#the f slur is a non issue and it's not that weird to want your partner's time to yourself. it simply means you like them and they like you

[gummees]

when you catch yourself almost engaging with someone's stupid as fuck or out of touch opinions about queerness for the second time in a day, that's when you probably should unfollow them

[archangelbelletti]

So you want to include an LGBTQIA+ oc in your book?

Then avoid writing that they...

Are supporting characters with no personality

It's a beautiful thing to have an mc who is an ally, but be careful: does this queer character feel just as real and vivid as the others? Are they blurred? Do they feel foreign?

Try researching more about what you want to write, and avoid writing harmful tropes such as queer baiting and bury your gays, and gay friend trope!

Their personality is actually their LGBTQ indentity

Ask yourself if you feel like you could talk to them of something that's not queer topics! Do those interest feel like stereotypes, or are they legit (art, fighting, writing, making music, etc)?

Try experimenting with new characters and personalities!

They are mentally or physically unhealthy

Yes, as queer people we might have encountered difficulties in life and might have more mental issues than straight cis people.

This doesn't mean that we're constantly depressed, anxious, dissociating, sleepy, or we hurt ourselves, starve ourselves, or have unhealthy coping mechanisms.

Let's try something better: make a queer character healthy, maybe struggling a bit with correcting their families about their identity, but still loved, cared for, happy in their own skin!

Being lgbt will be a problem until the world makes it a problem, remember!

Have been sexually ab**ed (and sexualize this)

I hope I don't actually have to elaborate this.

I know many people have gone through this, but imagine this.

You're a person that falls in the YA reader spectrum (14-17) and you think you might be LGBT. Now, you read a YA book where all mcs are happy and straight and the only queer kid has been literally r*ped several times and their personality is Be depressed and Be abused.

I personally feel SO triggered by these things and they cause even more and more struggles within people who already go through hardships.

Try instead making them more important, stronger, talk about their trauma if they have it, and make the other ocs LGBT, too, but without trauma. Portray their aggressor ending up in jail and suffering all the consequences for what they did, make your oc find a person who doesn't have necessarily s*x with them but who loves them!

Are morbid towards s*x

In the majority of books about gay couples written by straight women, the two are often morbidly attracted to each other, and skip kisses and mutual admiration to jump into hot s*x.

This feels a bit weird. A gay couple works just like a straight couple: if they love each other and are not just friends with benefits, they will fall in love before f*cking, don't you think so too?

Ask yourself:

What do they love about each other?

What is the thing that makes their heart beat about the other person (not about their body, about their soul)?

How do they make each other grow?

What are the things they fight about?

Try reading books by LGBT authors about queer couples, like: They Both Die At The End by Adam Silvera (MLM couple) or You're Home by Svea Duhatscheck.

Are the 1% of your ocs

This is called tokenism and it's just as bad as when a white writer makes 1% of their ocs POC.

Having no diversity whatsoever sounds unrealistic, doesn't it?

Add more LGBT people! Not only the canonical gay ocs, write non-binary ocs, neo-pronouns users, trans girls, fem trans boys, lipstick lesbians, asexual people, and so on!

With a little research, you'll know the basics on how to write a good LGBT oc, but don't forget to contact a sensitivity reader!

Is not respected and doesn't stand up for themself

We've all already seen countless stories where the LGBT kid lives in a household where they're not respected, they are bullied at school, and etc.

Why not writing a kid who is respected and validated at home and that bites back when people try to bully them at school? A queer kid who's the coolest in their school not because of their sexual or gender identity, but because of their charisma, intelligence, or popularity?

Conceives their LGBTQ identity as something to be ashamed of

It isn't! Being queer is just as valid, beautiful, and serene as being straight, so why writing ocs that hate themselves for it?

FOR YOU AS A WRITER

A quick guide for the good cishet ally writer:

Do not use slurs such as f*g, f*ggot, f*iry, d*ke, tr**ny, etc. Those words can be used by a member of the LGBT community but it's best if you as a cishet person avoid using them;

Do your research about the category you're writing for better understanding;

Rely on beta readers who are of the category you're writing so to be sure you're not writing something wrong (even if of course everyone has their point of view and their experience):

Listen to LGBT writers even when you feel outraged by what they say about representation or LGBT themes;

Be kind and merciful to your queer ocs;

Avoid stereotypes;

Avoid confusing gender with sexual indentity with sex;

Never stop experimenting.

