid et al., 2023). Contrary to popular discourses around which parts of Black LGBTQ+ youth's identities come first, the profound work on intersectionality (Crenshaw, 1989) and specifically the wealth of scholarship done with Black LGBTQ+ youth have revealed how these youth are neither Black or LGBTQ+ first (Kumashiro, 2001; Pritchard, 2013; Reid, 2022a, 2022b). Like other youth with multiple marginalized identities, the realities of Black queer youth are a unique amalgamation of race, gender, and sexuality which result in lives touched by anti-blackness, anti-lgbtq+ sentiments, misogyny, classism, and many other aspects of our social identities and societies (Brockenbrough, 2016; Reid et al., 2021).

Thus, it is flawed to try and shave down any part of Black queer youth's identities so that they may fit nicely, neatly, and respectably into any single identity category. Instead of attempts at trying to claim which of their identities come first, a growing body of research on Black queer identities encourages a more nuanced yes-and approach in which we work toward understanding that yes, Black LGBTQ+ youth are Black and they are queer, trans, girls, femmes, and more (Bartone, 2017; Blackburn & McCready, 2009; Brockenbrough, 2016; Callier, 2017; Johnson, 2017; Reid et al., 2023).

Shifting toward understanding the lived realities of Black LGBTQ+ in this more nuanced, intersectional way allows us to understand how their experiences in schools (and society writ large) overlap, converge, differ, and extend beyond those of their peers who may share only some of their identity markers (Reid et al., 2021). And this is not an invitation to participate in the oppression Olympics wherein we tussle over which group has it the worst. We are speaking to the possibilities that flow from opening up more intersectional conversations in how we engage injustice so that we may be more flexible in how we conceptualize interventions and healing. And the time to expand our thinking is now especially as we take into account the current schooling realities of Black LGBTQ+ youth.

Data Dive

To illustrate this reality, we present a combination of survey data from national organizations and recent scholarship on these youth's schooling experiences. Our goal here is not to present an exhaustive list of Black queer youth experiences with marginalization given our commitment to subverting the “Black queer as only victim” narrative. Rather, our focus is to highlight the challenges they encounter as they relate to finding spaces of support and safety. We provide this overview of their experiences to highlight the urgency in the need to improve how we create and sustain homeplaces or places where Black LGBTQ+ youth can learn to matter.

Moving toward more intersectional approaches to research in the field of teaching and learning, a growing corpus of scholarship has demonstrated how Black LGBTQ+ youth have different schooling experiences from their peers who share only one of their identity markers (Brockenbrough, 2015, 2016; Callier, 2017; Johnson, 2017; Kahn et al., 2019; Love, 2017; Reid, 2022a, 2022b). For example, Brockenbrough (2016) found that Black LGBTQ+ youth in urban contexts often struggle to locate valuable sources of support in and out of schools due to a) the stigma associated with queer genders and sexualities within their communities and b) the racism present in majority-white LGBTQ+ serving organizations. This unique experience requires an intersectional and nuanced approach to understanding how race, gender, and sexuality converge to restrict opportunities for Black LGBTQ+ youth in getting the support they deserve to navigate the world as Black queer people.

In other words, Black trans and queer youth simultaneously suffer from anti-LGBTQ+ ideologies within urban communities, a lack of financial support for schools in urban contexts with predominantly Black and Brown student bodies, and from anti-Blackness in LGBTQ+ serving organizations that center white queer and trans youth (Blackburn & McCready, 2009; Mayo, 2018). The result is these youth attending schools with no Gender and Sexuality Alliances (GSAs) or support groups for LGBTQ+ youth (Poteat et al., 2017), and not being adequately served in LGBTQ+ community-serving organizations which often perpetuate anti-Blackness (Cianciotto & Cahill, 2003). Therefore, Black LGBTQ+ youth are often left alone in schools to fend for themselves and work independently to overcome barriers to their success. And this is only one example of the unique challenges Black LGBTQ+ youth face.

Again, we do not present this research with the sole purpose of reifying victimizing narratives of Black LGBTQ+ youth. Rather, we share this scholarship to highlight the unfortunate truth that too few Black LGBTQ+ youth have access to safe and supportive spaces which negatively impact their lives and overall sense of well-being (Reid, 2022a). Other authors have explored this dilemma in more depth and offer additional examples such as the struggles these youth face when trying to join after-school clubs (McCready, 2004), locate after-school programming which responds to their needs (Blackburn, 2005; Brockenbrough, 2016), and seek safety in classrooms (Kosciw et al., 2022). It is also worth noting that some Black LGBTQ+ youth also have the opportunity to enjoy celebration, affirmation, and love in communities and spaces created by Black LGBTQ+ people for Black LGBTQ+ people (Reid, 2022a).

To offer statistical context on the experiences of Black LGBTQ+ youth, we share some data from the latest Gay, Lesbian and Straight Education Network (GLSEN) climate survey; around 23,000 LGBTQ+ students between the ages of 13 and 21, from all 50 states and five U.S. territories, were surveyed about their experiences in schools. The survey data revealed that over 50% of LGBTQ+ youth of color reported experiencing victimization based on their race/ethnicity in schools (Kosciw et al., 2022).

