I Don't Do Boxes vol. 5: OUTlaws

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I DON'T DO BOXES

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no. 5: OutLaws

by queer youth for queer youth I Don’t Do Boxes is an independent magazine by and for queer youth that gathers stories from the Southern United States and beyond.

Shoutout to Rimona Law, Susan Hendley, Sarah Grace Faulk, and Education Coordinator Nhawndie Smith.

a youth-led media project developing dialogue around LGBTQ+ experiences based at Elsewhere Museum.

Editorial Team: Abilene Donegan, Colleen Gundersen, Kelli Farrington, Nya McNeil, Nhawndie Smith, Skye Warren.

Special thanks to the contributors, editors, and angelic troublemakers involved in planning, designing, and developing vol. 5.

QueerLab and I Don’t Do Boxes are funded in part by the Lincoln Financial Group.

I Don’t Do Boxes is a part of QueerLab:

idontdoboxes.org 606 South Elm Street | Greensboro, NC | GoElsewhere.org Cover art by: 2017 IDDB Editorial Team, Rimona Law, Guido Villalba Portel

Societal ABC’s of Life: Authority, Borders & Constructs NHAWNDIE SMITH | GREENSBORO, NC

Dear future OutLaws, Time to reject the things that have illegitamate authority over our lives. With this, I denounce everything that restricts my bodily autonomy. I denounce the state for its continued violence on the oppressed. I denounce capitalism, the ways it exploits labor, consumes bodies, and lays waste globally. I denounce colonization in all forms, specifically the false ownership of native lands. I denounce the repression of sex positivity and gender roles. I denounce the nuclear family and understand that communities of love exist beyond blood. I denounce the social constructs that do not allow us to coexist and know freedom.

Family, friends, and strangers I do not know have been criminalized and killed for not having the correct skin color, gender, religion, or class. Authority restricts my ability to move my body and express my full self, white supremacy and cis-hetero normativity has influenced me to be an oppressor to my kin. Borders have caused me to forget the histories of the places I am privileged enough to travel to and the lives that stewarded this land. Constructs have made me gradually become disconnected to and question pieces of me that I have always assumed as concrete.

Black, queer, trans, and gender non-conforming babies from the South have reminded me of where I come from but also where we all must go to survive.

Respect the boundaries of this world and bodily autonomy of those around you.

If we are gentle and intentional with ourselves we will shift culture; we will bring my ancestors’, elders’, and grandparents’ wildest dreams to fruition. Plant this seed to 3 people in your community. As you nurture and watch this person’s transformation ask them what FREEDOM looks like to them. Ask them to plant love and support into three new people. Remind them to share what freedom looks like to them and to support the next generation’s visions for the future.

Warmest Regards, An Angelic TrouBLMaker

Smith is a Greensboro-based social justice organizer and the QueerLab + IDDB Education Coordinator.

What is an OutLaw?

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This year’s theme came from the need to celebrate those who have been criminalized or erased altogether by the established order. Our aim was to celebrate those whose existence is resistance. In spite of the contradictory borders and disposability of this colonized world, we know that we all must rise up against oppression and all things that do not serve us.

In the fifth issue of I Don’t Do Boxes, we invited creators and change-makers to boldly connect to experiences they have had with rejecting cultural norms. We know that in this political moment all of our communities are under attack in some way. Queer, trans, and gender non-conforming beings were given this theme to critically think about how we move against laws that further oppress our people.

We will take time to honor those that have fought for us to exist today. When we realize that the violence inflicted on us is institutional we can then concretely imagine the worlds we need to have in the future. Join us as we recognize the multiple histories in our bodies and get to the root of what it means for us to decolonize and reclaim our communities!

P.S. We always strive to show a full spectrum of queer experiences, thus we want everyone who wants a voice in the zine to submit. Look out for our next call for submissions (Fall 2018) to see how you can be involved in transformational futures we are building towards.

Yours queerly, The I Don’t Do Boxes Editorial Team December 2017

What is an OutLaw?

Alex, 13

My definition of outlaw goes beyond just “not belonging.” It is a living definition that bends and changes with every new “outlaw” I meet. I think that an outlaw, to put it in the most basic terms, means someone or something that is not accepted. It can be all of society or just one person, but to that one person they are an outlaw. There are also different ways to deal with being an outlaw. Some people own it, while others hide it for fear of being “different.” Working with I Don’t Do Boxes has definitely shaped my definition of outlaw. I’ve learned that being an outlaw isn’t just differing from the norm. It’s being so unacceptably different that you are rejected for it. There’s nothing wrong with being an outlaw. The word, unfortunately, has a negative connotation that it does not deserve. Being an outlaw is awesome. Own it! I’m proud to be an outlaw. Are you?

I think an outlaw is someone who has been shunned or exiled from society or just generally looked down on. The word also seems to have a negative connotation while in reality it’s just someone who stands out or is different in a “bad” way. I personally relate to the term outlaw because I seem to stand out almost everywhere I go. Being an outlaw is not a bad thing, it’s just being unique, which makes you who you are (that’s cliche I know).

Skye, 12

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Nya, 20

I tried to make this sound super poetic and deep, but an outlaw is not something that is easily defined. That’s what makes an outlaw, an outlaw. Wild and untamed an outlaw is the spur on the heel of trans women leather boots, the cracked tongues of our queer ancestors thirsting for just the smallest sip of freedom. It’s the burning of saddles and smelting of pistols turning them into the framework of liberation. Being an outlaw is living without boundaries and arbitrary labels. It’s reclaiming and replanting trauma and turning it into firewood. It’s more than death and deserts. It’s surviving in the absence of protection. It’s living outside of the law.

As an outlaw, one is thought of as an outcast. They are pushed aside, mocked and avoided at all costs. They often feel isolated, as though they have no one to turn to in the world. In reality, they are not alone. Often unbeknownst to them, there are countless other outlaws in this world.