I hope this was useful! If you're a Queer author, add more!

[paintingwithdarkness]

Thank you @purpleoctopusman for your support and attempt to answer this question. I only wanted to add on, since I am able to speak from a transgender POV, being a trans man myself.

Everything you’ve said above is very true, and an excellent example of how everyone within this community needs to support each other. Yes, gender and sexual orientation are two separate issues of identity, however the overlap between these two issues and the amount by which they influence each other is so great that we cannot afford to look at them as separate. For a lot of people (I would say the majority), gender identity directly impacts sexual orientation, whether you are cis, trans or non-binary.

That being said, it always deeply saddens me and angers me when some people within the LGBT+ community advocate for dropping the T from the acronym. It is bad enough that we already have to fight for our rights as non-straight individuals living in a prominently heterosexual world. For trans people like myself, that struggle is doubled because we are not only fighting against the straight majority, but also against members of the queer community who were supposed to be our allies.

For me, being a trans man has directly impacted how I view my sexuality, and it is not a mutually exclusive issue. Over the years, I’ve used multiple labels for myself, slowly coming to terms with each part of my identity as I’ve learned to really love myself and accept that this is who I am. Of course, all trans stories are different, but I am hoping that in sharing mine, others will also speak out so that we can get a truly representative perspective on this issue.

To begin, I was raised in a religious, homophobic, transphobic household. My mother’s side of the family is Mormon, and my father’s side is Catholic. When my parents married, they decided to deviate from both lines of religious thinking, meeting somewhere they considered “the middle”. I went to a Christian church for the majority of my childhood. I was forced to wear dresses every Sunday, and preached to every week about how I should be a good, submissive, God-loving woman. This went on for 14 years of my life.

Meanwhile, at home, I was dealing with a verbally abusive mother, and a physically abusive father. As the oldest of three, I tried to shield my younger siblings from some of the abuse, taking the brunt of harsh words and lashings myself. Fortunately, neither of my siblings were also struggling with ADHD like myself, which only made things harder. Despite being labeled as “gifted” in school, I still struggled with my academics. I had behavioral issues, and was on ADHD medication up until beginning high school.

Growing up for me was difficult. I isolated myself, for fear of enraging my mother and father. I frequently experienced anxiety attacks before having to attend church on Sundays. I struggled to make friends at school. In essence, I had no support system.

For the first twelve years of my life, I didn’t really question my sexual orientation. Up until that point, I had never really had any interest in romance or relationships. My first crush being on a girl was a major wake up call.

Up until this point, I did not understand that being transgender or being queer were even options. I had been raised in a bubble, thinking that everyone around me was cis and straight. That is how poorly our education systems, my parents and society have done to support queer people. Up until this point in my life there simply was no representation of queer people in the media or otherwise. Being queer was a taboo topic. No one spoke about it.

I can remember my years in seventh and eighth grade, and even throughout high school where LGBT+ terms such as “queer”, “gay”, “lesbian”, and “f*g” were used as slurs, and even simple insults. They replaced insults of “stupid” and “weird”. I was taught that these words held power, but it was never power for the right group of people. These words were being used with the intention to hurt, rather than pride and acceptance.

For a very long time, I simply ignored the fact that I was attracted to women. It was a very hard thing for me to accept about myself. And then of course, I had the characteristic bisexual panic that many of us do. I went from straight, to lesbian, to bisexual all in the span of a few months. I was constantly questioning the labels and trying to figure out exactly what my attractions were. It took me years (even after I had decided I had started using the bi label) to finally settle with and stick with that label for myself.

Meanwhile, my gender had always been something I was struggling with in the background. Dysphoria is still a beast I am struggling with today. It was hard for me as a kid to follow society’s expectations for what a “proper woman” should be. The few friends I did have in middle and high school were all boys. I didn’t want to play with girls or follow the traditional female roles in pretend games. Wearing dresses for church on Sunday made me extremely uncomfortable, and I grew to hate parts of my body as a direct result. Anxiety attacks became common place for me during PE classes, in public bathrooms and in locker rooms. It wasn’t until I finished my freshman year of high school that I was diagnosed with social anxiety and another med was added to my list of prescriptions.

