kynita stringer-stanback: Blaq (Black & Queer) in the Library, Part I
by: kynita stringer-stanback
kynita stringer-stanback (pronouns: Blaq*) is an information activist.
*kynita’s pronouns embody Blackness & Queerness simultaneously.
The black unicorn is restless
the black unicorn is unrelenting
the black unicorn is not
free
Lorde, Audre. (1995). The black unicorn: Poems. W.W. Norton & Company, Inc.
This piece is also inspired by a tweet by Robin Thede--the writer, creator, producer and actor in the HBO series A Black Lady Sketch Show: "I would like to offer something that some of you don’t understand that could help in the effort of eradicating racist behavior: Workplaces that are all white except for one Black person are VIOLENT spaces for us."
Photo by Morning Brew on Unsplash
I am afraid to go to work.
Why are we expected to feel safe and comfortable in environments where our presence can be looked upon as aberrant?
How are we expected to thrive in environments where our experiences are questioned--where violent and microaggressive workplace cultures are explained away?
Our experiences are often perceived as negligible--anything short of explicitly racist behavior with multiple witnesses--proves we are part of a safe work environment free from discrimination and harassment...or does it?
Equity and inclusion are often choked, unable to breathe, under the auspices of neo-liberalism and half-hearted attempts at fostering diversity.
The BIPOC (Black, Indigenous and People of Color) who do articulate our experiences of racial profiling, harassment, hostility and violence are often silenced. We are pushed out, ostracized, and maligned. We are often maliciously evaluated, rarely promoted or seen as leaders within our organizations, and are attacked via efforts at retaliation. Mostly we are perceived as threats that need to be neutralized.
“Equity and inclusion are often choked, unable to breathe, under the auspices of neo-liberalism and half-hearted attempts at fostering diversity. ”
Photo by Carlos de Toro @carlosdetoro on Unsplash
I identify as Black, queer, gender non-conforming southern and female. Until June 15, 2020 it was legal to discriminate against LGBTQ folks in 28 states.
How will the culture of all the organizations, or state, local and federal entities change in order to make room for LGBTQ people that up until this summer have had no legal recourse?
What does this law mean for LGBTQ BIPOC, who work in such a culturally homogeneous profession such as librarianship?
What does it mean for those of us who are on the margins of socially accepted gender expression?
“What does this law mean for LGBTQ BIPOC, who work in such a culturally homogenous profession such as librarianship? ”
I can only tell you my experience. I can tell you that I am from the state of North Carolina and that I have NEVER been hired in my state of birth as a professional librarian. I haven’t even been able to qualify for a part-time library assistant role since I completed my MSLS in 2009. I graduated from UNC-Chapel Hill; twice. I speak Spanish. The federal government says I’m indebted six figures for my education. Here’s the kicker: my ancestors were enslaved by the agents of UNC-Chapel Hill--the first public university of our nation.
Often, the offices where we go to seek help with our difficult and often hostile working environments (that are usually identified as safe spaces) are not there to protect us, but to help our institutions and employers mitigate litigation. Title IX officers, Equal Employment Offices (EEOs), ombuds, offices of diversity, equity and inclusion are often paid by the very same people that employ us.
How do we challenge, present difficult working conditions and receive relief without experiencing retribution, retaliation, and sometimes loss of employment?
Photo by Zach Vessels on Unsplash
Where do we go for recourse, protection, understanding, validation, and empathy?
As we think about our working conditions during this global pandemic--who are the people being asked to sacrifice and risk the most? Is it the people with the most to lose or the people who have the least to begin with?
I have worked in and around libraries for the past 20 years, and I am often the only person who looks like me in the room. My mom integrated her high school in rural North Carolina in the 1960’s. This is important. When we lived in rural North Carolina (we did until I was 10) most of my classes had children from multiple ethnicities, cultures, races and backgrounds. When we moved to Raleigh, NC-- the state capitol--my classes were more segregated than they had ever been. It was a very isolating experience. I was told to not discuss our business in the home with the authority figures in my school-- what happened in our home was private and if they had any questions, they were to call my mother immediately.
“Where do we go for recourse, protection, understanding, validation, and empathy? ”
My mother came to school to make sure that I was not being punished for speaking truth to power--telling the accurate history of our people who were often left out of the dominant narratives of the telling of our nation’s history. Public schools in North Carolina are not known for their critical pedagogical approach with respect to the examination of our collective complex history. All too often, the voices of students who bring those cleavages into sharp relief are maliciously reprimanded, punished or banished from the classroom. My mom showed up each and every time the teachers and administrators sought to silence my voice. Eventually, they stopped sending me to the office, but my mother never ceased to pop up at my school to see what was happening and getting involved if necessary.
As I have pursued a career in librarianship, I have found that my professional experience mirrors the most isolating educational experiences of my life. My mom can’t pop into my job to make sure I am not being silenced, reprimanded, or facing retaliation. I have had to learn to move and advocate for myself within the professional sphere. I have learned that being able to articulate our experiences of hostile and discriminatory work environments often land us in positions where we have to stand alone. Often, we are the only people of color in our departments--sometimes the only BIPOC LGBTQ person in our entire organization. Finding allies who stand with us, are often few and far between. I have worked and volunteered in libraries for the past 20 years. Up until this summer, I have thought that having a broader platform would be detrimental to my professional growth and development. What I have learned is that by being quiet, by not challenging the status quo, and by avoiding broadening my platform, these things have been the most detrimental to me. I thought that I was alone, that no one near me could identify with my struggle, and would not be able to empathize with my experience. When you’re the only person of color in your department or institution, having tough conversations and working through the microaggressions and violence at work are not conversations people want to have. If we push the envelope to have those conversations, we are left with the emotional, psycho-social, cultural, geo-political and historical baggage that having these conversations create. Usually, we have that baggage alone and receive no remuneration for our work.
Black, LGBTQ, gender non-conforming/non-binary folks have been part of our libraries since they’ve existed. Have we been able to organize? Where do we gather? How do we articulate our experiences and help one another move through our careers--being able to bring our entire selves to work everyday? It’s hard enough being Black. It’s hard enough being LGBTQ. Add non-binary articulation of gender to the workplace and, well, the Black unicorns understand. We are not free. We are restless. We are unrelenting. We must tell our stories. Eventually, they will have to listen.
© kynita stringer-stanback