The Future Sounds Like Raquel Willis

I know what the future I want to live in sounds like because, the other day, I had a conversation with writer and activist Raquel Willis. We talked for almost an hour over Zoom. Raquel’s bright smile reached me from her Brooklyn apartment while an elegant monstera plant leaned over her shoulder as if to eavesdrop. I sat at my desk here in Columbus, Ohio with my chihuahua in my lap. As it happens, just as our conversation got started, I looked out my window and saw hundreds of people waving rainbow flags and #BlackTransLivesMatter signs matching past my apartment — as if Raquel’s future had found me where I lived. The moment struck me as a call and response to the 15,000-person strong Brooklyn Liberation Rally that took place on June 14, an event which took place two days after we learned about the murders of of Dominique “Rem’Mie” Fells in Philadelphia, PA and Riah Milton in Liberty Township, Ohio. Raquel, who gave a speech at that rally, declared, “Let today be the last day that you ever doubt Black trans power.”

Saeed Jones: I just looked up, there is a queer protest marching down past my apartment right now.
Raquel Willis: Really?

Yeah. It's really beautiful, hundreds of people, all the rainbow flags and signs. Well, to that end, I wanted to talk to you about the incredible protests and turnout that we saw recently in Brooklyn. 15,000 people showed up for Black trans women. I got emotional seeing the video footage, seeing just the sea of people, and the speeches, the videos. And of course you were so much a part of that. First of all, thank you, honestly. It felt like hope. So I wanted to ask you, what did it feel like for you to be there?
Yeah, I don't think I anticipated such a large turnout. I think when the initial planning for it happened, there weren't really as many expectations, I think, from the lead organizers, West Dakota, Fran Tirado, Eliel Cruz, and Phil Stewart, all these other folks. I don't think that there was this initial idea that there will be this huge crowd. But the information and announcement about the protest came out maybe Wednesday or Thursday of that week. And then on Friday, a lot of us learn, obviously, of the two deaths of Black trans women. [Dominique “Rem’Mie” Fells in Philadelphia, PA, say her name and Riah Milton in Liberty Township, Ohio, say her name.] And so I feel like that really pushed the momentum behind some needs for gathering specifically around Black trans lives. And then I think it just, obviously, I think we were starting to have more of a conversation on the ways that, in general, the public almost only focuses on cishet men.

So, when you showed up at the Brooklyn Museum and saw all of those people, a sea of folks, really, in white, how did it feel?
Energizing, cathartic. It felt like the start of something new. I've been talking about the issues plaguing Black trans women and Black trans people for years. Lots of my friends and peers in the movement have as well. And the funny thing is that I don't think many of us are really even saying anything new. It's just what has shifted is people's ability to receive the information. And I think a lot of that is just because we're witnessing a lot of these institutions are crumbling. Or we’re seeing the cracks and fissures in them.

I’ve gotta say though, I keep thinking about how, even with all of this intense scrutiny and attention, cops are still brutalizing people. We’re calling for a change and, in real time, we’re seeing a violent response from cops that essentially confirms the need for change. Similarly, even as we put scrutiny on our country’s anti-trans culture, we are grieving trans brothers and sisters in real time.
There’s like a web of policing, right? And the policing isn’t just the state. It's not just these acts that we consider to be police brutality. I mean, there's a way that we all police each other. And so I see a direct connection between how Blackness is policed and criminalized in this country to how gender and gender nonconformity and sexual orientation have also been criminalized and policed in this country. And the thing is, we're at a point now where I think in general, we understand the ways in which white supremacy kind of infiltrates every aspect of our lives. It is obviously under the spotlight and more people understand it, right?

Hopefully.
But when it comes to gender nonconformity and queerness, I don't think that most people are at that point yet. I think they're getting there, but I think we don't even interrogate the ways that the kind of policing of gender and sexual orientation still exist in our families, right? We literally police children, we police fetuses before they're even out in the world, around their gender, around how they're going to express themselves, what they're going to be called—all of these different things. And we can't have a full kind of reckoning with how white supremacy plagues our lives without also talking about these other systems that are also plaguing us. And it's not just queer folks, it's not just trans folks, it's not just gender nonconforming folks who are harmed by this kind of punitive, this policing of this part of our identities. Gender is failing straight people, too.

How do you feel about the idea of hope? I'm very hesitant. I get very nervous when I'm like, "Is it working? Is this the moment of real change?" It feels like there have been so many trap doors. But do you feel that this is going to look different in the long-term for us?
I hope so. I guess I do hope. We have all of these kinds of ideas of purity around what a revolution is going to look like. Like that it's in a specific time or that a specific group is going to lead it. And I don't really believe that a revolution is timestamped. We have to figure out ways to sustain the energy, this kind of revolutionary energy so we can have enough time to get to all of the things that we need to shift and transform for all folks.