Coming to terms with the fact that I was trans took even longer than figuring out my sexuality. All of the signs were there, but neither I nor my parents recognized them for what they were. To this day, I am simply thinking that my parents chose to ignore them. Thinking back on my childhood, any time a discussion was raised about gender roles or why I couldn’t do “boys sports” (and yes, I’m putting this in quotations because we all know that sports are not inherently gender-specific, however, my point is that my parents would not let me join a kickball team, or play baseball), it was always quickly dropped, or I was ridiculed for raising the question. Any time I asked my mother if I could cut my hair shorter, a verbal tirade of outrage was hanging on the other side of the question. The one time I took it upon myself to cut my own hair, my father beat me and locked me in my room for a week (me and my sibling’s bedroom doors had the locks installed on the outside and my parents often locked us in our rooms as punishment). Wearing anything even remotely resembling a masculine wardrobe was off limits.

I was so miserable and struggling so much with my identity and home life during puberty (which was an absolute NIGHTMARE) that I attempted to end my own life. Luckily, I was not successful, however the experience opened my eyes to how much of a problem lack of support for transgender kids is. The suicide rate for transgender children is higher than the rate for any other group of people. 40%! That’s how many transgender people have attempted suicide. 82% at least contemplate the idea. These are statistics that are WAY TOO HIGH.

Trans people shouldn’t be made to think that the only option for them is death. It is fundamentally fucked up to think that a child is contemplating suicide because they are struggling so much to find acceptance. Society has failed us. Our education system has failed us. Our parents have failed us. Our friends have failed us. Our media has failed us. And our government has failed us.

WE NEED A SOLUTION. And step one is support. Plain and simple. Knowing that someone is out there that you can talk to without judgement, who will accept you for who you are, and who will be there to support you makes the difference. If I had had someone I could talk to when I was struggling with my identity, the chances of me attempting suicide would have been practically nonexistent. Those negative feelings I was having about myself stemmed from the fact that I didn’t believe anyone cared about me or what I was going through. Discovering the LGBT+ community was my saving grace.

But that’s only because I’ve found and interacted with people who are supportive of me and who I am. TERFs and other queer folk who advocate against transgender people threaten the security and protection of this community. And if transgender people can’t feel safe even amongst other queer individuals, then there is no where left for us to turn.

Granted, my story is going to be much different from other trans people you talk to. Not everyone has it as bad as me, and there are certainly people who have it worse. I have finally come to accept all parts of myself, despite still being in the closet. The self-acceptance I have learned to have for myself took a LONG time. Almost two decades!!! And sometimes, this is too long. Not all transgender people have this much time before a successful attempt at suicide. THIS NEEDS TO CHANGE.

I’ve finally learned to love myself for who I am. I am a biromantic myrsexual transgender man with ADHD and social anxiety. And I am proud of myself for the journey I have taken, and the journey I am still taking. As I continue down this road, I want to speak up about the struggles I have faced and provide my support to others like me, because I know how hard it is to do this alone. I’m only hoping that by sharing my perspective, others will speak up as well and share their stories so that we can raise awareness and provide a community of support.

Whether you’re gay, lesbian, pansexual, bisexual, transgender, asexual, agender, non-binary, aromantic, intersex, queer, questioning, can’t find a label, don’t want a label, or identify with another term I haven’t listed, we are all in this together. We need to support each other, and it all begins with spreading the word, educating yourself, and not being afraid to stand up for just being yourself.

But isn’t being trans the complete opposite of being gay? Being gay is about accepting yourself, being trans is about fundamentally changing who you are. We should tell gender non conforming, gay children that they are beautiful as they are, not that they should transition to the other sex.

No that's not true. Being Trans is about being your true self. Gender is a construct, this can be seen in how multiple cultures have different interpretations of gender. Not every trans person has gender reassignment surgery also there are gay, bi, ace and straight trans people. They being trans is their authentic self you just do not understand that because you identify with the gender you were assigned to (cisgender).

Consider a heterosexual person saying you weren't being your authentic self because "you are choosing to be gay". You and I both know we don't choose your sexuality and it is the same for trans people.

I'm not trans and do not feel comfortable speaking on behalf on them. So please if you are genuinely interested in learning about trans people, please speak to actual trans people with a variety of viewpoints and experiences.

A lot of propaganda seeks to misrepresent trans people as mentally ill, rapists, child molesters and misogynists. But trans people are never given a platform to talk about their experiences or issues. For example the BBC refuses to platform any trans people as to not allow people to hear their voices.

The tactics for trans oppression are the same used against gay people as recent as the last decade. Trans people have existed for as long as humanity has existed but much like gay people, information has been suppressed in order to maintain the patriarchal, cis, hetrosexual norm.