We, as outlaws, are a family, and we shall stand united and make a home for one another.

Colleen, 19 Outlaws are the changemakers of society. We disrupt order by simply existing but also inspire others to show up as their full selves.

Regardless of what others may define me to be, as an outlaw, I know that only I can define who I am.

Nhawndie, 22

Dear Black Gay Boy

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JHONATHAN HILL | GREENSBORO, NC

Dear black gay boy You are... dramatic too over the top too colorful too involved Dear black gay boy you are life he opens up his lips and speaks to the air it listens Will you love him simply because he is black because he is gay Because he is black and gay Because he is more of a minority than you His range in numbers on the surface is few But in reality, it’s thousands still in hiding Dear black gay boy you are variety curiosity at its best an army of many Don’t you see we rain hellfire on those who oppose us Dear black gay boy you are magic you create every creative thing they have seen They can’t take you away for they would Die Dear black gay boy you are life

My black GayNess will destroy you don’t you see I birth nations with the womb of my mind Dear black gay boy you are life and creation you sow the seed for this tree, they feed from Yet they still walk and stomp on you I tell them Don’t hate the farmer don’t bite the hand that feeds you births you Tells you, you’re pretty because you are Don’t make us starve you of your confidence cause we will Dear black gay boy they need you They can’t hurt you they’ll need you when they’re drained of boredom and need a shock of entertainment They’ll need you when the waters of their self-confidence drowns them They’ll need you when you have the key to the questions​ they can’t answer Dear black gay boy They need you!

Black Rage HOLDEN CESSION | GREENSBORO, NC

A Voice

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ANDREW GARVEY | DES PLAINES, IL

Nobody knows what to call you, Is it he?

She? They? …..no never they, they is plural.. you can’t use they singularly.

It? Sometimes.. rather than use they and make them a person. Use it and make them an object, less than human.

Everyone is afraid to ask, even if it’s better to ask rather than assume.

9 times out of 10 they’re wrong anyway.

It’s always the voice.. the voice is what gives it away.

This big secret that really isn’t a secret.

The voice is what makes them positive of their choice of who you are.

Rather than asking to make sure.

Of course it’s a she. Of course it’s a girl.

Do you hear the voice?

Did you see what it was wearing?

Clearly a button up and jeans means it’s a girl.

There’s only ever 2 possibilities Society says and teaches there’s only 2 It hides the history and hides the possibility of anything else

Everything you do is either wrong or very wrong Even after 3 or so years of cutting hair, changing names, conforming to the standard, changing identities, hurting yourself to fit into this shape society sets, changing your clothes, changing mannerisms, learning how to be the you they want to be and forcing the you you want to be into a corner, 3 years of trying so hard. The real you is still hidden from everyone because it’s better to assume than to just ask.

No one sees who you are It’s all because of the voice Is it better to stay silent and be you or should you speak and ruin the image you have made for yourself?

It’s all because of the voice Too high Too fast Too flamboyant Too too not male?

It’s better to ask than just assume Just ask Ask Ask Ask …...it’s he by the way

exhausted.

M.J. DOSSEY | GREENSBORO, NC they’re all laughing. i can hear them laughing. every last one of them is laughing, rolling in peals of laughter while i sit there, watching, mouth agape, hands clenched into fists so tight that i’m not sure blood even runs there anymore. i am only an audience member and yet they laugh at me. the actors spread their legs, exaggerate voices and mannerisms, and talk about sex changes. they talk about a sex change operation as if it is an adult film or flavored condom—something to “spice it up” in the bedroom. they are beings made of sex and abomination and god, i can’t see, i can’t breathe, i am the butt of another joke for another cisgender audience and i can’t take it anymore. a man comes onstage wearing a dress and they guffaw. a trans woman trips on her high heels and they cackle. a trans man packs his underwear with a banana and they roar. i watch helplessly as the stage and screen take my identity and turn it into a clown costume, something with no real significance besides being the punchline to a cheap and derogatory joke. do they not know i am watching them? do they not know that i can see? did they see me crying into my hands after the performance? did they see me hugging my transgender friend, holding her to my chest and gripping her shirt and telling her that it wasn’t fair, it wasn’t fair that WE were ALWAYS the sideshow attractions to be laughed at. did they see my fear when i heard the laughter of an ever-more-menacing audience? did they see me almost vomit

in the bushes outside afterwards as my anger grew into a panic attack that, six hours later, i can’t come down from? do they even know that i exist? i know i am not voiceless, but in that moment, my mouth was taped. i know i am not weak, but in that moment, my arms were restrained. they take our lives and identities and turn them into jokes for their audiences, and in the same breath they will say that an honest story of a transgender or gay or otherwise queer life is “pandering.” when have we ever been real people to them? when have we ever been a real community? when have we ever been human?

They are all laughing and the tears are blurring my eyes and i hate crying in public, i hate people feeling sorry for me, i hate feeling like a child. but there’s nothing else i can do. i go outside and i press my face into my hands and i sob. they are still laughing. they will always be laughing. i am exhausted. when do we get a moment to breathe? where is the luxury of easy sleep? why is our identity less important than their jeers, their snickers, their violence? we are exhausted. i refuse to be a punchline. but they don’t hear my refusal. their laughter covers up the quiet echoing of my “please, please, no. not now. i’m exhausted. please. no.”

I DON’T DO BOXES / 11 Write the Unwritten, Become an Enforcer

MICHAEL G. WILLIAMS | DURHAM, NC The very first time I had sex with a man, we were breaking multiple laws.

We were trespassing. It was in an old, abandoned quarry in the town where I grew up. We met via a series of handwritten notes in secret-ish locations where queer men cruised. I’d sort of picked up what cruising was but I couldn’t imagine anything happening in those places: too public, too easy to be interrupted.

