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The politics of being a queer leader during the Ferguson uprising

2020; Wiley; Volume: 47; Issue: 2 Linguagem: Inglês

10.1111/amet.12894

1548-1425

Alexis S. Templeton,

Latin American and Latino Studies

Alexis Templeton, cofounder of Millennial Activists United, a queer-women-led activist group created during the Ferguson protests, 2014. (David Carson / St. Louis Post-Dispatch / Polaris) They call me a dyke, a faggot, a gay bitch, I ain't shit, that hate shit, that hatred, goddamn! Michael Brown saved my life. Later, he shifted its direction. I'm asked to speak a lot about what happened in Ferguson. I answer the same questions so often that I have a standard answer for each one. I often feel as if I am expected to perform as a revolutionary figure, however that looks. As if I am supposed to be full of fire. As if I come to spaces to ignite the flame folks need to really do something about the atrocities in this country. I find that perspective unrealistic and boring. I have no interest in painting a romanticized picture of the Ferguson uprising. I believe it is becoming mythologized as it is. I do not want to ease someone into the deep water of resistance or affirm someone's sense of righteousness. I do not care to make anyone feel good about being on the right side of justice or give pats on the back for recognizing that enough is enough. Ferguson was muddy waters, and Ferguson is still that. I'm uncovering my own truth about the role that I played during the uprising and how that role affected who and where I am today. Ferguson is about Mike Brown and the fires he ignited in those who fought white supremacy in his name. Ferguson is about grappling with Blackness, the beauty and the beast of it. Ferguson is about affirming Black people's humanity in the face of state brutality. Ferguson is about how the uprising changed the people who rose up and transformed the world around them. Ferguson is about our struggles with patriarchy, homophobia, classism, and respectability. Ferguson is about confronting the realities that dictate how one can move through the world. Ferguson is still here, even after the fires have died. I was visiting family in Arizona when Ferguson erupted. I watched the city explode from my phone and couldn't get over how an uprising was unfolding minutes away from my house. The revolution had come to my doorstep. When I arrived home, I thought about suicide, as I had every night for a year. I had been overwhelmed with depression and was constantly contemplating suicide. My spirit told me otherwise that night. That night, I ruled out ending my own life. I felt a desire to contribute to something bigger than me. I got on Twitter, found out where people were meeting, and walked out the door. It's important to understand where people were in their lives before they rose to an insufferable prominence. Too often the bravery of the Ferguson freedom fighters overshadows their humanity—their ups and downs, their complexities and ills. I want that to stop. I want you to see more than teargas and tanks. I want you to hear about more than rubber bullets and being arrested. Alexis Templeton, cofounder of Millennial Activists United, a queer-women-led activist group created during the Ferguson protests, 2014. (David Carson / St. Louis Post-Dispatch / Polaris) What does it mean to be Black? What does it mean that when we call for Black unity during fights for Black liberation, there seems to be an unspoken rule about who can show up, who can speak, and who can lead? Perhaps it is not a rule, but folks are certainly more supportive of those assumed to be heteronormative. We are more likely to show up and advocate for the people who wrongfully died and “rightfully” lived. Read “rightfully” as those who walk the narrow path of “normal” sexuality: those who do not challenge the gender binary, men who embody respectable masculinity. This leaves us with a tendency to follow straight Black men. Ferguson was no different, until it was. At one point, and still in some circles, my queerness called into question my loyalty and my Blackness from the people I called comrades. Nineteen-year-old me pulled up on the parking lot of Andy Wurm, a local tire shop, embodying conventional femininity and locked into heterosexuality. Recognizing that I had a duty to be there, I stayed and immersed myself in a social movement with folks I would begin to see as family. Being involved in a movement does not mean you stop growing as a human; in fact, it has a great impact on your growth. Being involved in Ferguson helped me understand my sexuality, which I had kept hidden away for years, and change my gender presentation. As time went on, I went from presenting as straight and femme to queer and masculine. Coming out made my skin thicker and my voice a lot louder. As I came into my queerness, my sexuality and identity, I became a better leader. Queerness equipped me with the experience to advocate and make space for the Black folks excluded from even the margins. Queerness helped me better understand Blackness. During the uprising, I cofounded Millennial Activists United (MAU) with fellow comrades Brittany Ferrell, Ashley Yates, and Larry Fellows. MAU was a queer-led activist group formed on the front lines. The organization was created out of a desire to use direct action to center the marginalized within the marginalized—Black women, Black queer folks, and Black youth. Some months after the uprising started, Harry Belafonte came to visit protesters and organizers. I had no idea who he was, and I certainly was unaware of his activism. He talked about the importance of this moment and what it could mean for liberation; he gave us history and wisdom to better strategize. One of the most important things he said, something I will never forget, was that Martin Luther King “was able to win over America because he was able to put a mirror to its face and showcase it to the world. America was forced to look at itself, and looking at its reflection is something that America cannot afford.” This wisdom affirmed how MAU was