Trans people have always fought alongside and for gay people in the pursuit of equality and gay liberation but have sadly been thrown under the bus by other gay people as to better assimulate into heterosexual society. It is a long complicated history that can not be summed up in this message.

The same way the history of race and sex can not be summarised, a lot of the hard work is down to you educating yourself.

I myself have had to reflect on my feelings on trans people but the more I learn the more I realise how cis, straight, patriarchal society has warped my worldview. Through speaking to trans people and more importantly listening to them, I see they are like me, struggling to be seen, to be listened too, to be understood and allowed to live in peace as their authentic self.

Trans people have become my siblings in the struggle for equality and I am proud to stand with them.

I agree with you that we should be telling queer youths they should love themselves but you can not dictate what that self-love is. To warp them into something you want instead of what they want.

I hope this helps

[easyfoodnetwork]

I’m Through Being Silent About the Restaurant Industry’s Racism

Alexandra Bowman

As a Black server and diner, I’ve seen how racism in the restaurant industry plays out on both sides of the table

This is Eater Voices, where chefs, restaurateurs, writers, and industry insiders share their perspectives about the food world, tackling a range of topics through the lens of personal experience. First-time writer? Don’t worry, we’ll pair you with an editor to make sure your piece hits the mark. If you want to write an Eater Voices essay, please send us a couple paragraphs explaining what you want to write about and why you are the person to write it to voices@eater.com.

A few weeks ago, I watched my tattoo artist, Doreen Garner, post an Instagram video about the racism in her industry, and saw Brianna Noble get up on her horse and demand change in the equestrian world. They inspired me to go on Facebook to address the racism where I work: the restaurant industry.

As I wrote in my Facebook post, the restaurant industry is extremely racist: Its racism is inseparable from the history of dining out in this country. Restaurants here flourished after the Civil War, a period when Black people in the hospitality sector were still technically working for free due to the widespread adoption of tipping, which allowed employers to avoid paying their workers. Racism literally shaped the restaurant landscape, too: Here on Long Island, where I live, the racist practice of redlining prevented Black restaurateurs from obtaining business loans or leasing buildings in particular towns — and thus denied them the same opportunities as their white counterparts.

The effects of such discrimination have been everlasting — something that I have learned firsthand as both a Black server and diner. In the six years I worked in restaurants, I never saw BIPOC (Black, indigenous, and people of color) in management, or even a Black bartender; most people of color were forced to remain in the back of house, or as bussers and runners in the front of house. And as a diner, I’ve seen how the industry’s culture of discrimination plays out from the other side of the table, too.

I began working in restaurants in 2009, while attending grad school. The first place I served was a corporate Southern-themed steakhouse on Long Island; not long after I started there, a coworker was fired for using racial slurs about a Black family who was dining with us. The restaurant’s owner individually apologized to every Black employee, and the swiftness of his actions assured me that racism would not be tolerated. The following year, I began my career in fine dining at a popular seafood restaurant on Manhasset Bay. The staff was mostly BIPOC, and included several Black females. This restaurant had its issues, but during the two years I worked there, diversity was not one of them.

But when I returned to the industry in 2018, after a six-year hiatus, I discovered that my previous experiences were anomalies. One evening, while I was training as a server at a farm-to-table restaurant, I asked the trainer how she made recommendations. “Well, they’re Asian, so I recommended the octopus because Asians eat weird food,” she said of the table we’d just served. “Excuse me?” I replied sternly. She tried to backpedal, saying something about how “Italian guys” also loved octopus.

Months later, I caught one of the managers and two servers discussing the treatment of Black people as it relates to our work ethic: The manager implied that there were times we were treated better than we deserved because of our skin color. The two servers looked shocked, but neither corrected her. Being the only Black employee and server of color, I quit immediately. But that evening, the restaurant’s owner and I had an honest conversation. She advised me to not let ignorant people affect my wallet, and she had a point: I was broke and living in my mom’s guest room. So I stayed. But, in hindsight, I should’ve demanded that this manager be fired. Although she was eventually let go, it was for her inferior management skills, not her continued racist antics.

Although the guests at that restaurant usually treated me with respect, I was degraded on several occasions. One evening, while I was recommending wine to a table, one of the diners, a white man, winked at me and said, “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. Am I right?” There was so much I wanted to say, especially to his wife, who just laughed nervously. Instead, I recommended the tempranillo and walked away. Who could I tell? If a manager wouldn’t be checked, how would a guest?