The places where communications were exchanged were like Grindr, except “location aware” meant you had to be aware of what locations to visit in the first place.

We stashed our cars behind trees and walked to the old quarry. The me who looks back on that moment – the current me, made wary by experience – feels cold fear when I think how far I was from help. Such are the conditions of experiences found outside the law, though. Every teenager is desperate to find somewhere to do it. I was desperate to make sure no one would ever discover. That meant no one could know to go looking for me if something bad were to happen.

We were also violating sodomy laws. I wonder if young queers today realize how big of a deal they were. It wasn’t just that we could get busted for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

We could be charged with a crime for a degree of touch.

Legally, the term “sodomy” in North Carolina described specific acts committed by specific combinations of persons. On the matrix of qualifying factors, we checked enough boxes.

When a kid in my high school came out to his parents at 18, they threw him out. He went from dependent minor to dropout waiting tables in less than 24 hours. It was 1990, and the unwritten laws said his parents would never tolerate a fag under their roof.

When a kid in my junior high was brave enough to ask another boy to the 9th grade prom, thus becoming the first person to come out in our school’s history, he was so routinely harassed and physically assaulted he ran away to Atlanta at 14. It was 1988 and the unwritten laws said he could not come out and expect to live there.

When my mother was driving me home from a 6th grade trumpet lesson and announced, with no preamble and no context, “Homosexuals really mess up their rectums.” It was 1986, and the unwritten laws said my body was doomed to mutilation before I even understood how I might want to use it.

Every time a kid got called “cocksucker;” every time I found another one of those places to exchange messages; the time I called a number on a bathroom wall and told the 40-something man who answered that I wanted to talk about what it was like being gay;

when I had to hear the neighbors gossip about the gay retirees who built a home in the subdivision across the street; when I read the letters to the editor after I was pseudonymously interviewed about being young and gay in my small hometown; when I got to college and found out the easiest access I would have to sexuality would still be trespassing and would still be sodomy.

Each of those times, the unwritten laws were reemphasized. There could be no mistake: the unwritten law said it was not okay to be me and I would be punished if I persisted.

I’ve written essays in previous issues of IDDB, including one about how my reaction to others’ expectations and demands was to ball up my metaphorical fist and bust the rules in the lip. That is absolutely true. I was a rebel in any number of ways, and successfully so, and I don’t regret it for a second. I hold up my various acts of rebellion the way a marathon runner holds up a medal, or the way the winning driver pops the cork on a bottle of champagne.

The very laws that said I could not be were what made me.

My boyfriend and I were talking about this essay and I said I was considering listing all the times I could have been arrested for the sex I was having. At the same moment, we both joked it would

be easier to list the times I could not have been.

“That would make for a pretty short pamphlet,” I said.

He replied, “It would fit in a tweet.”

Over and over again, throughout that rebellious youth and on into my still-rebellious middle age, I have had to accept that the way to change the law is to violate it, whether it’s written, unwritten, or both.

That some unwritten laws have gotten weaker has, in fact, made those who hate us try to enforce them with even greater ferocity. I believe the ‘phobes know they’ve lost and it makes them angry. The arc of history bends towards justice, yes, and the unjust want to make it as unpleasant as possible by bathroom bills and intimidation and violence. Remember that.

When that guy and I were done, back when I was 17, I asked if he was in college.

“No,” he said, “I work for the police department.”

Heart pounding, I asked if he was a cop. Some of the messages on those bathroom walls were warnings about cops.

“Not yet,” he said, “But I really want to be.”

I drove away feeling terrified but I could not, at 17, have articulated why: that some part of me feared he wanted to be a cop not to change the system but to gain the cover of its protections. Eagerness to become a part of that power structure looked, at first glance, like it must at best be hypocrisy. I couldn’t imagine attaining power. I could only imagine attacking it. These days, the structures of power have more room for us. One of the various hats I wear in life is to be an election judge. I’m the person in my local precinct who handles all the exceptional circumstances on election day: questions, name changes, and the like.

In a recent election, one of my staff sent a voter to me. There was, they said, “something wrong with his registration.”

“My voter registration says I’m female,” the voter said. He was blushing. “She sent me to you instead of letting me vote.”

I don’t know if the voter was a trans man who hadn’t updated his registration after transitioning, or a cis man who checked the “wrong” box on the form, or if someone at the county level simply hit the wrong key when typing him in. It didn’t matter. It has no bearing on whether he can vote.

Even when the state of North Carolina was engaged in its ridiculous pursuit of a racist voter ID law, we were explicitly

instructed to ignore gender identity and expression when comparing the voter in front of us to the identification they presented.

The voter looked worried, and the member of my staff who brought him over looked expectant.

“The state does not care what gender it says on your voter registration form,” I said to him. “And neither do I.” Then I turned to my staff member and said, with every ounce of my authority as the boss for that one day, “And neither do you.”

At 17 I was terrified of a queer who wanted power over others because power had only ever been used against me. I did not yet realize we could take power for ourselves. I thought I could only break the rules so hard everyone would be afraid to try enforcing them.

Breaking the laws – written and unwritten – is not the only way we have to change them. We can create them, too. We can write new laws that recognize us, value us, and say we have a right to our identities.

As old laws are swept aside and new ones written to support us, we can be the ones to enforce them. Maybe they won’t be universally recognized. Maybe we can only enforce them in our own heads.

Whatever our circumstances, we must at least do that.