Additionally, the data showed that among all LGBTQ+ youth of color, Black LGBTQ+ youth felt the most unsafe, even though they were the least comfortable sharing their feelings of unsafety with folks in their respective school buildings. Black LGBTQ+ youth also reported the poorest emotional well-being of all survey respondents with regard to depression, anxiety, and suicide ideation. Lastly, the survey shared that across the last 20 years, 2021 had the lowest rate of intervention by school staff in matters in which LGBTQ+ youth faced discrimination.

It is also worth mentioning that Black LGBTQ+ youth as a group are not experiencing schools equally. According to the 2022 National Survey on LGBTQ youth mental health, the rates of suicide ideation are highest among Black trans and nonbinary youth due to their overwhelming experiences with discrimination, chronic stress, and increased levels of housing instability due to their multiple marginalized social identity markers (Trevor Project, 2022). Furthermore, 1 in 4 Black transgender and nonbinary youth reported a suicide attempt in the past year.

These reports from GLSEN, The Trevor Project, and The Human Rights Campaign on the school climate for queer and trans youth are annual reports that have been shared for over 20 years. And often these reports end with a list of recommendations and implications for education stakeholders who serve Black LGBTQ+ youth. One of these recommendations always addresses a need for increased spaces of support within schools. However, many scholars have written extensively about the challenges educators face in creating and maintaining such spaces of support and safety for these youth (Gorski et al., 2013; Snapp et al., 2015). Joining these scholars, we have also written in-depth about the negative schooling experiences Black queer youth face while learning in a burning house set ablaze by cisheteronormative and anti-Black embers, which are stoked by educators who have not received adequate preparation to work toward creating safe learning spaces for Black queer and trans youth (Reid, 2021, 2022a, 2022b).

Models

Recognizing how little attention is paid to addressing anti-Blackness and gender and sexual diversity in teacher preparation programs and even less engagement with how these two oppressive ideologies produce systems which overlap to uniquely impact these youth (Coles, 2021; Snapp et al., 2015), we argue that teachers need models. In order to effectively create and maintain spaces of support for Black LGBTQ+ youth, teachers need examples and vision. It is this reason that motivates this article, as we encourage the field to look outside of traditional school walls for models.

And we encourage the field to move beyond deficit views of Black mothers to increase our understanding of how some Black mothers have succeeded in creating homeplaces for not only themselves but also for Black LGBTQ+ youth. And we focus on homeplaces for Black LGBTQ+ youth given the research on how a lack of these spaces in schools has resulted in increased levels of depression, anxiety, and suicide ideation among Black LGBTQ+ youth and how many of these youth cite the violence of schools as a source for their negative feelings of self (Kosciw et al., 2022).

Theoretical Framework: Homeplaces and Culturally Sustaining Pedagogy

Houses belonged to women, were their special domain, not as property, but as places where all that truly mattered in life took place—the warmth and comfort of shelter, the feeding of our bodies, the nurturing of our souls. There we learned dignity, integrity of being; there we learned to have faith. The folks who made this life possible, who were our primary guides and teachers, were black women. (bell hooks, 1990, pp. 41–42)

Homeplaces

In the quote above, bell hooks offers what many have come to accept as a definition of her concept of homeplace. We draw on hooks’ notion of homeplace as one of the theoretical frameworks for our exploration into our Black queer childhoods within Black mothering homeplaces. In her text, yearning (1990), hooks writes about the importance of homeplaces to our collective liberation and thriving as Black people. She continues to explain that homeplaces are not only physical but also spaces in time which exist outside the white gaze (Morrison, 1993). That is, these homeplaces are physical, psychic, and social sites envisioned, fashioned, and maintained by Black women outside of white racial domination (hooks, 1990).

It is in these spaces that Black people learn to matter, and are invited to love on each other. Also, as they exist separate from white racial domination, it is within the comfort of these spaces that Black people may heal from the discrimination we have endured at the hands of white supremacy. These homeplaces then serve as sites of resistance, restoration, and re-storying. With regard to re-storying, homeplaces serve as sites where we can revisit and re-cast the stories told to and about Black people.

hooks cautions us to understand that though these sites or homeplaces flow from the labor of Black women, we must remain critical of how much we put and leave on Black women's plates (Dillard, 2022; Hurston, 2018; Porter et al., 2023). While it is important to honor Black women's vision and capacities, we must honor their humanity. Simply, the construction and maintenance of homeplaces cannot only fall on the backs of Black women. We must resist misogynistic thinking which stories Black women as strong and insusceptible to fatigue (hooks, 1990). Furthermore, we who are not Black women must honor their visionary work related to homeplaces and at once join them to create and maintain these spaces, as the work of homeplace-ing is arduous and cannot be left to only part of our community.