I stayed at the restaurant for a year and a half. Shortly before my departure, one of my customers, a senior citizen, grabbed me. “You know what they say about Black women?” he whispered in my ear. “You taste like chocolate.” He then attempted to kiss me. I pulled away, but I didn’t want to hurt him — I could already imagine the headline: “Black Server Abused Elderly White Man at Long Island Restaurant.” So again, I walked away. But this time, I cried in the hallway while my coworker consoled me. Others seemed to think I was overreacting, as if the customer had complimented me. I didn’t have the energy to point out that Black women are neither a fetish nor a fantasy, and that the sexual harassment we often experience is linked to the ways we’ve been hypersexualized throughout history.

Most recently, until the pandemic began, I was working as a server and marketing consultant at a new Long Island steakhouse. Three of my coworkers were equal-opportunity racists who made derogatory comments about everybody: from the Latinx staff members to a table of Black people, no one was off limits. Almost everyone who worked there was aware of it, but the attitude was one of “You know how this industry is.” One time, when I defended some guests whom one of these coworkers presumed were Jewish, he asked if I was a “Black Jew.” In response, I referenced “First they came...” and expressed that I stand up for everyone, and then politely told him to shut the hell up. He did, but continued to be openly racist towards me — the restaurant’s lone Black employee — and the Latinx bartender.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices.

While the restaurant’s clientele was generally kind, there were still the middle-aged white men thinking they were Tupac, telling me I was the prettiest Black girl they’d ever seen. And the white women who felt the need to be “down” when I approached the table. “Hey girl!” one of them told me. “Your makeup is on fleek. We’re trying to get lit.” Know that I am laughing at you, I thought. You sound like Len from 30 Rock. You are 45 years old in a Talbot’s pant suit. Please stop.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices. It is debilitating to constantly defend yourself while remaining professional, and exhausting to become a representative for the entire community. One elevated pitch in your tone may verify a stereotype. And so for your own self-preservation, you learn to ignore it and not react. No matter the profession, we’re conditioned to be silent.

But as a patron, I do not have the same restraint. I always inform the manager. When I do, I’m sometimes offered a discount or a free round of drinks. I appreciate that, but still wonder: Did they hear me or were they just trying to appease me?

Because ignorant servers have tells. The finger across the neck, signaling that you do not want me in your section. The “couldn’t care less” attitude when greeting my table after making me wait for 10 minutes. The interactions with me in comparison to the white people next to me. We all have bad days as servers. But I am one of you, and I know the difference between a bad day and bad behavior. And so I’d ask you to recognize that your low tip is not a derivative of a guest’s skin color, but often, the result of your behavior toward them because of their skin color.

And to my fellow Black female servers, especially those in fine dining, remember you are worthy and your integrity is priceless. I am broke and tired too, but change is no longer a request — it is an ultimatum. Many servers are currently in a position of power; as restaurants try to reopen, employers are struggling to staff up. So before you literally risk your life by returning to work, make sure your professional environment is safe from health risks and racism.

To non-Black restaurant owners, I’d ask you to be introspective. Acknowledge that you benefit from a problematic system, and that your restaurant isn’t immune to racism. And if you still haven’t developed and posted a Black Lives Matter action plan of solidarity, do so. I am empathetic to the fact that you recently took a hit from COVID-19, but racism is also a deadly virus. You cannot plead for pandemic support by posting “We’re all in this together,” but choose to remain silent now. Diversify your staff. Schedule a mandatory team meeting to discuss racism and how to personally combat it — and explicitly state that it is immediate grounds for dismissal. If you have BIPOC staff, reassure them that they are protected and supported; keep in mind that you are legally liable when employees, and guests, engage in discriminatory practices. And remember: The Black dollar is strong. It is imperative that we are appreciated and welcomed at every place of business.

I gave similar recommendations to my most recent employer. As his marketing consultant, I urged him to write a statement of solidarity; as one of his servers, I demanded that my racist coworkers be fired, and a meeting be held to discuss racism at the restaurant. Yet again, my concerns were dismissed and overlooked. But this time, I am through being silent.