LIFE (is a game) QUORI JAMES | GREENSBORO, NC

I DON’T DO BOXES / 15 YOU’RE IN A SAFE PLACE HERE

BRETTANY RENEE BLATCHLEY | ASHEVILLE, NC

I had changed, was snuggled under the threadbare hospital blanket on a gurney in a frigid staging room. The nurse had been sweet as she took my hand in greeting, then started a saline IV; I thanked her and she left me. Then the doctor came in, another gentle hand; he asked me questions he already knew the answers to, and at last I added: “You know that I am a transgender woman, with mixed anatomy? I don’t want anyone to be surprised.” He smiled reassuringly and replied, “Yes, I knew from the notes.

There’s no problem; we see all kinds of bodies here;” I thanked him and then he left… …It was time, and the anesthesiologist came, introduced herself and wheeled me into the dim procedure room nearby. Once inside she introduced me to the other members of the team, and they all smiled and greeted me, touching my hand warmly. I thanked them and gently, pensively said, “Just so there are no unpleasant surprises,

I am a transgender woman, and my anatomy is mixed.” The anesthesiologist must have seen the concern on my face, and as-if she was giving me a warm hug, she thanked me and said, “You’re in a safe place here…” …Amidst friendly chatter about the place I most wanted to visit (Australia), I quickly felt myself…enter… oblivion……seemingly moments later we resumed our conversation, this time everyone was talking about their favorite local craft beers. Procedure done, I asked them if I had been a good patient while I had been “under,” and they reassured me that I had done perfectly and that there appeared to be no cancer. Once again, I thanked them.

“You’re in a safe place here,” her words reassured me throughout the rest of the day.

This is how I spent my Transgender Day of Visibility.

Adachigahara PETER HAUGEN | DAVIDSON, NC

Until very recently, I found great comfort in concealing my sources of shame and strife from other people.

Most of the time, the idea of exposing my feelings or my secrets was unthinkable, but sometimes I wanted to let someone know what it felt like to be me—even just to see if they had ever felt the same way. In those situations, though, I would imagine myself hammering a nail through the bottom of my mouth. However, early last year, I was sexually assaulted, and I came to realize how important it was for me to use my voice. In the aftermath, I felt self-doubt, a lack of agency, and occasionally I felt afraid to walk alone at night.

For several months, I closed in on myself and didn’t look at my body because it didn’t seem to belong to me, but making art that purposefully

made myself vulnerable helped me to love myself again.

Allowing myself to recognize my own pain and emotions opened me up to recognizing other people’s pain and emotions. I appreciated that a lot of other people had felt the same pains that I had, and this abrupt entrance of empathy into my emotional vocabulary forced a vocation on me—by letting myself be vulnerable instead of hammering a nail through the roof of my mouth, I might be able to help other people with similar experiences feel less alone.

The small figures that I draw are isolated, their bodies are fragmented, and they have difficulty being vulnerability sometimes, but they find ways to be content with themselves.

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ADACHIGAHARA | PETER HAUGEN | DAVIDSON, NC

ADACHIGAHARA | PETER HAUGEN | DAVIDSON, NC

ORGULLO

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MARIA DEL PILAR LOPEZ-SAAVEDRA | COLOMBIA

While reading Disidentifications: Queers of Color and the Politics of Performance

by José Esteban Muñoz I started thinking more deeply about the labels that I identify with, focusing on the label “Colombian” rather than the more generalized label of “Latinx”.

While researching, I realized that there is no such thing as a “Colombian pride flag”.

The flags I found while searching for “Colombian gay flags” were representing a binary of the two identities, instead of a fusion. The lack of a recognition and representation for Queer Colombians took on a metaphorical interpretation for me. Therefore, this work is a complete merging of the Colombian and Pride flags.

This series is about stating my existence not just as Queer Latina but also

specifically as a Queer Colombian and confronting the ideology that being Queer means that I cannot fully love and belong to my country. Through Muñoz’s writings, I have come to understand that Disidentification is the process of making new inclusive and specific identities possible through the fragmentation of normative identities.

My Latinx-ness and brown-ness exclude me from the typical Queer/lesbian narrative. My Queerness excludes me from the typical heterosexual, patriarchal, Colombian narrative.

Disidentification is a survival tactic of marginalia and an act of resistance that creates, functions, navigates, and invents in the face of assimilation. Through disidentification, QPOC create places on the margins in which we can exist in an empowered way, and therefore, win.

ORGULLO | MARIA DEL PILAR LOPEZ-SAAVEDRA | COLOMBIA

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MORENX MARIA DEL PILAR LOPEZ-SAAVEDRA | COLOMBIA

MORENX is a wall installation of a (self) portrait created with black text on white paper nailed to the wall that describes “my” body. Although MORENX is a self-portrait, the identity created by the text is curated with the intention of encompassing all Latinxs and/or brown/black people, regardless of gender.

The word “pezones,” meaning nipples, is included instead of the word “cenos,” which means breasts. Additionally, there are no genitalia descriptions within the portrait. I wanted to explore Spanish language and explore how LGBTQ+ Latinos reject Spanish because it can only be used to speak a language that reaffirms the gender binary.

Through MORENX, I do not intend to present a solution, but instead, a new perspective through which to view Queer existence in Spanish Culture and Queer representation in the Spanish language. Within the piece,

the visual and gendered back and forth between the masculine and feminine endings of the word “Moreno/a,” a term used to refer to a broad spectrum of brown/black people, and the switch between “un/una,” showcase the everpresent gender binary in Spanish. The fragmentation of body parts, paired with the word MORENO/A after every line emphasizes the non-whiteness of the body.

Through the conjugation of fragmentation and Spanish Language, everything can be considered simultaneously masculine and feminine, or on a spectrum of both.

The intersection of brown/blackness and Spanish Language come together through the virtues of José Esteban Muñoz’s Disidentifications, through which, MORENX aims to Queer-ify Spanish language, and therefore, present a Queer inclusive and black positive portrait of Brown/Black people and/or Latinos.