As it relates to this piece, we draw on homeplaces to explore our own childhoods in an effort to better understand how our Black mothering communities created homeplaces in which we could learn to matter as Black queer boys. And we argue that in expanding our knowledge of these homeplaces, those who serve youth can learn how to take their cues from Black women to create versions of homeplaces in schools for Black LGBTQ+ youth. We are also mindful of the possibilities of appropriation in which we extract from Black women and erase their legacy of labor, vision, and participation. We are not arguing for the replacement or appropriation of Black women here. We are charging those who work with youth to learn from and with Black women, honor their vision, and move accordingly so that Black women are not the only ones creating sites of resistance, restoration, re-storying, love, and mattering for Black youth.

Culturally Sustaining Pedagogy

We connect the theoretical framings of homeplaces to those of culturally sustaining pedagogy (Paris & Alim, 2017). In conceptualizing culturally sustaining pedagogy (CSP), scholars Paris and Alim argue that due to our current sociopolitical climate and the often underused assets pedagogies that have come before, we must begin thinking intentionally about how we sustain the bodies and lives of those who have historically experienced and are currently experiencing marginalization and oppression. Building on the work of culturally relevant and responsive pedagogy (Gay, 2010; Ladson-Billings, 1995), Paris and Alim (2014) offer a loving critique forward that centers questions of how these groups can sustain themselves as valuable lives outside of the white gaze (Morrison, 1993). They believe the goal is not for youth in schools to assimilate to white cis-hetero eurocentric male ideas but to explore who they are and what they might want to sustain about their identities and cultures.

In framing CSP and the move toward learning outside the white gaze, the authors reference Toni Morrison (1993), who wrote and spoke often about the need to lead lives outside the white gaze; and they reference a concept advanced by Derrick Bell (2004) regarding the centrality or proximity of whiteness, wherein, the closer one becomes to whiteness, the more valid and valuable their humanity becomes. Instead, Paris and Alim (2017) state that culturally sustaining pedagogy is about encouraging youth to explore their communities and consciously decide which things to hold on to and which things we might need to let go in a society that is becoming every day more pluralistic.

In thinking about teaching and learning outside the white gaze as CSP suggests, we argue that educators are better equipped to be culturally sustaining in working with Black LGBTQ+ youth when they expand their understanding of the creation and sustenance of spaces outside the white gaze—such as homeplaces created by Black women—to sustain Black people. Thus, we acknowledge the synergy between homeplaces and CSP and see them as a useful theoretical heuristic for the work we take up here in exploring the Black mothering homeplaces we enjoyed as Black queer youth.

Methodology

As with our previous work (Reid et al., 2021), we rely on duoethnography for this particular scholarly endeavor. Guided by established qualitative duoethnographic research methods (Fowler & Allen, 2021; Sawyer & Norris, 2015), we have chosen to place our lens of inquiry on our childhoods with intentional reflection on what we can learn about creating sites of resistance, restoration, and re-storying for Black LGBTQ+ youth in urban K-12 contexts. As has become expected in duoethnography, we present data collages of our narratives, and initial reactions culminating in a conclusion made up of our present-day analytic reflections and efforts to make meaning of our memories.

To be specific, we began our research with intentional dialogues around our experiences within our Black mothering communities as Black queer youth. These initial exchanges served as ways for us to have critical conversations about moments in which we believed ourselves to experience “homeplaces” in relation to our racial and sexual identities as youth. Our exchanges took many shapes. We communicated via phone, in-person, and engaged in reflective journaling. We used Google Drive to share our journals with one another and used the comment function to react personally and intellectually to each other's written responses.

Our conversations engendered three major themes: protecting our Black queer imaginations during play, defending our Black queer lives against verbal and physical abuse, and wrapping our Black queer bodies in loving words of affirmation. After taking note of the salient themes present in our exchanges, we returned to our data for analysis in which we explored how our experiences connected to hooks’ (1990) concept of homeplaces as sites of resistance, restoration, and re-storying as well as the notion of sustaining our Black queer lives outside the white gaze (Paris & Alim, 2017). In what follows, we share our findings and discussion, which we wove together as a matter of personal style.

Findings and Discussion

Theme 1: Protecting the Black Queer Imagination During Spaces of Play/Homeplaces as Site of Resistance

Jaron's Narrative

I can remember my mother (Donna) supporting my desire to play with Bratz dolls at a young age. She made sure my Bratz dolls had all the latest outfits and accessories. Bratz allowed me and my cousin a way to imagine and bring to life whatever realities our hearts and Black queer imaginations desired. As youth, creating worlds with these dolls was one of the principal ways we bonded while exploring how we wanted to show up in the world authentically as us. This weekly playtime brought us the ultimate joy. And my mother made it all possible by financially supporting our Bratz experience and not making us feel bad for wanting such an experience. While we created alternative words where we could move our bodies, talk, and create in ways that made sense for us, my mother was right down the hall in her favorite chair in the kitchen near the front door to our home. It's almost like she was protecting us from anything and anyone who wanted to separate us from our dolls and Black imaginations.