Lauren Allen is an experienced marketing specialist in the live entertainment and food hospitality sectors.

from Eater - All https://ift.tt/2ZLs4vY https://ift.tt/3eeV7NA

Alexandra Bowman

As a Black server and diner, I’ve seen how racism in the restaurant industry plays out on both sides of the table

This is Eater Voices, where chefs, restaurateurs, writers, and industry insiders share their perspectives about the food world, tackling a range of topics through the lens of personal experience. First-time writer? Don’t worry, we’ll pair you with an editor to make sure your piece hits the mark. If you want to write an Eater Voices essay, please send us a couple paragraphs explaining what you want to write about and why you are the person to write it to voices@eater.com.

A few weeks ago, I watched my tattoo artist, Doreen Garner, post an Instagram video about the racism in her industry, and saw Brianna Noble get up on her horse and demand change in the equestrian world. They inspired me to go on Facebook to address the racism where I work: the restaurant industry.

As I wrote in my Facebook post, the restaurant industry is extremely racist: Its racism is inseparable from the history of dining out in this country. Restaurants here flourished after the Civil War, a period when Black people in the hospitality sector were still technically working for free due to the widespread adoption of tipping, which allowed employers to avoid paying their workers. Racism literally shaped the restaurant landscape, too: Here on Long Island, where I live, the racist practice of redlining prevented Black restaurateurs from obtaining business loans or leasing buildings in particular towns — and thus denied them the same opportunities as their white counterparts.

The effects of such discrimination have been everlasting — something that I have learned firsthand as both a Black server and diner. In the six years I worked in restaurants, I never saw BIPOC (Black, indigenous, and people of color) in management, or even a Black bartender; most people of color were forced to remain in the back of house, or as bussers and runners in the front of house. And as a diner, I’ve seen how the industry’s culture of discrimination plays out from the other side of the table, too.

I began working in restaurants in 2009, while attending grad school. The first place I served was a corporate Southern-themed steakhouse on Long Island; not long after I started there, a coworker was fired for using racial slurs about a Black family who was dining with us. The restaurant’s owner individually apologized to every Black employee, and the swiftness of his actions assured me that racism would not be tolerated. The following year, I began my career in fine dining at a popular seafood restaurant on Manhasset Bay. The staff was mostly BIPOC, and included several Black females. This restaurant had its issues, but during the two years I worked there, diversity was not one of them.

But when I returned to the industry in 2018, after a six-year hiatus, I discovered that my previous experiences were anomalies. One evening, while I was training as a server at a farm-to-table restaurant, I asked the trainer how she made recommendations. “Well, they’re Asian, so I recommended the octopus because Asians eat weird food,” she said of the table we’d just served. “Excuse me?” I replied sternly. She tried to backpedal, saying something about how “Italian guys” also loved octopus.

Months later, I caught one of the managers and two servers discussing the treatment of Black people as it relates to our work ethic: The manager implied that there were times we were treated better than we deserved because of our skin color. The two servers looked shocked, but neither corrected her. Being the only Black employee and server of color, I quit immediately. But that evening, the restaurant’s owner and I had an honest conversation. She advised me to not let ignorant people affect my wallet, and she had a point: I was broke and living in my mom’s guest room. So I stayed. But, in hindsight, I should’ve demanded that this manager be fired. Although she was eventually let go, it was for her inferior management skills, not her continued racist antics.

Although the guests at that restaurant usually treated me with respect, I was degraded on several occasions. One evening, while I was recommending wine to a table, one of the diners, a white man, winked at me and said, “the blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice. Am I right?” There was so much I wanted to say, especially to his wife, who just laughed nervously. Instead, I recommended the tempranillo and walked away. Who could I tell? If a manager wouldn’t be checked, how would a guest?

I stayed at the restaurant for a year and a half. Shortly before my departure, one of my customers, a senior citizen, grabbed me. “You know what they say about Black women?” he whispered in my ear. “You taste like chocolate.” He then attempted to kiss me. I pulled away, but I didn’t want to hurt him — I could already imagine the headline: “Black Server Abused Elderly White Man at Long Island Restaurant.” So again, I walked away. But this time, I cried in the hallway while my coworker consoled me. Others seemed to think I was overreacting, as if the customer had complimented me. I didn’t have the energy to point out that Black women are neither a fetish nor a fantasy, and that the sexual harassment we often experience is linked to the ways we’ve been hypersexualized throughout history.