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MAS MARIA DEL PILAR LOPEZ-SAAVEDRA | COLOMBIA

MAS is an ongoing installation that chronicles POC representation, self love, community, and strength while simultaneously allowing for reflection on current political climate and immigration policies. MAS consists of various dark skin tones nailed to a wall and presented together. The shades within MAS, are found within Rihanna’s new Fenty Beauty line. Fenty Beauty has released 40 shades of foundation alongside its racially inclusive makeup.

The diversity and inclusion brought

by Fenty to the beauty industry has been groundbreaking, but emphasizes the previous (and continuous) anti-blackness and segregation of products, representation and ideologies within it.

MAS brings into conversation the influence and significance of representation. Aside from the pop culture elements within MAS, topics such as politics, immigration, LGBTQ+

rights, and the Latinx experience are indulged in as well. The construction of a wall-like structure, with the inclusion of dark skin tones, nails, labor and Spanish language all lead to conversations on immigration.

Within MAS, dark skin tones take over the white gallery space, in a loud and transformative way, as the artist has to perform the laborious process of nailing each sheet into the wall. There are no translations to the word MAS, and the vague-one worded title and statement allows for the speculation and reflection of an otherwise rigorously structured conceptual piece.

MAS asks for more POC representation, more conversation on POC topics, more community, more solidarity, more Spanish. MAS evokes the audience to be moved by the possibility of what could be—in order to envision a world and future that not only includes POC, but holds us central to its creation.

I DON’T DO BOXES / 25

Girl Shoes For Sale.

Never Worn.

ZIZIA SWAN | MEADVILLE, PA

Johnny can’t go home.

He wants to...

Sometimes, But there’s someone, Something more like, Who wears a mask.

Someone (something), Who takes his seat At the table Every morning.

Someone (something), Who says, “Morning Dad.” Dad says, “Morning daughter.”

Someone (something), Who steals the Remote from his Little brother.

Someone (something), Who says, “Get lost Bro.” Bro says, “Get lost Sis.” Someone (something), Who stops by the Living room Before bed.

Someone (something), Who says, “Goodnight Mom.” Mom says, “Goodnight Jane.”

Johnny can’t go home.

He wants to…

Sometimes, But there’s someone, Something more like, Who wears a mask.

queer homes tunde peters | GREENSBORO, NC

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Wildflowers POEM | RASHIDA JAMES-SAADIYA | DURHAM, NC PHOTO | PHAROAH EGBUNA | DURHAM, NC

I’m not seeing spirits

unwanted beauty they will drown you

they live here under skin embedded in bone a constant reminder

paint over the sadness stitch the cracks fill the hard to reach with short-term mending

there are white jackets lurking beyond your door don’t move they will smell you sense your difference cut you open place diagrams around your pain neglect the wounds your mother left the voices hanging from your ear whole or broken neurosis spreads

stay here covered in darkness quiet the memories that hang from your chest rock the pain away madness is contagious they build cages for things like you but dear heart were born with wings leave the harshness of this sun for the freedom of the rain leap forward, create a new world own the wisdom of your beauty be resilient, be free

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Growing Out of the Closet BRIANNA LEAHY | TRINITY, NC

When I was four, my cousin and I would play house. She was always the wife, and I was the husband. I didn’t want to be the wife, because I thought I’d have to wear a dress, and dresses were icky.

When I was seven, I kissed a girl for the first time and felt something I’d never felt before. My mother caught us, and screamed in my face. I lied and said we were only playing, and I promptly forgot the feeling I had when I kissed her. The fear was too strong.

When I was eleven, I had a best friend who I loved very much. I didn’t know I loved her, but I knew a few things. She was smart, and beautiful, and the most amazing person I had ever met. She had a boyfriend. I hated him.

to hell.” I instantly became aware that a “fag” was a bad thing in her eyes. I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Two of my best friends pulled a prank on us, telling our group that they were gay and dating. I called them several different slurs, and didn’t speak to them for days.

When I was eleven, I told my best friend I loved her for the first time. Like a sister, of course. When I was twelve, my best friend went to Europe for the summer.

In August, I called her house almost every day to ask if she was home yet.

I had a picture of her as my phone background. I brought her a gift and gave it to her after her first time marching during a football game. She When I was eleven, I heard my broke up with her boyfriend. I was stepmother (who I respected more than happy, until she started dating a anyone) say, “Fags like that are going sophomore. He was two years older

than her. I had crushes on guys, but it was nothing compared to the intense feelings I had for my friend. I began writing in my diary about it, censoring certain words so my parents wouldn’t know if they read it. I hated myself for what I felt. I began to self harm. I retreated from my parents and their company. I began to act out in school, going so far as to get myself suspended.

friends. My parents still didn’t know. I fell into a major depression, and I contemplated suicide. There was a major incident involving the police at one point. My eighth grade year is all a painful blur; I was bullied badly, my parents no longer understood me, and those who had once called me a friend were now threatening to kill me if I spoke to them. I was disgusting to them.

I moved schools.

I’m now a senior in high school, and I have come a long way. It took a lot of work, a change of schools, and good friends who accepted me for who I am.

My parents know now that I’m gay, and while it took a while, they’ve accepted it.

More importantly, I’ve accepted myself.

I still struggle with depression, and with those who try to bully them, but I don’t let them hinder me in my mission.

I aim to become the best person I can possibly be. This fall, I will go to college, and begin my adult life as a proud and happy LGBTQ+ individual.

I thought, maybe, it would get easier if I couldn’t see her. Maybe I would start liking boys like I was supposed to. I tried to like boys, tried to flirt- but my heart was never in it. I moved schools again.

When I was 13, I met a boy named Tre. I started to date him a few weeks after we met. I think he knew that I was using him before I ever told him. I eventually came out, and was honest with my

Rainbow Hearts ANDREW MONTEITH | PORTLAND, OR

Hey! I got something I need to say.