Our imaginations did not stop at Bratz and neither did the limit of protection and support from our Black mothering community. Our play time often included dancing and singing simultaneously. These live performances would occupy a considerable amount of the time we would spend together and were one of the “places” we would get lost in. As much as we enjoyed the intimate moments of practicing together and supporting each other as we stepped into our various stage personas with no filters, what was even more special was to have an audience that critiqued, uplifted, and supported us. That was my mother encouraging us to come up with new routines she could experience. We could feel not only did she love being front row to our spectacular concerts but that she also loved that we loved doing it. In retrospect, it wasn’t until we did not have that safe space that I would realize our Bratz dolls play time (or boys playing with dolls) and singing and dancing were not forms of expression for Black boys supported by the majority of people.

Shamari's Narrative

The weekends were an escape for me, a time for me to play in ways that made sense to my Black queer imagination. As my cousin recounts in his recollection, I, too, experienced our time with Bratz dolls as a space to play with gender identity and expression. There in the backroom protected by Donna Do, we were allowed to be. There were no constraints as to how we had to use our play time or the kinds of toys we had to play with. We would spend days there in my cousin's room telling complex stories through our Bratz dolls. And this time was so important because it was one of the only spaces we had to lean into our Black queer imaginations. There in Donna Do's homeplace, we could create an entire universe with our Bratz dolls in which we could dream, create, and play outside the lines drawn by anti-Blackness and cis-heteropatriarchy.

Bratz was the first time I got to “try” out my storytelling abilities. I would spend the week writing a storyline (which my mother, Jan, encouraged) for the Bratz. And on the weekends my cousin, baby sister, and I would bring my story to life using our sacred toys, all the while Donna protected our play time and did not ever make us feel “bad,” “wrong,” or “abnormal” for our fascination with these fashion dolls. But playtime did not stop with Bratz.

My own mother and Donna's sister (Jan) allowed me access to the world of The Sims, a simulation game in which I always created feminine male characters and women characters. Upon learning of my Sims families and how feminine they were, my mother said nothing. She never asked why the characters were not more masculine or why there were not more male-presenting characters in my game. She would simply say “I’m glad you’re having fun, son” or “that looks nice.” Just like in Donna Do's homeplace, my mother created a space for my Black queer imagination. Collectively, they nurtured my creativity, my storytelling abilities, and responded positively when I played/created outside the lines.

Our Collective Analytic Reflection on Theme 1

As we reflect on our memories with our Black mothers specifically around the theme of creating space for our Black queer imaginations during play time, we recognize the effects playing and creating in our mothers’ homeplaces had on us growing our creative abilities such as writing, designing, and performing music. As shared above, our mothers encouraged our Black queer imaginations which resulted in us being able to use our play time to sharpen our aforementioned skills. There in our mothers’ homeplaces, the focus was not on trying to get us to move in ways that were inauthentic to who we knew ourselves to be.

Instead, we were encouraged to dream and learn more about our unique skills and the power of our imagination. Our mothers resisted. Jan and Donna resisted perpetuating the status quo with regard to how they should raise their Black sons. These two Black women resisted the notion that as Black boys we had to use our play time to create with more masculine action figures or engage in more physical activities such as sports. Our mothers created homeplaces in which it was safe for all of us to resist and live free of white cisheteropatriarchal logics (hooks, 1990).

In returning to the work of culturally sustaining pedagogy (Paris & Alim, 2017), our mothers’ homeplaces made it possible for us to sustain our abilities and interests in writing, music, fashion, and home decor. And these same abilities show up in our present-day lives and in fact, are the reasons we have enjoyed success in our respective professional careers. Playing with Bratz grew our storytelling skills and honed our eye for fashion. Donna Do encouraging our musical performances developed our musical prowess and helped us learn how to take up space on stage and in the world as Black queer youth. And playing The Sims, which involved building and decorating houses, nurtured our interests in home decor.

In thinking about the work of teaching and learning, often playtime in early grades is a space where many trans and queer youth are not allowed to play with gender identity and expression. Nor are these youth allowed to explore certain interests and aspects of their imagination due to dominant beliefs about what young boys and girls should do. Many scholars have explored these cisheteronormative practices which socialize young people into understanding that boy-identified children cannot play with dolls, fake cooking sets, or try on dresses and other feminine clothing items in the dress-up station. In this way, LGBTQ+ youth who do not or cannot conform to these constraints around play learn to feel inferior or abnormal (Ingrey, 2012; Pascoe, 2007).

These same constraints result in line practices that separate students by perceived or actual gender (Eliot, 2010). These pervasive cis-heteronormative practices in our society and schools have a profound negative effect on LGBTQ+ students and often result in increased levels of anxiety, depression, and suicide ideation (Kosciw et al., 2022). We note here, these practices also restrict youths’ imaginations, dreams, and development of their abilities and interests. And in not developing LGBTQ+ youth's abilities and interests, their ways of thinking, living, and dreaming are not sustained. Thus, if we are serious about teaching in ways that are culturally sustaining then we might learn from our Black mothering community and the ways they sustained our lives and creative imaginations. For example, exploring our stories provides examples of how it looks to invite youth to engage in play time and create in ways that are culturally and queerly sustaining (Brockenbrough, 2016), especially for Black LGBTQ+ youth.

