Inclusive Spaces Aren't Enough. The Case for Exclusive, Specialized Spaces for Support, Protection and Resistance.

Inclusion is important. It inspires meaningful communication and reciprocal action between people of all races, backgrounds, classes, and sexual orientations. It allows for a certain amount of mutual understanding—and when i say "certain amount", I mean that knowledge itself does not have the power to place us in someone else's shoes. For instance, many white people, after seeing the video of George Floyd being brutally murdered by a police officer, felt that they now knew how it was to be a black person. While the video raised awareness, there was also a huge wave of value-signaling as a result. Because for many white people, understanding that a black person could be killed because of their race by a cop in our current age somehow made them special. Now they were "social justice warriors" because of a two minute video clip, as if the only racial issue in America was police violence towards black people—thus, the rest of our experience disappears, we are reduced to a meme. Defunding the police will not help when we get accused of stealing at grocery stores for no reason. Or when we get blamed for things our white coworkers are actually doing (in the open) at work. Or when we are the targets of hate crimes by non-cops. We all need empathy, and we all need to have the capacity to feel empathy—however, no one but the person(s) involved in any hate crime, sexual assault, or other act of violence or long history of oppression understands their own experience fully. It is why rape and sexual abuse support groups exist. It is why LGBTQ bars and community centers thrived for so long.

Assimilation and Inclusivity

Cultural Assimilation: the process in which a minority group or culture comes to resemble a society's majority group or fully adopts the values, behaviors, and beliefs of another group.

—Wikipedia

Immigrants who work tirelessly to "fade out" their own accent and only speak English in public. Straightening one's hair or wearing a weave or wig to be accepted by the main culture—for safety, for jobs, for survival. These are forms of internalized oppression that members of the non-dominant culture have adopted, because it was what the dominant culture required of them. As a black and Italian-American woman with natural hair, I have been told during a photoshoot for work to pat my hair down flat to "make it look professional". Meaning, white. This is an example of the desires of assimilationists.

Unfortunately, assimilation can work hand-in-hand with inclusion initiatives by reducing the spaces that are just ours and adding inclusive spaces, where we may find a room of allies and only one or two people like us. However, I must state that inclusive spaces are needed, and that allies are appreciated. But we (queers, Latinos, black people, indigenous people, and other marginalized groups) need our own spaces to feel completely safe. Even the term "queer" has been co-opted by some straight, cisgender people, and this can cause cause confusion and crises of identity for LGBTQ people looking for a community of the same. In our current atmosphere, where democracy is quickly melting into autocracy and oligarchy, things are getting more dangerous for everyone, but especially these marginalized groups. We need a place to go that is just ours, for safety, solidarity, and community. LGBTQ bars have declined by more than 50% since 2001, and those weren't just places to drink and get laid—they were hubs, community centers, and havens for understanding and support. Stonewall wasn't a bunch of drunk drag queens on a rampage, it was an act of revolution from a strong community. The place where assimilation and inclusivity intersect is a lonely place for the people who need a real sense of community and belonging.

Specialized Community Groups vs. Segregation: Black-Only Spaces

Whenever I've voiced my option about this subject, many immediately compare it to segregation, which couldn't be more incorrect. Most spaces in American (and much of western) society are white spaces. Denying people of color and black people the right to our own spaces is supporting the age-old systems of oppression and discrimination that many white people claim to oppose. If black people (or any other marginalized community) gathering in a space that excludes you makes you angry or uncomfortable, then that is your own problem that you must confront and explore. Segregation was a tool of oppression for white people to separate the races because of the perceived inferiority of the black race. We had separate spaces, and ours were always worse—our water fountains dirtier, our seats always in the back, our restaurant entrances either barred completely or set up for degradation and humiliation—an entrance fit for stray, diseased dogs. When black people had their own spaces that they created, in which they chose to organize and support their own communities (as in the Black Panther Party), we were considered dangerous. Reverse racists. Terrorists. Opposing the creation of black-only spaces for healing and comfortable sharing, support, and organization is you showing your support for the institutional white supremacy that has plagued us for 400 years. Claiming a space of our own isn't regression or reverse racism—it is what is needed for us, in this world that is still beating us down.

Differences in the Generational Experiences of Inclusive Groups: LGBTQ-Only Spaces

I am in my 40s, and by most accounts considered to be in the youngest part of Generation X. I came out as a lesbian when I was only 15, and at that time (in the 90s), doing so was a pretty dangerous thing to do, especially in a small, conservative town. The act of coming out, however, meant that I quickly discovered new LGBTQ friends, and it immediately felt less scary and more of an affirmation of self— it felt fucking empowering. My friends and I looked out for each other, shared tips on places where we'd seen other people that possibly might be LGBTQ (really, back then "gay" was sort of the all-encompassing term, even for places that were more trans or bi-focused—simplified, it meant "our people can be found here"). When I was 19, I had the idea to find even more community. My friends and I often hung out at a coffee house downtown, and I printed up hundreds of rainbow-adorned flyers announcing "Thursday Gay Night" at that cafe, and put the flyers up everywhere. Hundreds of gays showed up, no opposition showed, and every Thursday from then on was gay night. The coffeehouse didn't mind all of the new business, but to this day, they probably have no idea who was behind it.

Once I moved out of that town and to a large city, however, I discovered LGBTQ restaurants (hello, Hamburger Mary's!), Lesbian bookstores, clubs and bars and endless community centers. If you are LGBTQ, you know that these places are much harder to come by now. To Gen Z (born from 1997-2012) and young Millennials, hearing about these places must be like hearing about dinosaurs. Yes, there are gay bars here and there in big cities, but nothing like 15-25 years ago. Inclusive spaces have all but taken over, and so for many LGBTQ youths, once a month "gay nights" or "trans nights" and inclusive community centers or groups are all that there is. Having never (or only rarely) experienced spaces that are just yours, you are probably grateful for these spaces (and you should be, when there is no other option). But you may find yourself asking, "Is that all there is?". The answer is that it doesn't have to be. Yes, it is human nature to want to fit in, but what if you could (truly) fit in without masking or feeling the need to explain, in a space with only other LGBTQ folks?

When we as marginalized people claim a space of our own, magical things happen. We are able to let our guard down, that invisible sign we hold up that meekly claims "Don't worry, I'm just like you.". We can rejoice and heal, organize and plan, and grow and support each other in spaces that are just ours, and that is a beautiful thing—and an important tool to fight oppression.

"Imagine that discrimination is like plaque that covered your being at birth—in its stickiness are challenges to your worth, intelligence, and humanity. Over time, as you try to make your way through the school system, find a job, and look for a partner, it gets thicker and stickier. An important way to begin chipping away at this buildup is to be in a space where we can, temporarily, leave that sticky inheritance at the door."

—Kelsey Blackwell