Gotta get this off my chest Gotta give my heart a rest Cause I know this planet spinning In this war that I’m not winning This battle that I fight I shouldn’t even be in Yeah, you heard me right I’m just trying to get my freedom But I cry myself to sleep Curse this closet that I hide in My head My heart They’re broken And they’re bleeding But my parents turn a blind eye And tell me they don’t see them I’m hurting And I’m beaten Just for being me Tell me, My parents, Why don’t you wanna see?

Yeah, I’m not Cisgender There’s nothing wrong with that So why is when I say it, They just push to the back And say “Ha! No! That’s not what we

Believe in!”

Can’t they see I’m terrified I’m broken And I’m bleeding?

I’m scared of my dad I’m scared of what he’ll do If he sees I like men, And that I feel like one too Though some days I give in And with that He is fine As long as I don’t love Anyone who ain’t confined By rules long outdated Tell me why I’m hated My genitals And gender And I call myself “pretender” But with everything They say I feel My soul slip away Maybe I was broken And bleeding from the start But maybe in my brokenness I found my rainbow heart Now all I gotta do Is step outside the line And open up my chest And let those colors shine

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[untitled] COCO SPENCER | OAKLAND, CA

COCO SPENCER | OAKLAND, CA

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COCO SPENCER | OAKLAND, CA

You Don’t Like Girls BAM | GREENSBORO, NC

I Don’t Like Girls : a thought, an action, a plan ME: i like girls i like looking at them i like smelling them i like playing games with them i like talking to them i like eating with them i like dreaming with them i like counting on them i like cooking with them i like touching them. i like being one of them YOU: Do you like licking pussy?

ME: No. YOU: You don’t like girls.

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Legacy of Love ALICIA LEWIS | SAN FRANCISCO, CA / ALBANY, NY

Prelude I was trying to capture the conviction of the Stonewall riots, the beauty of my first pride parade, The female anatomy, lying next to a woman. Being in love with a woman.

The beauty of looking at a being whose sole existence is too expansive, too wondrous too ethereal to be categorized as “Male” or “female” Whose sole existence encapsulates softness, vulnerability, and strength.

The personification of ambiguity.

Seductive debonair all rolled up into pure, unadulterated confidence, bred of being at home in one’s own skin.

I deleted all that because it wasn’t coming out right, but...

What I was trying to get at is that our resistance is pretty fucking beautiful. I wrote this short story seven different ways. Crafted several different things to say, and hit the delete key more times than I can count.

[It felt so important that I get it right.]

Essentially, what I was trying to get at was loss. How queer folk stand to lose authenticity in exchange for acceptance, lose piece of mind, lose love, lose life.

What I was trying to convey was “coming out.” How it was mortifying for the first few years. And how fucked up it is that anything other than straight is an unveiling. An announcement.

I was trying to get at the beauty of resiliency. How queer folk are at war, and they are the bodies on the front lines. Leaping hurdles, overcoming. going down fighting. Believing. in living life as a whole being - not contorting, nor severing. Not compromising self, for convention.

Part 1 | For Her I remember sneaking out of my house and getting picked up by Trevor Matthews.

No other sounds for miles around. the town drowsy and dormant as his two door Ford sat stalled in the middle of the street at 1 am.

I was a first year in high school, he was a senior on the football team, and I couldn’t believe that he was paying attention to me.

He was so coveted. One of the most known boys at Scotia Glenville High, and he wanted me. At 14 I thought I’d learned what magic felt like. In this way that could only be described as youthful bliss, I thought his football jersey on my back with my fingers in his hand felt like the beginning of my first love.

In actuality, I remember the moment it happened more vividly, more sharply, than deep red blood cast against a white canvas.

I remember the first time that Gabby

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kissed me. 19 years old in my twin bed, hiding in my room while my parents grilled hamburgers outside.

Stealing the forbidden in frantically hushed increments.

You never forget your first love.

Relieved when I had a reason to express my love for her. White knuckling a lid on a bottle about to burst.

In the year that followed I fell hard in the way that only young lovers can, devoid of the scars that belong to crashing and burning. At 19 I was pure.

They say love happens when you least expect it, and i hate that phrase because I’m not that patient but with her it was true. I came home for fall break, dropped my stuff off and raced over to After 7 months of emotional intimacy I wanted everything when she laid next to Tim’s house, casting everything to the floor as I climbed the ladder to his attic. me. her gallows and her heavens.

I yearned for her naked skin against mine in the most intricate, carnal places Gabby was there because she played volleyball with Summer and i didn’t of my being. I wanted all of her. know it in that moment, but nothing Love notes disguised as birthday cards. would ever be the same.

19 years old in my twin bed, hiding in my room while my parents grilled hamburgers outside. Lying in between her legs, my arms around her, hovering over her smiling.

And in the best moment of my life, that I never expected, she tilted her head up half an inch, the distance between us so small that I didn’t believe it really happened. And she kissed me.

I made her mixtapes and didn’t fall asleep without hearing her voice first.

When she was sad I emptied my $6 savings account and spent it on gas money to take her on adventures.

It was us against the world, and i would never let her fall.

I loved her freely, without inhibitions or fear, and for 9 months I couldn’t believe that was my life. That I could really be That was seven years ago and I know the that happy. I had lived 19 pretty perfect intricacies of that moment better than I years, and then I met her and realized I know the contours of my own palm. hadn’t been living at all.

The way that every fiber of my being stood at attention and our bodies took on the work of a magnetic field.

Colors brighter, time stopped and raced forward seemingly simultaneously nothing in the room, but her. Soft, delicious and mine. Orbiting around each other like centripetal force.

