The Power of Safe Space
On creating radically safe spaces for the LGBTQIA+ community.
During Pride Month 2024, I find myself reflecting on the essence of allyship, a concept that has occupied my thoughts frequently. In a world where identities are manifold and the paths to self-discovery varied, the role of an ally is both a privilege and a responsibility. As a cisgender heterosexual man, it is in this spirit that I constantly seek to better understand and support people in the LGBTQIA+ community. This journey of allyship often reminds me of one of my favorite films, “Moonlight.”
“Moonlight” is an Academy Award-Winning masterpiece, a piece of art that transcends mere storytelling to become a poignant exploration of identity, love, and self-acceptance. Among its many powerful scenes, there is one that left an indelible mark on me. It is the moment when Juan, played with profound depth by Mahershala Ali, teaches the young protagonist, Little, how to swim.
Little is a young, Black boy growing up in a harsh Miami neighborhood. His mother, Paula, is addicted to drugs, which leaves him in a state of neglect and emotional turmoil. This neglect forces Little to fend for himself in a world that is often unforgiving and hostile.
Moreover, Little grapples with his emerging sexual identity in an environment that is deeply homophobic. From a young age, he is subjected to bullying and ridicule by his peers who sense his difference. This cruelty isolates him further, pushing him into a shell of silence and self-preservation. He becomes withdrawn, barely speaking, and his eyes reflect the weight of unspoken fears and sorrows.
But in Juan, Little finds an unexpected guardian and mentor. Juan, a drug dealer with a compassionate heart, sees beyond Little's silence and recognizes his pain. And in the warm, embracing waters of the Miami beach, Juan cradles Little, guiding him through the waves, not just teaching him to float but imparting a lesson on trust, resilience, and the courage to let go. “You're in the middle of the world,” Juan says, holding Little securely. “And you're strong.”
The power of that scene lies in its simplicity and its depth, for it is not merely about swimming. It is about being seen, being held, and being told that one is strong in a world that so often denies that very strength. Little finds himself feeling taken care of, possibly for the first time in his life. In Juan's arms, he is allowed to be vulnerable, to let go, and to trust. This moment is transformative not just because he learns to float, but because he learns there are spaces to feel safe in his varied identities and difficult experiences.
It is also important to note that this safe space is fostered by a cisgender heterosexual Black man, a member of the same community that has, in many instances, persecuted Little and will likely continue to do so throughout his life. This paradox should not be lost on anyone. In the nuanced interplay of identities, Juan represents a profound contradiction and a hopeful possibility. He embodies the potential for solidarity and protection within the same community that often imposes rigid boundaries and enforces punitive norms on those who diverge from its expectations.
I think about that scene at least once a week because I believe it's what any decent ally of any marginalized group should strive for. It is truly a powerful thing to create a space for someone to feel safe. Maybe the most powerful and radical form of allyship there is.
Yet, our existence as people attempting to be allies can itself be triggering or traumatizing for those we aim to support. The recognition of this reality requires a delicate awareness, a sensitivity to the undercurrents of fear and pain that accompany marginalized identities. I am acutely aware of this because of my own anxieties and triggers around white people, rooted in a lifetime of racist experiences. These experiences have sculpted an internal landscape fraught with caution and wariness, a vigilance born of necessity. It is through this personal lens of enduring and pervasive prejudice that I attempt to understand what it might feel like for someone in the LGBTQIA+ community to be around me—an outsider (and potentially deadly obstacle) to their lived experience.
The act of allyship is fraught with contradictions and complexities. It demands that we, as allies, navigate the treacherous waters of our privilege while striving to offer genuine support. This journey is not merely about extending a hand; it is about acknowledging the histories of harm and mistrust that shadow our every step. When we engage with those from communities that have been marginalized and oppressed, we must do so with a profound humility and an awareness of the power dynamics at play.
For someone in the LGBTQIA+ community, being around someone with my identities can be a reminder of past hurts, a trigger for memories of exclusion and violence. This is not a reflection of who we are as individuals, but rather an echo of the societal structures that have perpetuated their suffering. It is a true act of courage for them to open themselves up to the possibility that someone like me—a member of a group that has historically inflicted harm—might offer support and solidarity without causing further pain.
In this light, allyship becomes an intricate dance of intention and action. It requires us to listen deeply, to hold space for vulnerability without encroaching upon it, and to offer our support without imposing our presence. It is about creating environments where trust can slowly take root, even in the soil of past betrayals. This process is not linear; it is a continual, evolving commitment to being better, to doing better.
Our role as allies is not to rescue but to accompany, and to be ready to set the world ablaze for the safety of those we are standing with.
I am striving to live up to the concept of Juan in the lives of those around me who belong to the LGBTQIA+ community. It is not a simple endeavor, nor is it one that I approach lightly. The goal is to create spaces where they can feel safe, not just in my presence but in every aspect of their lives—when they step outside, when they sit down to dinner, when they simply exist as themselves, wherever and whenever.