Most recently, until the pandemic began, I was working as a server and marketing consultant at a new Long Island steakhouse. Three of my coworkers were equal-opportunity racists who made derogatory comments about everybody: from the Latinx staff members to a table of Black people, no one was off limits. Almost everyone who worked there was aware of it, but the attitude was one of “You know how this industry is.” One time, when I defended some guests whom one of these coworkers presumed were Jewish, he asked if I was a “Black Jew.” In response, I referenced “First they came...” and expressed that I stand up for everyone, and then politely told him to shut the hell up. He did, but continued to be openly racist towards me — the restaurant’s lone Black employee — and the Latinx bartender.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices.

While the restaurant’s clientele was generally kind, there were still the middle-aged white men thinking they were Tupac, telling me I was the prettiest Black girl they’d ever seen. And the white women who felt the need to be “down” when I approached the table. “Hey girl!” one of them told me. “Your makeup is on fleek. We’re trying to get lit.” Know that I am laughing at you, I thought. You sound like Len from 30 Rock. You are 45 years old in a Talbot’s pant suit. Please stop.

When you’re the only Black employee at a business, you realize that you’re an exception to its discriminatory hiring practices. It is debilitating to constantly defend yourself while remaining professional, and exhausting to become a representative for the entire community. One elevated pitch in your tone may verify a stereotype. And so for your own self-preservation, you learn to ignore it and not react. No matter the profession, we’re conditioned to be silent.

But as a patron, I do not have the same restraint. I always inform the manager. When I do, I’m sometimes offered a discount or a free round of drinks. I appreciate that, but still wonder: Did they hear me or were they just trying to appease me?

Because ignorant servers have tells. The finger across the neck, signaling that you do not want me in your section. The “couldn’t care less” attitude when greeting my table after making me wait for 10 minutes. The interactions with me in comparison to the white people next to me. We all have bad days as servers. But I am one of you, and I know the difference between a bad day and bad behavior. And so I’d ask you to recognize that your low tip is not a derivative of a guest’s skin color, but often, the result of your behavior toward them because of their skin color.

And to my fellow Black female servers, especially those in fine dining, remember you are worthy and your integrity is priceless. I am broke and tired too, but change is no longer a request — it is an ultimatum. Many servers are currently in a position of power; as restaurants try to reopen, employers are struggling to staff up. So before you literally risk your life by returning to work, make sure your professional environment is safe from health risks and racism.

To non-Black restaurant owners, I’d ask you to be introspective. Acknowledge that you benefit from a problematic system, and that your restaurant isn’t immune to racism. And if you still haven’t developed and posted a Black Lives Matter action plan of solidarity, do so. I am empathetic to the fact that you recently took a hit from COVID-19, but racism is also a deadly virus. You cannot plead for pandemic support by posting “We’re all in this together,” but choose to remain silent now. Diversify your staff. Schedule a mandatory team meeting to discuss racism and how to personally combat it — and explicitly state that it is immediate grounds for dismissal. If you have BIPOC staff, reassure them that they are protected and supported; keep in mind that you are legally liable when employees, and guests, engage in discriminatory practices. And remember: The Black dollar is strong. It is imperative that we are appreciated and welcomed at every place of business.

I gave similar recommendations to my most recent employer. As his marketing consultant, I urged him to write a statement of solidarity; as one of his servers, I demanded that my racist coworkers be fired, and a meeting be held to discuss racism at the restaurant. Yet again, my concerns were dismissed and overlooked. But this time, I am through being silent.

Lauren Allen is an experienced marketing specialist in the live entertainment and food hospitality sectors.

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[rationalanimal]

So firstly, I wanna say that LESBIAN is not a slur and has never been used as such. (It literally means from Lesbos, the Greek island Sapho was from, a lesbian icon) It has only become taboo because of fetishization and general homophobia. I don't feel educated enough on the word gay to make a whole point about it... But given the fact that it literally means happy tells me it has a more positive past. Also, just because a word is used in a derogatory way doesn't mean it's a slur. Do you know where actual homophobic slur f*gg*t comes from? Do you know that in England they call a cigarette a fag because you light it on fire... The usage of that word towards gay men harkens back to the days of burning people at the stake. So, yeah... It's a slur. Queer is a slur because historically it has been used as such, and it's literal meaning is differing in some way from what is usual or normal : ODD, STRANGE, WEIRD. That doesn't seem like a good thing to me, not only does it promote the idea that being a member of the LGBT community is unusual, it is also degrading. (Also, there is a big difference that queer originally came from outside of our community whereas at least in the case of lesbian it has come from inside the community. Slurs often come from the outside, see for example dyke.)

