I’m starting to understand why people do long distance relationships. The Black queergay “community” in DC is entirely too small. Everyone knows everyone and the drama is unreal. I refuse to deal.

Someone come cuddle with me via Skype.

Should I stop having expectations so that I’m never disappointed?

An old friend used to tell me that I needed to learn not to stress over life and just let it happen. I never liked that idea. We only live once. Why shouldn’t we be committed to making the most of of that one chance? Why should we just let things happen and act as if we have no control over them? Life is going to happen as it will, but it’s our lives. Which means we have control, even if only a bit. Decisions we make impact our future. I’d like to make decision that will lead to a happier future. I’m tired of always feeling sad. I just want to make good decisions.

I hate having no clue about what sort of career, if any, I’d like to pursue. The lack of awareness means I have no idea where to focus my energy.

When I know what I want to do, I do it with ease. When I transitioned, I knew what I wanted and made it happen in two years. When I wanted to escape my mother, I did the same and was free in 10 months. When I transferred colleges and moved to a new city alone, I pulled it off in 6 months. But with the rest of my life (allegedly)? I have no idea what I want to do.

So I sleep. And waste time. And hate myself. Because while everyone around me seems to know what they’re working toward, I’m stuck at a job I hate, attending a school that offers nothing for me (because I don’t know what I need from it), in a city I loathe. Trying to make ends meet for some nonexistent goal. Not following through on any ideas because I don’t have a support network.


Apparently my queerphobic parents have been watching—and love—Orange Is The New Black. Which means there might be hope. Except now they’ve probably got this very normative idea of what trans “looks like” and will expect me to be butch. Meanwhile, I wore heels to the White House last night…

(SN: I told my coworker about said heel-wearing and she said, “Oh, so you be dressing like them queens?” But it wasn’t in a rude way. She really thought that was the right language. I’m sure not if I was offended. Because hi, I’m Queen Shaan. So.)

As I navigate this new femme, genderqueer space, it has been very interesting to realize that I am never safe. Usually, I am perceived as a (Black) woman and catcalled. If/When I speak up, my voice leads people to gender me as a (Black) (gay) man and I then encounter homophobia.

Also, the erasure is real. And the struggle to navigate sexuality when you lack a gender in a gay city is…. *exasperated sigh*

Liberation is not very liberating.

At work, I was checking the garbage and other mundane barista duties. A guy asks me to “come here.” Assuming he is a customer with a question, concern, or suggestion, I go over.

Him: “Has anyone ever told you you are beautiful?”

Me: “Uh…I guess? I—”

Him: “Whoa you’re a fucking dude get the fuck away from me with that shit you fucking faggot ugh!”

I proceeded to walk off and ask my manager to remove the guy (and his friends) from the store. Why? Because hi I work there and I shouldn’t feel unsafe in a place where I spend most of my days. My manager says he will “keep an eye” on the guys, then goes into the basement (where the guys are not).

A short while later I return to the area where the guys were, and still are. I hear taunting, namecalling, etc. I tell my manager again to remove them from the store. He goes to where they are. From here, I do not know what actually happened. He says he asked them to leave and they refused, so he threatened to call the cops. Thanks, wonderful. 

Except why did I have to be harassed twice before he did anything?

I intend to contact his superior tomorrow and schedule a meeting. This is not the first time my manager has done some “problematic” things. Last month, someone wrote graffiti saying “(blah blah) fucking niggers (blah blah)” in the restroom. It took two weeks for it to be removed; during which time, a number of Black customers complained. A few customers have a habit of being sexist toward our non-male-perceived customers. There is also the issue of Black people not being allowed to discuss race while on the clock, because it is not “work appropriate.” But White people can make fun of our Ugandan coworker.

Definitely time to find a new job. This was cute but no. They don’t pay me enough, and that rinkydink “free” degree from ASU-Online is no compensation.

Got back from the Philadelphia Trans Health Conference yesterday. As far as things the organizers had power over, it was cute. But the White people? The overwhelming amount of musty, privilege-invested White people? I cannot.

First, there was the White guy who is proud that if nothing else, he has White male passing privilege and is oppressive as hell. Then there was the White group who invaded our femme QTPOC space and clapped as we tried to reclaim it. Oh, and let’s not forget the “not trans” man of trans experience who is upset that people clocked his tea….at a trans conference. And all the times the people of color had to point out how American gender is a product of colonialism.

I intend to return next year with a set of workshops restricted to people of color and a bodyguard. Try to enter these spaces if you want to, White people. You will get got. You are not welcome. This is not for you.

All of that aside, the non-workshop/PTHC-organized spaces were dope. Yes to the butch men who acknowledged me and my femme identity publicly. Yes to the genderqueer who turned anger to action, Yes to all the people affirmed my identity and encouraged my fabulousity. Yes to the multiple acts of resistence by POC. Yes for the allies who did it right.