Theme 2: Defending Our Black Queer Lives Against Verbal and Physical Abuse/ Homeplaces as Sites of Restoration

Jaron's Narrative

There was a time in daycare a male teacher pulled my ponytail and called me out my name in response to something I said and did as a kid. I remember being teased quite often by other kids when I was young because I was a boy who had long hair, or tresses as my cousin and I would call my hair. I was always called “a girl” or a “sissy” and I understood from a very young age that people would simply be mean to me because of the hair that sprouts from my head. I would come to learn it was not only kids who would feel this way and be mean to me, the adults would join them.

And on the day that teacher pulled my hair, it was the first thing I mentioned to my mother Donna when she picked me up from daycare. My sister, Rashida, was visiting from Texas at the time. And once my mother filled her in on what happened to me my sister immediately drove us right back up to that daycare to rectify the situation the best way she knew how. That was just one of the many moments as a young person that I experienced my sister's protection in relation to me being teased for my identity. My mother passed away when I was eleven, after which I was raised by my sister. My sister has shielded me with that same protection up until now, and that kind of protection from my mother to my sister would have a huge impact on my becoming as a Black queer person.

Our Collective Analytic Reflection on Theme 2

It is important that we continue to emphasize our experiences with our beloved Black mothering community. Black mothers, sisters, and daughters, they were united in their love for us and creation of homeplaces for us. They worked together as one community to mother us. As Jaron shares, Donna Do and Rashida were always ready to protect him from verbal and physical abuse due to his perceived gender and sexual identity. This kind of protection was important in not only sustaining Jaron's life, but in teaching him and others that it was not ok to harass or assault him because of his perceived queer identity.

In sharp contrast, research has shown that often LGBTQ+ youth experience abuse and assault in schools with little intervention from teachers, staff, and administration (Kosciw et al., 2022; Reid, 2022a). In this way, all youth learn that LGBTQ+ youth do not matter, and it is ok to inflict upon them physical and verbal violence. However, we knew that within the homeplaces our Black mothering community built that we were protected from such harm, and we learned to matter. Thus, we were able to develop an understanding of our inherent humanity and value despite societal messaging about our lack of humanity.

In our mothering community and the homeplaces they maintained, we learned counter-messaging to common discourses around the disposability of Black trans and queer lives. In those sacred homeplaces, we were able to restore ourselves after experiencing abuse at the hands of others. These sites of restoration became incredibly important to us as they provided us with spaces to heal from the discrimination we endured and spaces for us to restore our dignity and humanity which too many often tried to threaten.

Those who work in schools can draw inspiration from our Black mothering community to interrupt anything and anyone that threatens the lives of Black LGBTQ+ youth in schools. Given the research we shared above about Black LGBTQ+ youth being the group who experiences the most harm but often does not report it due to a distrust that anyone will intervene (Kosciw et al., 2022), we argue that those who serve youth in school settings can learn from our mothering community's courage, boldness, and commitment to protecting us from harm, and sustaining our lives. These interruptions matter a great deal, as they teach young Black trans and queer people that our lives matter and have value. In addition, each interruption can work toward restoring youth's dignity and humanity after experiencing violent assaults on their personhood.

Theme 3: Wrapping Our Black Queer Bodies in Loving Words of Affirmation/Homeplaces as Sites of Re-Storying

Jaron's Narrative

It was instilled in me at a very young age that I was special. We come from a family of Black women who love being themselves and take pride in their lives. Our mothers and their daughters took this self-love to towering heights and remain the most important examples of courage and the power that comes from being comfortable in your own skin. It was one of the few things they would require from us as kids growing into ourselves. They required us to love ourselves, to express ourselves unapologetically, and to be outward when sharing our personalities because we were human beings worthy to be experienced, and worthy of experiencing the most beautiful things life had to offer. We were special and we had better know it!

When I look back, I honestly believe it was when I was affirmed by these incredible Queens that I felt the most beautiful, the smartest, and the most talented version of myself. And their words of affirmation are my point of reference as an adult when I am looking to center myself and feel grounded in my identity when navigating a society that oftentimes does not love nor support me or those like me.

Shamari's Narrative

Growing up I heard my mother (Jan), my sisters (Kamilia and Latisha), my cousin (Rashida), and my aunt (Donna) share repeatedly how talented and smart I was. They were in awe of me. I was something to marvel at. They were always commenting on how impressed and proud they were of me. In fact, I remember my older sister calling me once to say, “I am so proud my boys have you as an uncle. You are such an exceptional role model and a hell of a human. I am beyond proud of you and it brings tears to my eyes knowing that my boys have you as an example of what a Black man can be.” I never told her but those words meant everything to me. They joined the chorus of praises I received from my Black mothering community and countered all the times I had heard that I was wrong, deviant, unworthy, worthless, and empty as a Black queer person. These women truly believed in me, and they knew what I was capable of.