Secondly, I would like to address your second point where you say, and I quote "iif queer is not a good umbrella term what is a good umbrella term that will automatically include bisexua, pansexual, transgender, non-binary, asexual and aromantic people, intersex people if they want to be included, and indigenous people from non-western cultures who identify as two spirit, third gender, or other traditions?" Firstly, are you saying that bisexual and transgender people (and therefore non-binary people) aren't automatically included in LGBT? They are right there! Now, we come to the discorse. Pan and Bi are very very similar identities, and many of my bi/pan friends use them interchangeably, and those pan people that don't I have caught saying uneducated things like "I'm pan because I like non-binary people too," which I talked to them about and I think it's better now. Cishet people do not belong on our community. I welcome all LGBT aro/ace people in the LGBT community. The same with intersex people, I don't believe that just because you are intersex you are LGBT, but I welcome those that are with open arms. Now we come to those who identify as two sporit or third gender. I must admit I am not the most thoroughly educated on these identities, but I do have some familiarity with the two spirit identity. I think that we can definitely make room for those people in our community. And if some of those people want to use the label queer I am not going to stand around and say they can't. That would be ridiculous! No one has ever said that there is no place in our community for a queer identity, or those who identify as such. The problem comes to using that word for everybody, especially when a significant portion of our community is uncomfortable with that word. I don't like it because queer is often used to erase my lesbian identity. I don't want to be called queer because I don't want the implication that my sexuality is flexible. Others have an issue with the word because they have tramatic memories associated with it. Just because you have reclaimed something doesn't mean everyone has. Also, LGBT isn't hard to learn if you try in the slightest. Nor is lgbtq (or lgbtq+). The thing I love about LGBT (or one of it's varients) is that it personally addresses every identity asseparate but also united as a community! I don't know about everyone but I find that really beautiful.

Thirdly, you said that you want to help increase visability to those identities that don't get top billing (which is honestly an attempt to divide lesbians and gays from our trans and bi peers which doesn't even make sense when none of us have it any easier than any others and the whole notion that other members of our community are more privileged than others is a tactic meant to divide us used by people with often scetchy motives.) And you want to use an umbrella term to do so? That makes no sense to me. Like, explain why a word that in my real life experience and many others has failed to recognize our actual identities is better than an acronym that is easily expandable to fit identities not originally included that brings awareness to an identity by actually saying it's name? Like? You want everyone to use queer, a word that erases individual identity... To bring light to marginalized identities???

Also this whole thing with appealing to uninformed straight allies... Like ... If you are a real ally then get informed. It's not our community's responsibility to make things easier on straight people, it is our community's responsibility to represent and advocate for our rights, and having an easier word isn't necessary to do either of those things.

Get out of here with this bullshit. Get out... Do some actual reasearch outside of a quick read on wiki and what you've read on Tumblr and then come back and we can have an actual discussion about this ... It's also very telling that throughout your post you used hostile language when talking about lesbians and gay men. Don't come into our community with this kind of separatist attitude and try to cover it up with this queer discourss shit. We don't need this kind of negativity in our community. I apologise if this is long, but I had alot to say, and I'm sorry if I seem upset, that is because I am.

If you don’t like the word “queer”, if you don’t want to use or reclaim it, that’s cool! But some people who dislike the word “queer” really dislike it because it’s a barrier to prioritizing some LGBT groups more than others. I think that damages us as a community, and we have to talk about how to fight it.

So if you don’t want to use the word “queer”, I encourage you to ask yourself the following questions:

If queer cannot be used because it is a slur, what am I doing for the comfort and security of people who have had “gay” and “lesbian” used hatefully as slurs towards them?

If queer is not a good umbrella term, what is a good umbrella term that will automatically include bisexual, pansexual, transgender, nonbinary, asexual, and aromantic people, intersex people if they want to be included, and Indigenous people from non-Western cultures who identify as two-spirit, third gender, or other traditions? Is my preferred umbrella term easy to spell, pronounce, and teach to an uninformed straight ally?

What work am I doing to make myself an ally to people from identities that don’t get top billing in the LGBT community (see list in previous point)? What am I doing to promote awareness of these groups’ interests and let them know I support them?

“Queer” is a really valuable word for me, but I realize that it doesn’t work for everybody. If we can find a better word, we could use it. However, right now a lot of groups are getting excluded because they’re “not LGBT”–they’re not part of an initialism that was codified before many people on Tumblr were born. So we NEED to work on being inclusive.