Her mother was a Christian - of fire and brimstone, you know the type. And as all things go, the most precious things in life are finite. [pause] Her mother caught us, and demanded her daughter straight.

When she left my heart shattered into a million pieces, driftwood, cast along canals looking for myself.

I want to respect her life now, I want to respect that she’s married with a kid on the way.

It’s a strange thing - to feel loss so profoundly. So relentlessly.

In the way that tiny fragments, set in a cast: never heal the same.

So many pieces could never be put back together to recreate what once was.

Chips lost to the crevices of the wood floor of my bedroom. As I cried and begged for the day I would feel numb.

Because to feel nothing would’ve been better than the intricate way I knew the vacant and infinite abyss - like an old pal from the school yard.

Yet, it feels so surreal sometimes. Like, who knows what would’ve come of us if we’d had the chance to see it through.

I genuinely wonder, if my heart is even capable of breaking that way again.

I’m pretty proud of where life has taken me, and I hope she can say the same for herself. But who’s to know what life would’ve offered us if we took it on together. It’s easy to get lost in the what if’s, sometimes.

I’ve made selfish choices in the lifetime I’ve lived since her.

For me, and only me. And there’s something so freeing in that.

To have the luxury of centering all decisions, in my aspirations.

I’ve contemplated how to satisfy my own cravings, how to fulfill In the years after, with the help of family my own wanderlust heart. and friends I found my way out of the darkness. I fell in love: with straight girls I have traveled and moved, and who couldn’t love me back, with queer experienced things I’d only previously girls, with toxic girls, with life changing dreamed of, unbound to anyone [but women, and everything in between. I fell myself] I have put my own career first, in love with myself. And, I fell in love with and I have shattered glass ceilings. my life again.

I’ve spent 7 years looking inward, Colbie Caillat once said, ”We learn to mastering myself. Familiarizing myself live with what we miss.” with every intricacy.

And that was just it. There’s not a day Learning how to look the darkness in the that goes by that I don’t think of Gabby. eye, and choose the light.

Wondering what her life is like now, Accepting every piece of myself. wondering if she’s happy, and trying to leave the past in the past.

I’ve been at the liberty of my every whim. Who knows if I could’ve done But, ultimately, we learn to live with that with her, while feeling [however what we miss. How to accept a new lovingly] accountable to her. Maybe it’s reality, how to move on. How to put one like Drake said, “Maybe I had to let go of foot in front of the other. us, to show myself what I could do.”

Part 2 | Survival (The Aftermath)

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Or maybe that’s just me finding ways to cope. We’ll never know, really. It’s a weird thing to let go of someone knowing that they are very much alive, but untouchable to you.

I know life doesn’t imitate cinema, but nonetheless I’m a hopeless romantic, and I have this desired ending to our story, which, regardless of time shows itself to be relentless.

I imagine that one day after living full lives, (when our youthful beauty has since faded, and time is evident in our faces, and in the way that we walk) we find each other, and we make peace with all the hurt, the lied in the wake of our love and our self-destruction. I imagine that one day, we’ll both get closure.

Part 3 | The Stonewall Legacy Queer folk fight battles of the heart that no hetero person will ever venture to know. We break our hearts in half and share pieces of it with those we love to hold onto when their’s breaks, for there is nothing another person can say to heal someone whose family walks away. And yet still, we try.

We demand our equality, watch it debated in the supreme court, across dinner tables and church pews via those who feel they are of the moral caliber to condemn us to hell.

We are at war, and we are the bodies on the front lines. Overcoming, and sometimes going down fighting.

We are at war, and we are the bodies on the front lines. Surviving. Flourishing.

Leaping hurdles. Believing; in living life as a whole being - not contorting, nor serving. Not compromising self, for convention.

And if one day fate should come knocking, and it’s time to make the hard choice, I will offer up my body to the front lines.

For no matter what they do to my body. They cannot break my soul. They cannot cage something that was never theirs. They cannot contort what was meant to be free.

I loved her freely without inhibitions or fear. I lived for our love, I died a little bit for it too. And I would do it again, one hundred times over. Because in the end: Loving a woman - loving her [is a sacred thing].

reveal BAO NYGUEN | SKOKIE, IL

Will I Be Touched

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BRETTANY RENEE BLATCHLEY | ASHEVILLE, NC

It rained today, Can I be Touched?

Will I let you Dare?

Am I Desired, Even There?

Oh touch, oh Touch Thou art Aware!

Oh care, oh Care, For I am Fair?

See Within and Look Without!

Is there Beauty From my soul About?

Grace to Be and Grace to Move!

Together United, Is this now True?

Courage to Live, Now free to Be, Who now will See That I am Me? Will I be Touched?

Even There?

Desired?

Embraced?

Thou now Aware?

Teenage Romance ZANE DREES | GREENSBORO, NC

Teenage Romance shows a repeated cycle of failed romantic relationships and the way I felt I was letting my old love interests have power over me.

After showing this to others I realized it’s a common feeling among my peers, and that generally we feel like there is one person who has control over where the relationship goes and the other is simply seeking affection and getting hurt by constant rejection.

Each cell zooms in on the little moments in the relationship in order

to hide the gender of the two characters.

I made it this way so that it would feel applicable to everyone, not just relationships between two men, but also because I didn’t want others who would read the comic to be able to comment on the fact that it was about two boys.

That is not the important part of the story, it just happens to be what anything dealing with my love life is going to be about.

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ZANE DREES | Greensboro, NC

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An OutLaw’s Dream World...

This journaling activity is for you to identify what you hold dear and create a your vision of a world you can be your free-est self in. Know that this can and will likely change overtime.

For each question please respond with phrases or words that best describe your future world. Bonus challenge: draw this world after you’ve written it out!

What do you hear?

What can you see?

Dream Future World HERE:

What do you smell around you?