I remember the first time I got a B+ on my report card in middle school. My mother was upset: “[redacted] this is unacceptable. I am not saying that a B+ is terrible but you had an A in this same subject a month ago. You are brilliant. I know what you’re capable of. I cannot accept this. You’re not in trouble but you must promise me you will try your best to raise this up. I know you can.” At first, I had no idea why my mother was not pleased. I had understood that a B+ was a fine grade. My teacher seemed ok with it. However, my mother knew what I was capable of with regard to this particular subject, so she pushed me. And she was right. I had not been trying that hard. I needed her loving push forward, her words of encouragement, and affirmation. This was during a time where I was experiencing feelings of depression and anxiety. The world seemed dark. Her words helped me heal and work toward honoring who I knew myself to be.

Our Collective Analytic Reflection on Theme 3

In a sea of negative stories told to and about Black LGBTQ+ youth, our mothering community pouring life and love into us was incredibly impactful. Their words helped us learn to matter. Their words helped us heal from the constant discrimination we endured. And their words reminded us of our value and ability to receive love. In their presence and homeplaces, our mothering community's constant pouring of loving words into us invited us to re-story what we had been told about Black queer life. We were not disposable. We were not incapable of giving and receiving love. We were art, something to marvel at. We were role models. We were talented, smart, and beautiful. And we were here.

A handful of scholars have illuminated the connection between feelings of worthlessness, feelings of inadequacy, and suicide ideation (Kahn et al., 2019). Unfortunately, suicide is the second leading cause of death among U.S. teenagers, and LGBTQ+ youth are at greater risk because of the impact of social stigmas, family rejection, bullying, and abuse (Kahn et al., 2019). These rates are increased for Black LGBTQ+ youth because of compounding struggles with transphobia, heterosexism, racism, and cultural stigma (Kahn et al., 2019). However, many of these same scholars also reveal how consistently receiving words of affirmation and encouragement reduce the amount of suicide ideation and depression among vulnerable youth (Kosciw et al., 2022). Our Black mothering communities were continuous wells of loving words, and these words invited us to learn a different story about our worth as Black queer youth. Their words encouraged us to take up space, show up, and honor our commitments to our success.

Unfortunately, we are living in an era in which Black LGBTQ+ youth are surrounded with dangerous anti-LGBTQ+ and anti-Black legislation, media, and stories about their lack of value and humanity. Schools could be a place where these youth heal from such messaging and engage in learning more stories about their inherent value and worth as people. For this to be a reality (and it should be), those who serve them must shower these youth in affirming messaging to wash away the self-doubt our society might cultivate within them. And this does not have to translate into disingenuous praise. It speaks to the kinds of stories we tell to and about Black LGBTQ+ people through curriculum. We draw on our experiences as evidence of the possibilities for Black LGBTQ+ youth of learning in spaces in which they learn about the agency, beauty, talent, and intellect of Black trans and queer people. This will require that we move beyond deficit framing of LGBTQ+ identity and toward intersectional understandings of transness and queerness not only being a white thing or identity.

As Ladson-Billings (1995), Gay (2010), and Paris and Alim (2017) have argued, in order to be culturally sustaining educators must hold high standards for all youth. Operationalizing this aspect of CSP will require that educators move beyond feelings of pity and sympathy for vulnerable youth toward commitments to working with these youth to ensure their personal, social, and academic success while simultaneously working with them to eliminate the barriers to their success.

Conclusion

We approached this manuscript as a thank you letter to Donna Do, Jan, Kamilia, Rashida, and Latisha, our Black mothering community. In the homeplaces they created and sustained for us, we healed, honed our abilities, developed our Black queer imaginations, and learned to love and matter. We owe them everything. And despite the overwhelming negative experiences we had in schools and society, their homeplaces sustained us. These spaces, quite literally, kept us alive and well. Now we are thriving as two Black queer people, and we understand that this should be a reality for all Black LGBTQ+ people, youth, and those yet to come.

And though schools have remained a site of violence for too many Black trans and queer youth, we hold fast to our hope that they can play a valuable role in sustaining the lives and dreams of these youth. And we offer our experiences wrapped in the love of our Black mothering community as an example of where schools and education stakeholders might go next as those who serve youth work toward transforming schools into sites of resistance, restoration, and re-storying for Black LGBTQ+ youth. Listen to Black women.

Footnotes

Declaration of Conflicting Interests

The authors declared no potential conflicts of interest with respect to the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

Funding

The authors received no financial support for the research, authorship, and/or publication of this article.

ORCID iD

Shamari K. Reid

Author Biographies

Shamari K. Reid is an assistant professor in the Department of Teaching and Learning at New York University. His research explores how Black LGBTQ+ youth and their communities sustain themselves amidst oppression, as well as how we can collaborate with these communities to better transform schools into sites of equitable opportunities for Black LGBTQ+ youth. In addition, his work examines radical love as a moral imperative in social justice education and as a path toward culturally sustaining school communities.

Jaron Reid is a graduate student at CUNY studying health education and promotion. In addition, he works as a surgical coordinator at NYU Langone hospital.

Donna Reid (Posthumous) was a cafeteria manager at a public elementary school. Donna spent her life committed to being a loving mother, aunt, and beacon of joy, light, and hope for her loved ones.

