A Love Letter to Jess Hilarious And To Every Black Woman Wrestling With This Conversation - Page 3
Let’s talk about safety. Not the performance of it—the actual experience of it.
Every Black woman I know—Trans or Cis—is just trying to feel safe.
We are begging for spaces where we don’t have to armor up just to walk in the room. Where we can be soft without being seen as weak. Where we can be strong without being punished for it. Where our womanhood isn’t constantly questioned.
And when I hear my Cis sisters talk about Trans women “invading” spaces, I hear the fear underneath. I hear the grief. I hear the worry that, after generations of fighting for even a scrap of respect, now even that is being threatened.
But I want to offer this: We are not the threat. We are the echo.
The echo of a fight we’ve all been in, just on different frequencies.
The problem isn’t that Trans women are being seen; it’s that Cis women still aren’t being seen enough.
What happened on The Breakfast Club wasn’t just harmful—it was a missed moment for all of us
Jess, when you shifted the conversation to Trans folks in a space that was meant to uplift another Black woman, Lynae Vanee, you didn’t just hurt us. You hurt her.
She was sitting right in front of you, ready to share her art, her growth, her story. And in that moment, your fear drowned her out.
This isn’t just about Transphobia. It’s about what happens when we center our own discomfort over someone else’s purpose.
I don’t believe you did it on purpose, but intention doesn’t erase impact.
If you had a Black Trans woman beside you, I promise—she would’ve had your back
You talked about being afraid to celebrate your pregnancy. About wondering if the opportunity you were stepping into would still belong to you now that you’re building a family.
Sis, a Black Trans woman would’ve seen that fear immediately. She would’ve reminded you: you deserve to be joyful. She would’ve told you, “You don’t have to choose between career and motherhood,” because we know what it means to fight for everything we have.
If you’ve never had a Black Trans woman as an advocate in your life, you’re missing out.
We don’t just want your seat at the table. We want to build a bigger table with you.
To every Black woman reading this—please, take a breath and ask yourself: who told me to be afraid of her?
Who taught me that another Black woman’s visibility is a threat to mine?
Who benefits when we fight each other instead of the systems that want us both erased? Who wins when we confuse difference with danger?
This is bigger than Jess. This is about all of us.
The truth is: We can’t afford to throw each other away.
Not in this world. Not in this moment.
Liberation is not a solo mission, and if we keep dividing our troops, we’re going to lose the war.
White queer folks have figured out how to perform solidarity with whiteness even when it costs them authenticity. And sometimes, yes, Black queer and Trans folks fall into the same trap—performing allyship with queerness at the cost of our Blackness.
But we don’t have to mimic that.
We don’t have to erase anyone to be free.
We don’t have to understand every detail of someone’s experience to know that they are human—and that Blackness, alone, is enough to demand care.