It is an honor, a profound privilege, to be trusted with this work. I am conscious of the fragility of this trust. It is delicate, easily shattered by a careless word or a thoughtless action. I tread carefully, mindful of the histories and traumas that inform their every interaction. My goal is to be a constant, a reliable presence that they can count on, even in the most tumultuous times.
I think of so many people over the years—actress Angelica Ross, my cousin Novell Jordan, writer Raquel Willis, educator Lamar Timmons-Long, and so many others—who have given me the chance to earn their trust and love. They have allowed me into the sacred spaces of their lives, spaces marked by both joy and pain, triumph and struggle. It is through their grace that I have come to understand the weight of being a true ally, the honor of being a safe space. Each of them, in their own unique way, has reminded me what it means to fight for more such spaces, to be relentless in the pursuit of justice and equity.
But the person who comes most to mind as I write this is my dear friend, the brilliant writer Robert Jones, Jr. Robert's work, like his presence, is a beacon of light in the often murky waters of our existence. His words cut through the noise, illuminating truths about Blackness, white supremacy, capitalism, and queerness that many would rather remain hidden. In his company, I have found not only a friend but a mentor, a guide through the labyrinth complexities of identity and belonging.
Robert's novel “The Prophets” is a work of such extraordinary beauty and devastating clarity that it left me in awe, much like the haunting scenes of “Moonlight.” This novel, a finalist for the National Book Award, is not just a reflection of Robert's immense talent but also a profound exploration of love, identity, and resistance in the face of unspeakable oppression.
“The Prophets” tells the story of Isaiah and Samuel, two enslaved young men on a Mississippi plantation whose love for each other stands is a sanctuary of hope and defiance amidst the brutal realities of their existence. This bond, tender and unyielding, is reminiscent of the transformative moments in “Moonlight,” where love and identity intertwine to offer a glimpse of freedom.
From the first page, Robert's prose envelops you in a world that is both achingly real and mythically profound. The plantation is not merely a setting but a character in itself, with its suffocating atmosphere, its silences, and its relentless demand for subservience. Within this world, Isaiah and Samuel's love is a radical act, a quiet rebellion against the dehumanizing forces that seek to erase their very being.
Robert’s novel and our friendship have helped me better imagine the world I want to fight for—one where the LGBTQIA+ community can live freely and authentically. In Robert, I have found a brother, a fellow traveler on this journey toward justice and freedom. His trust in me, his willingness to share his vulnerabilities and triumphs, has been a profound gift. Robert has given me the space to earn the right to call him my brother, a privilege I hold dear.
Our brotherhood is a place where we can be honest. We call each other when we are hurting, text each other when the world feels too heavy, pick each other's brains about the direction of our writing careers, and find time to laugh and enjoy one another’s existence. Even if that simply means grabbing ice cream on a Spring day.
I love Robert dearly, not only for loving me, but for having the courage to let me love him. Knowing heterosexual men and women have not always treated him to the measure of his worth.
These are the sorts of relationships we should be striving to earn as allies of any marginalized community we do not belong to. Relationships like the one I share with Robert, or those I have with Lamar, Novell, and so many others, are not handed to us merely because we declare ourselves allies. They are not ours by default, nor can they be demanded as a right. Instead, they must be earned through the consistent demonstration of our commitment to the freedom and humanity of those the world relentlessly attempts to tear down.
To earn such relationships, we must embody a fierce dedication to being and creating safe spaces. This is not merely a metaphorical endeavor but a tangible one that requires daily, deliberate actions. It means listening with the fullness of our attention, speaking with the care of one who understands the power of words, and acting with the courage of someone who is willing to stand against the tide of injustice, even when it is uncomfortable or dangerous.
It is easy to claim the title of ally. It is far harder to live up to its demands.
In our personal lives, we must strive to create environments where those around us feel genuinely safe. This means dismantling homophobia, transphobia, racism, and all forms of bigotry whenever and wherever they appear, even within ourselves. It means educating ourselves continuously, recognizing that our learning is never complete, and that our understanding must deepen with each new experience and perspective we encounter.
On the frontlines of change, we must be prepared to give everything we have. This is not a call to martyrdom, but a recognition that true allyship involves sacrifice. It means using our privilege to amplify the voices of those who are silenced, standing in solidarity with those who are targeted, and leveraging our resources to support the fight for justice. It means being willing to confront the systems of oppression that benefit us, understanding that our liberation is bound up with the liberation of others.
We must remember that we are not entitled to the trust and love of those we aim to support. These relationships are a gift, born of a shared struggle and a mutual commitment to a better world. And when you do earn the right to someone’s trust and love—it is beyond worth it.
For those of you who have preordered my debut poetry collection, “We Alive, Beloved” (if you haven’t already…why do you hate me?), make sure you register for the launch conversation here so that you receive the eventual information about the zoom chat I’ll be hosting for preorder readers about this book and others.
thank you for writing this frederick, you are one of the most beautiful writers on the planet in my opinion and momentarily restore my faith in cis, straight people as an isolated lonely queer teen.
This is sooo beautifully written!