showing up already, and it influenced how we organized. We had to ask ourselves better questions in order to become better organizers. How do we impel the state to look at its actions? How do we force it to reflect on its dehumanization of Black people? Our answer was to use direct action. MAU's first action was at Plaza Frontenac, a high-end shopping mall in St. Louis. We collaborated with another comrade, Jamell Spann. It took place on the movement's first Moral Monday, a day of direct action around the city. We had noticed that other activists were disrupting daily life in St. Louis, but it wasn't happening everywhere it needed to. It was not happening in the suburbs. The white middle-class and the white elite minutes away knew nothing of our pain. They knew the media's narrative; they were the audience for a multitude of lies. We organized a group of people to march through the mall and disrupt the space. There is a misconception about protest: that it is simple and impulsive and does not require strategy or thought. Quite the contrary. Direct action requires vigilance, diligence, and care to protect its practitioners and focus on impact and intention. We told the group to enter different parts of the mall and roam until they were given the cue to start chanting. Shoppers saw us, a group of Black youth, enter the mall, and they became visibly uncomfortable. This is what we wanted. We began to chant and disrupt the placid scene of white privilege. Chanting was particularly important for me. Chanting frees the inner voice of those who've been silenced. We were told to leave or be arrested. This is the moment when people start thinking about their jobs, their kids, their parents—their livelihood outside the uprising. Are we taking this risk? Is this the right thing to do? Should we make this sacrifice? Direct action is about disciplined rage; it is a form of communication. Through it we say, “Stand in our shoes for a moment. Think about why we are here.” Direct action is confrontational because it is about truth. Direct action brings what one ignores to the surface, to one's attention. Direct action is a mirror that is held directly in front of your face. Direct action isn't asking you to look in the mirror; it's making you look. It is also about seeing ourselves more clearly. There is destruction and freedom in reflection. This makes reflection one of the most fundamental elements of change. Reflection is, in turn, about accountability. It is about a critical analysis of what we consider moral and how we practice it. Reflection is about an understanding of history; it is about getting to the bottom of dark moments. Justice begins to breathe when we begin to see ourselves. What is reflection in the context of America? What is reflection in the context of Ferguson? What made MAU so important was not that we did direct actions but that we brought politics to organizing, to the streets. MAU introduced ideas and practices of radical Black feminist thought to the local St. Louis movement. Previously, Black feminist scholarship had been foreign to most of us. Most of us did not know about the Combahee River Collective or Patricia Hill Collins. I had no idea who Audre Lorde was. All we really knew was the sexism we faced, the homophobia we experienced, and the sexualization we endured. I knew that my sexuality and gender presentation would be seen as an issue to other comrades. Being masculine-presenting brought my queerness front and center. It is not something that can be hidden. Nor did I want to hide it. MAU upset folks because we centered Black women and Black queer folks. MAU upset folks because we were queer Black women. Showing up in community spaces began to feel tense and awkward. It became clear that we did not belong after the #BlackChurch action, in which we peacefully confronted Black churches in St. Louis that were abstaining from the movement. We thought #BlackChurch was necessary because the Black religious community was beginning to disappear from the movement. In the early days, there were many pastors attempting to lead Black youth. But the youth often rebelled against them. Pastors thought protest should look a certain way, a “civilized” way, and the youth disagreed. This generational divide showed itself very early on, so the pastors began to disappear. #BlackChurch took place on Easter Sunday 2015. We decided on Easter Sunday because on this holiday Black folks flock to church. We conducted a silent action. We did not want to disrespect people's religious beliefs and practices, but we did have a message. We wanted to bring the church out of the pulpit and the pews and into the streets—where we felt church was really happening. We saw it as less of a protest and more of a cry to the church community to stand with us in the streets. We had discussed this action with several trusted people within the movement, including some clergy. While folks thought the action was brilliant and necessary, they were concerned about the controversy it would cause. And so was I. The church has been so important to the Black community, and it is not to be disrespected. Against their advice, we went forward with the action. We decided on three churches: Faith Miracle Temple in Florissant (bordering Ferguson) and two churches in St. Louis, Friendly Temple and the New Cote Brilliante Church. We also decided not to verbally engage with anyone questioning our presence and instead conveyed our message with our signs. If we were approached, we would hum “Wade in the Water” to express that we had come in peace. We also agreed to stay on the public sidewalk, so as not to give the establishments any reason to say we were trespassing—this was not an arrestable action. The signs read “Mike Brown was the least of these,” “Jesus was a revolutionary,” “You don't have to choose between faith and activism,” and so on. Each church responded as it saw fit. At Greater Grace Church parishioners came outside to see why we were there. They read the signs and made comments like “Look at this one!” or “What is this supposed to mean?” When we would not communicate verbally, they