References

Allen

White-Smith

(2018). That’s why I say stay in school: Black mothers’ parental involvement, cultural wealth, and exclusion in their son’s schooling. Urban Education, 53(3), 409–435. https://doi.org/10.1177/0042085917714516

Bartone

M. D.

(2017). “Nothing has stopped me. I keep going:” Black gay narratives. Journal of LGBT Youth, 14(3), 317–329. https://doi.org/10.1080/19361653.2017.1324342

Bell

(2004). Silent covenants: Brown v. Board of Education and the unfulfilled hopes for racial reform. Oxford University Press.

Blackburn

McCready

(2009). Voices of queer youth in urban schools: Possibilities and limitations. Theory Into Practice, 48, 222–230. https://doi.org/10.1080/00405840902997485

Blackburn

M. V.

(2005). Agency in borderland discourses: Examining language use in a community center with Black queer youth. Teachers College Record: The Voice of Scholarship in Education, 107, 89–113. https://doi.org/10.1111/j.1467-9620.2005.00458.x

Boylorn

(2013). Sweetwater: Black women and the narratives of resilience. Peter Lang.

Brockenbrough

(2015). Queer of color agency in educational contexts: Analytic frameworks from a queer of color critique. Educational Studies, 51(1), 28–44. https://doi.org/10.1080/00131946.2014.979929

Brockenbrough

(2016). Becoming queerly responsive: Culturally responsive pedagogy for Black and Latino urban queer youth. Urban Education, 51(2), 170–196. https://doi.org/10.1177/0042085914549261

Callier

(2017). Gendered violences and queer of color critiques in educational spaces: Remembering Sakia, Carl, and Jaheem. In Peters

(Ed.), Encyclopedia of educational philosophy and theory (pp. 914–919). Springer.

10.

Cianciotto

Cahill

S. R.

(2003). Education policy: Issues affecting lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender youth. National Gay and Lesbian Task Force Policy Institute.

11.

Coles

J. A.

(2021). “It’s really geniuses that live in the hood”: Black urban youth curricular un/makings and centering Blackness in slavery’s afterlife. Curriculum Inquiry, 51(1), 35–56. https://doi.org/10.1080/03626784.2020.1856622

12.

Collins

P. H.

(1987). The meaning of motherhood in Black culture and Black mother/daughter relationships. Sage: A Scholarly Journal on Black Women, 4(2), 2–10.

13.

Crenshaw

(1989). Demarginalizing the intersection of race and sex: A Black feminist critique of antidiscrimination doctrine, feminist theory and antiracist politics. University of Chicago Legal Forum, 1989(1), 139–167.

14.

Dillard

(2022). The spirit of our work: Black women teachers (re)member. Beacon Press.

15.

Eliot

(2010). The myth of pink and blue brains. Educational Leadership, 68(3), 32–36.

16.

Fowler

T. A.

Allen

W. A.

(2021). Duoethnographic encounters: Opening space for difficult dialogues in times of uncertainty. DIO Press.

17.

Gay

(2010). Culturally responsive teaching: Theory, research, and practice. Teachers College Press.

18.

Gorski

P. C.

Davis

S. N.

Reiter

(2013). An examination of the (in)visibility of sexual orientation, heterosexism, homophobia, and other LGBTQ concerns in U.S. multicultural teacher education coursework. Journal of LGBT Youth, 10(3), 224–248. https://doi.org/10.1080/19361653.2013.798986

19.

Haddix

McArthur

S. A.

Muhammad

G. E.

Price-Dennis

Sealey-Ruiz

(2016). Provocateur pieces: At the kitchen table: Black women English educators speaking our truths. In Lynch

T. L.

(Ed.), Special issue, volume 1: Critical media literacy: Bringing lives to text (pp. 47–55). National Council of Teachers of English.

20.

Hillier

Kroehle

(2021). “I’ll save you a seat”: Negotiating power in a participatory action research project with queer and trans young adults. Urban Education, 58(10), 2598–2627.

21.

hooks

(1990). Yearning: race, gender, and cultural politics. South End Press.

22.

Hurston

Z. N.

(2018). Their eyes were watching god. Virago Press.

23.

Ingrey

J. C.

(2012). The public school washroom as analytic space for troubling gender: Investigating the spatiality of gender through students’ self-knowledge. Gender and Education, 24(7), 799–817. https://doi.org/10.1080/09540253.2012.721537

24.

Johnson

L. P.

(2017). Writing the self: Black queer youth challenge heteronormative ways of being in an after school writing club. Research in the Teaching of English, 52(1), 13–33. https://doi.org/10.58680/rte201729198

25.

Kahn

Johnson

Lee

Miranda

(2019). 2019 Black & African American LGBTQ youth report. Human Rights Campaign.

26.

Kosciw

J. G.

Clark

C. M.

Menard

(2022). The 2021 National School Climate Survey: The experiences of LGBTQ+ youth in our nation’s schools. GLSEN.

27.