That’s a helpful framework. No one asks a feminist, “Hey, so when is your feminism going to be over,” you know what I mean? Like, “When’s your feminism deadline?” No, this is about a worldview. We are changing the way we live.
And so, we’ve just got to hold on. Like people have been saying, it is a marathon, it’s not a sprint. And there are so many fights that we might not even know of. As a Black trans person, I think about the ways that I wasn't even in the imagination of most of my ancestors, that I'm supposedly their wildest dream. I am not convincing myself that I was even in their imagination, and that's fine, right? It's a beautiful thing to be beyond somebody's imagination, right?

Hello! C’mon, somebody!
And that’s okay. I know that the work that I'm trying to do, the work that my peers are trying to do, has to be expansive enough, that it can hold the folks that we don't know the names of, the folks we don't know how to identify, the folks who aren't using terms that have been invented yet.

That's beautiful. That's beautiful and needed. I’m curious, too, about navigating conversations online which can be intense. I don’t believe in the existence of an actual “cancel culture” but I think it’s fair to say, we rightfully live in a rigorous time in which we’re held to account or critiqued sometimes for things we might have said just last week. How do you approach criticism?
I don't think it's easy. So look, I'm very understanding of the fact that we're in a time where identity politics can cloud a lot of things. So if you have the right set of identities, you're probably less likely to be critiqued. I know that as a Black trans woman, with everything that's plaguing us now, I'm less likely to be critiqued, right? But I can't lean on that as a shield for my own growth. For me, it's like, when I read a critique, I try to parse out what my insecurities are as an individual. I think a lot of it is as simple as analyzing your own insecurity, your own trauma, and figuring out if it's valid or not. And actually giving yourself a moment to figure out, is this valid? Where could they be coming from on this? And that helps me.

I think it's also about having folks in your circle who will call you on your BS. That is so real. So I have a very powerful circle of Black trans women that I lean on, that I get advice from. They have called me and been like, "Girl, it's hard, when someone like you has such a platform and all of these different things, it does feel like, because of how tokenism works in our society, the spotlight that goes onto you, and the visibility that goes on to you, we don't often get that far.” Ever since I've had those real conversations, I think, really, it was probably two or three years ago, I've been trying to be more intentional about sharing the mic, before it was an Instagram campaign. I want to make sure that my work is in the service of elevating other Black trans folks in our community. So, for me, it’s about being hyper aware. Am I doing this because I really think it can be in the service of the work? Or am I doing this because I want to be seen, or be heard? And luckily, I feel like I have the kind of conscience that wouldn't make the latter less likely.

I wanted to talk to you about media as well. I mean, we are doing this conversation for GQ, which is a part of Condé Nast and… you know. [laughs] There have been times, and frankly, this is one of them, where I feel like for whatever progress has been made in terms of representation, in terms of newsrooms and mastheads, it’s often set back by layoffs or just the systemic bias that always keeps these new newsrooms looking the way they look. How has your perception of media changed, let's say, in the last four years?
In the last four years?

So, since last Wednesday? [laughs]
Okay, exactly, time: who is she? [chuckles] My outlook on media has definitely shifted. I think the reckoning that needs to happen in media is around this idea that only certain people can tell stories, or only certain people are skilled enough to, or have the education to, the experience to. I think a lot of times that's BS. I think, as an organizer as well, it's like, part of our job in media should be getting this tool in the most hands possible. And really democratizing it in that way, so that the person from Augusta, Georgia, where I'm from, doesn't necessarily have to move all the way to New York to be heard. We've got to break down this hierarchy in media around who can make certain decisions, who can be at the top of a masthead, who can produce what. Because if we keep going at the same rate that we're going, it's always going to be the person probably with the most amount of privilege.

Also, I think about the ways that we as Black people only have so many outlets. We don't really have a progressive Black outlet. I think about the harm that happens when we allow people who are black to profess to be on the cutting edge, when they really aren't. Sorry, The Breakfast Club is really not on the fucking cutting edge. They actually inflict a lot of harm on communities from their ignorance, right? I think about the fact that a lot of the mainstream Black publications don't necessarily have a major black LGBTQ+ presence.

The idea of “objectivity” in reporting is overdue for a reckoning too. A few years ago, I got in a really heated argument with a veteran Black journalist who primarily writes about race and racism for a prestigious magazine. A Black trans woman had been murdered and we were talking about how the case was being reported. He said that it was “activist journalism” to not use trans people’s dead names in reporting. It felt like he was saying “oh, you’re not objective enough.” His idea of “serious journalism” seemed to require disrespecting her identity and dignity.
Let's be clear, and I say this as someone who went to a journalism school, and studied journalism: As Audre Lorde was telling us, we can’t use the master’s tools to dismantle the master’s house. Anybody in journalism today that does not have a critical lens around what they consider to be journalistic tools, are not interrogating white supremacy, not interrogating classism, elitism, privilege. That is where we literally got these tools like “objectivity” from. How is that stripping of your humanity, just to serve a role in the service of that vision, any different than what police officers are doing? Any different than what an ICE agent is doing? Any different, really, [from] a lot of these things that we just feel are there ubiquitous in our society, that we just assess to be the norm?

This interview has been edited and condensed for clarity.

For GQ's Give It Up series, Pokémon Detective Pikachu star Justice Smith talks about going public with his boyfriend and why the liberation of the Black trans community matters.

Originally Appeared on GQ