What does it taste like?

What emotions do you feel?

Definitions

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There is a difference between sexuality and gender, below is a short list of terms that explain some of the identities of those in the LGBTQ+ community. This list is by no means comprehensive.

For updated live resources: idontdoboxes.org

Sexuality terms:

Gender terms:

Queer: blanket term for LGBTQIA+ community

Pronouns: nouns used to refer to someone (examples: he/him, she/her, they/them)

Gay/Lesbian: someone attracted to mostly others of the same gender Bisexual: someone attracted to both binary genders (i.e. men/women) Heterosexual: someone attracted to the opposite gender

Cisgender: identifies with the gender they were assigned with at birth Transgender: does not identify with the gender assigned to them at birth

Pansexual: someone who feels attraction to people regardless of identity

Non-binary: any gender identity that does not fit within the man-woman binary

Asexual: someone who does not feel sexual attraction

Bigender: identifies with both man and woman identities

Aromantic: someone who does not feel romantic attraction

Gender fluid: gender identity varies over time

Polyamorous: someone who is in love or romantically involved with more than one person at the same time with the knowing consent of everyone involved.

Agender: does not identify with gender at all

Out: someone who has told people they are queer/trans or has been outed Closeted: someone that has not told people they are queer/trans

Genderqueer: umbrella term for all trans and non-binary identified individuals

Resources Organizations for Youth Youth OUTRight (Asheville) youthoutright.org Time Out Youth (Charlotte) timeoutyouth.org YouthSAFE (GSO) gsafe.org/YouthSafe InsideOUT 180 (Durham/Chapel Hill) insideout180.org Queer Camps ASPYRE Leadership Camp (GSO) lgbtcenterofraleigh.com/programs/youth-programs QORDS Camp (Browns Summit) qords.org GSA Activist Camp (Charlotte) timeoutyouth.org/youth/gsa-activist-camp Queer Conferences Trans Student List transstudent.org/conferences LGBT in the South (Asheville) lgbtinthesouth.com Queer Centers idontdoboxes.org/local-regional-resources LGBT Center of Raleigh LGBT Center of Durham North Star LGBT Community Center (Winston Salem) UNCG Pride (GSO) Elon University Spectrum (Burlington)

Guilford County Health Dpt: guilfordhealth.org Sex/Health LGBT Drug Rehab drugrehab.com/guides/lgbtq Scarleteen scarleteen.com Sex Etc. sexetc.org Positive Wellness Alliance positivewellnessalliance.org Planned Parenthood plannedparenthood.org Organizations Campaign for Southern Equality (AVL) southernequality.org Southerners on New Ground southernersonnewground.org GSAFE (GSO) gsafe.org Guilford Green Foundation (GSO) ggfnc.org PFLAG (GSO) pflaggreensboro.org Queer Explorers’ Club (GSO) queerexplorersclub.org Safe Schools NC safeschoolsnc.com SPARK (Atlanta) sparkrj.org

Guilford College’s Bayard Rustin Center

Southern Street Solidarity facebook.com/SouthernStreetSolidarity

Free Greensboro STI Tests

NCCJ of the Triad nccjtriad.org

Triad Health Project: triadhealthproject.com/prevention

Elsewhere (GSO) goelsewhere.org

Safe Space Hotlines National AIDS Hotline 800-232-4636 24 hours a day, 7 days a week cdc.gov/hiv/links Alcohol + Drugs Crisis Call Center 800-273-8255 or text 839863: ANSWER 24 hours a day, 7 days a week crisiscallcenter.org/crisisservices Thursday’s Child National Youth Advocacy Hotline 800-872-5437 24 hours a day, 7 days a week thursdayschild.org Bullying + Cyberbullying CyberTipline 800-843-5678 24 hours a day, 7 days a week cybertipline.com Suicide Prevention Services Depression Hotline 630-482-9696 24 hours a day, 7 days a week spsamerica.org

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Homelessness + Runaways National Runaway Switchboard 800-786-2929 24 hours a day, 7 days a week 1800runaway.org Safe Horizon’s Rape, Sexual Assault, + Incest Hotline Domestic Violence: 800-621-4673 Crime Victims: 866-689-4357 Rape, Sexual Assault + Incest: 212-227-3000 All hotlines: 866-604-5350 24 hours a day, 7 days a week safehorizon.org

School Violence SPEAK UP 866-773-2587 24 hours a day, 7 days a week bradycampaign.org/our-impact/campaigns/ speak-up Sexuality & Sexual Health Association 919-361-8488 8 am - 8 pm EST, Mon. to Fri. ashastd.org

National Eating Disorders Association 800-931-2237 9 am - 5 pm EST, Mon. to Fri. nationaleatingdisorders.org

GLBT National Youth Talkline 800-246-7743 4pm-12am EST, Mon. to Fri. 12pm-5pm EST, Sat. glnh.org/talkline

Grief + Loss Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors 800-959-8277 24 hours a day, 7 days a week taps.org

Trans Lifeline 877-565-8860 Staffed trans-identifying volunteers.

24 hours a day, 7 days a week. translifeline.org

Safe Space Hotlines Stress & Anxiety National Institute of Mental Health Information Center 866-615-6464 8 am - 8pm EST, Mon. to Fri. nimh.nih.gov/index.sht National Suicide Hotline 800-784-2433 800-442-4673 24 hours a day, 7 days a week hopeline.com Teen Parenting Baby Safe Haven Confidential toll free: 888-510-2229 Protection Laws enables org to take infant anonymously if baby’s healthy.

State finder: safehaven.tv/states American Pregnancy Helpline 866-942-6466 24 hours a day, 7 days a week thehelpline.org Planned Parenthood 800-230-7526 to route local resources 24 hours a day, 7 days a week plannedparenthood.org