Kumashiro

K. K.

(Ed.). (2001). Troubling intersections of race and sexuality: Queer students of color and anti-oppressive education. Rowman & Littlefield.

28.

Ladson-Billings

(1995). Toward a theory of culturally relevant pedagogy. American Educational Research Journal, 32(3), 465–491. https://doi.org/10.3102/00028312032003465

29.

Love

B. L.

(2017). A ratchet lens: Black queer youth, agency, hip hop, and the black ratchet imagination. Educational Researcher, 46(9), 539–547. https://doi.org/10.3102/0013189X17736520

30.

Love

B. L.

(2019). We want to do more than survive: Abolitionist teaching and the pursuit of educational freedom. Beacon Press.

31.

Mayo

(2018). Intersections, ambivalence, and racial justice in schools: Black queer students remap complexity. Teachers College Record, 120(14). https://doi.org/10.1177/016146811812001407

32.

McCready

L. T.

(2004). Understanding the marginalization of gay and gender nonconforming Black male students. Theory Into Practice, 43(2), 136–143. https://doi.org/10.1207/s15430421tip4302_7

33.

Morrison

(1993). Playing in the dark: Whiteness and the literary imagination. Vintage Books.

34.

Paris

Alim

H. S.

(2014). What are we seeking to sustain through culturally sustaining pedagogy? A loving critique forward. Harvard Educational Review, 84(1), 85–100. https://doi.org/10.17763/haer.84.1.982l873k2ht16m77

35.

Paris

Alim

H. S.

(2017). Culturally sustaining pedagogies: Teaching and learning for justice in a changing world. Teachers College Press.

36.

Pascoe

C. J.

(2007). Dude you’re a fag: Masculinity and sexuality in high school. University of California Press.

37.

Porter

C. J.

Boss

G. J.

Davis

T. J.

(2023). Just because it don’t look heavy, don’t mean it ain’t: An intersectional analysis of Black women’s labor as faculty during COVID. Gender, Work & Organization, 30(2), 657–672. https://doi.org/10.1111/gwao.12820

38.

Poteat

Yoshikawa

Calzo

Russell

Horn

(2017). Gay-straight alliances as settings for youth inclusion and development: Future conceptual and methodological directions for research on these and other student groups in schools. Educational Researcher, 46(9), 508–516. https://doi.org/10.3102/0013189X17738760

39.

Pritchard

E. D.

(2013). For colored kids who committed suicide, our outrage isn’t enough: Queer youth of color, bullying, and the discursive limits of identity and safety. Harvard Educational Review, 83(2), 320–345. https://doi.org/10.17763/haer.83.2.7n07k41t2kn26708

40.

Reid

(2021). What does culturally relevant pedagogy have to offer with regard to teaching and learning during a time of physical distancing? Journal for Multicultural Education, 15(2), 129–137. https://doi.org/10.1108/JME-04-2020-0033

41.

Reid

(2022a). Exploring the agency of Black LGBTQ+ youth in schools and NYC’s Ballroom Culture. Teachers College Record: The Voice of Scholarship in Education, 124(6), 92–117. https://doi.org/10.1177/01614681221111072

42.

Reid

(2022b). Using a queer of color critique to work toward a Black LGBTQ+ inclusive K-12 curriculum. Curriculum Inquiry, 53(2), 1–21. https://doi.org/10.1080/03626784.2022.2121594

43.

Reid

Love

Chase

(2023). “Isn’t it cute?”: An intimate conversation on Black trans and queer futurities. Theory, Research, and Action in Urban Education, 8(1).

44.

Reid

(2021). A trioethnography on our experiences as BlackGay youth. In Folwer

Wallen

(Eds.), Duoethnographic encounters: Opening spaces for difficult dialogues in times of uncertainty (pp. 23–32). DIO Press.

45.

Sankofa Waters

(2016). We can speak for ourselves: Parent involvement and ideologies of Black mothers in Chicago. Sense Publishers.

46.

Sawyer

Norris

(2015). Duoethnography: A retrospective 10 years after. International Review of Qualitative Research, 8(1), 1–4. https://doi.org/10.1525/irqr.2015.8.1.1

47.

Sealey-Ruiz

(2013). Learning to resist: Educational counter-narratives of Black college reentry mothers. Teachers College Record: The Voice of Scholarship in Education, 115(4), 1–31. https://doi.org/10.1177/016146811311500403

48.

Snapp

S. D.

Burdge

Licona

A. C.

Moody

R. L.

Russell

S. T.

(2015). Students’ perspectives on LGBTQ-inclusive curriculum. Equity & Excellence in Education, 48(2), 249–265. https://doi.org/10.1080/10665684.2015.1025614

49.

The Trevor Project. (2022). The 2022 National Survey on LGBTQ Youth Mental Health.

50.

Tuck

(2009). Suspending damage: A letter to communities. Harvard Educational Review, 79(3), 409–428. https://doi.org/10.17763/haer.79.3.n0016675661t3n15

51.

Walker

(1983). In search of our mothers’ gardens: Womanist prose. Harcourt Brace Jovanovich.