called the police, and we were asked to leave. At New Cote Brilliante, the pastor came outside, read our signs, and showed gratitude for our presence. He encouraged the congregation to embrace us. I was shocked that the interaction was so positive. Finally, we ended at Friendly Temple. Of the churches, their membership was the largest and the attendance was massive. The parishioners coming into service seemed confused, and the deacons redirected their attention away from us. At one point, the deacons tried to engage with us, and as planned, we just hummed. When we would not engage, the deacons (all older Black men in their 40s to 60s) were instructed to stand in front of us and block our presence. One deacon told the St. Louis American, a local Black newspaper, that we meant to embarrass the church. While that was not our intention, I can agree that that was the effect. Comrades on Facebook were in an uproar. They demanded to know why churches were being “shut down” and voiced their disapproval of the action. After a while, it was communicated to us that a number of folks in the protest community wanted to meet with us to discuss the action. We were hesitant but felt our actions were righteous, and we were prepared to defend them (Bibles in hand). The meeting was held at Greater St. Mark's, a local church that had been providing resources to activists from day one. When we arrived, there were a ton of people there. Most folks on the opposing end were affiliated with and supporters of Lost Voices, a youth organization that was committed to the front lines. There were some clergy there and a number of unaffiliated comrades. It never really felt like a meeting because it was so combative. There was criticism of the action for a moment, but then it quickly turned into a discussion about sexuality in the movement. At one point someone said, “I don't care if you fuck a man, a woman, or a horse. That's not what this movement is about.” The conversation turned into an attack on queer involvement and queer leadership. Most of the folks in the room concurred that queer politics was not part of this movement and that it was co-opting the narrative. As a result, a lot of folks stormed out, Brittany and I included. From then on, MAU became even more isolated and less accepted in protest spaces. We were still committed to being on the ground; after all, this had become our life's work, but we were also on edge. We anticipated state violence but also came to be wary of the people we were standing next to on the front lines. It created paranoia and resentment, and it was extremely painful. I do not think this diminished MAU's voice, but it helped create a narrative that cast us as outsiders—even though we had been on the ground from the beginning. #BlackChurch really helped us understand whom we could trust and continue to organize with. It was also a frustrating time because some people who supported us behind closed doors would not do so publicly. I went from talking with just about everyone to being anxious about who I could and could not speak to. Feeling the need to always be prepared for conflict was exhausting, and it took a toll on my relationships—with my partner and with other MAU members. There were not many more risky actions I wanted to do. I knew we had a voice and could push the limits because we knew what limits needed to be pushed, but at what personal cost? This was one of those moments when I realized that leadership comes with more loss than it does gain. We were well respected outside the protest community, but within it we were isolated. It really made me question whether I was doing the right thing, whether I was on the right side of justice. For many of the protesters, the politics of race was easy to understand. There was no complication in it. For the majority of those outside, being there and rising up was about being Black. And they were right. My Blackness was why it was necessary for me to show up, but I think it is dishonest to ignore the salience of gender and sexuality. Gender, gender presentation, and sexuality affected my organizing, and they were central to my activism. Thanks to my queerness, my loyalty was questioned, as was my presence. People verbally confronted and physically threatened me. Queerness made me less a Ferguson protester and more someone who had to be isolated. I was told that nobody “gave a fuck” if I “was a dyke,” but it was the only thing people could focus on. The more I came into my identity, the more the relationships I had built were questioned or severed. Yes, if you were Black, you were welcome. In fact, you were expected to stand with your people. But at the same time, being Black and defying heteronormativity painted you as an enemy. Gender and sexuality dictated whom you could mobilize, where you mobilized, and your relationship to the community and other comrades. We fought for the niggas, the Black Americans who are always conveniently at the bottom of any barrel, the Black Americans who are not respectable enough, who are too loud, who don't care about your comfort because they are hungry, because this country is starving them, and because you are complicit. Niggas are Black Americans who are constantly forced to own and reclaim an identity forced on them by this country. Nigga is not just a term of endearment here; it is political. Niggas are who America has created with its own definitions and oppressive actions. And niggas are queer. I am going to center niggas, in all our beauty and in all our pain, because someone has to—because we deserve to be centered. MAU forced protesters and organizers to rethink what they had been taught about leadership, sexuality, and womanhood. MAU questioned what it meant to be pro-Black. If your advocacy does not extend to all Black people, are you really for Black people? MAU offered a new framework, a new set of values, issues, and tactics to those committed to activism in St. Louis. Queer leadership during the Ferguson uprising illustrated what it means to be Black, what it means to be queer, and what it means to be unwavering in what you believe and who you love.