Black Pain. Black Power.

This is the most difficult thing I have had to write since joining Stonewall a decade ago. And not because I lack the words. And not because I’m tired—and I am tired.

No, this is challenging because e-comms are supposed to be concise. Easy to digest. Because attention spans are short. Especially when it comes to Black suffering. This is challenging because even nonprofit culture, informed by doctrines of capitalism and white supremacy, expects good leaders to set themselves aside, to offer an objective yet discernably human voice when representing an organization. To become a vague “we.” To strengthen the brand. And to sell that brand—to win and retain support—a leader must have wide appeal. Which I have found is usually code for white appeal.

But today, I have too much to say. And it might be winding and complex, hard to swallow. What does solidarity even mean when the fight is for me? I cannot set myself aside. Today, true to Pride, I choose my truth, not appeal.

This is my protest.

In 2015, a white donor sent me an email that I will never forget. Or delete. They had been invited to a discussion forum we organized on the topic of anti-LGBTQ police violence and had a few ruminations for me, as they put it. After assuring me that the NYPD was not our enemy, they went on to say: “I'm concerned that, as you change the face of Stonewall, it doesn’t become an anti-establishment fringe organization, which may alienate the mostly white gays and lesbians who are the backbone of financial support.” Message received: “You’re Black. And this thing you’re doing has you dangerously close to being too... Black. And if you’re too Black, you might lose white people and Stonewall will collapse.”

Now, as it stands, Stonewall’s ethos of thoughtfully centering the most vulnerable in our community and the issues causing the greatest harm has not positioned us as a fringe organization. And we have been able to count on our increasingly diverse supporter base to advance that work. Thirty years in, our mission is more focused than ever, and we have been quite successful in our efforts to bring along as many people as possible, including the donor who sent that email. Following a long exchange, I convinced them to come to the forum and, as a result, they were inspired to begin a journey of self-education. Eventually, they even came around on the subject, recognizing and readily denouncing abuses by state actors. So why have I kept their original email? Well, it’s a powerful case study in transformation. But it’s also a poignant reminder that as a Black person, and as a Black leader, challenging anti-Blackness will always be part of my job description, whether written or not. 

So, here I am.

I feel indescribable pain seeing their names, from George Stinney, Jr. to George Floyd, Ahmaud to Tony, Marsha to Breonna. Black lives taken. Amid constant reminders to vote, I feel pain seeing Black people casually expected to respect and have faith in systems that predate our access to formal political power in this country. I feel pain seeing cities I love and have lived in burn, knowing that not even their ashes can raise our dead. I feel pain seeing millions of Black people in pain. Elders, children, family, friends, and total strangers, all seeing themselves hanging from the same damned tree. I feel pain seeing our outcry at having knees on our necks immediately become heady debate about theories of change. Where is that expertise when we are not in the streets pleading for our lives? Imagine the mountains we could move if all that intellectual capital were used to preserve life, our most valuable possession.

This pain I feel is old pain, born before my body. Deep, generational pain, revisited again and again and again. It came to me when I read that email in 2015, warning me to mind the brand. I felt it in that café in 2013 as a well-to-do, well-intentioned gay white man, just as I was set to take the helm here, told me not to use the words “racial justice” when describing my vision for Stonewall. I have felt it for the past 2,467 days working in LGBTQ philanthropy, where Black-led fights for healthcare, housing, and freedom itself still go underfunded, despite missions, like ours, to change that. This pain is connected because the problems are connected.

But make no mistake, this pain is also a teacher.

This pain has taught me to use the words we, they, and all with precision when talking about injustice.

This pain has taught me that protest is always about bearing witness and only sometimes about winning.

This pain has taught me that there is absolutely nothing peaceful about bearing witness to systematic violence and murder. If you have done it, then you know; any peace surrounding such protest, does not belong to the protestor.

This pain has taught me that, often, when we say “peaceful” we mean something else entirely. Calm. Composed. Compliant. Conforming. Constructive. But “peaceful” is the default for a reason.

This pain has taught me that growing hurts, discomfort and harm are not the same, and systems do not change without disruption.

This pain has taught me that healing is the only thing that exists outside of the binary of destruction or creation; that being alive is to be constantly healing, even as we are dying.

To be Black in this country is to be close to pain. To be Black and conscious in this country is to know the lessons of that pain. To know that people will step on my back to reach their higher selves. But also to know that my back is strong. Strong enough to carry collective dreams forward. Black leadership matters not only because Black lives matter, but also because Black leadership is itself a triumph. An undoing. An overcoming. A unique alchemy, turning pain into power. Black leadership moves us closer to solutions.

At Stonewall, we embrace philanthropy as a way to fuel those solutions. Likewise, we embrace philanthropy as love in action. We believe that if you love Black people, then you show it. Trust Black women. Honor Black trans leadership. Speak and act against violence against Black trans people. Fall back and let Black people lead. Invest in Black-led organizations and campaigns and ideas, even if they take aim at you. Fund racial justice. Keep funding it. Center it. Learn the difference between justice, accountability, and punishment. Learn to identify and interrupt microaggressions. Respond to them as though the “micro” were absent. Acknowledge your own anti-Blackness. Uproot it and then scorch the earth.

So, here we are.

This is the beginning, hopefully. Where we end with Black Power, and where I say our names:

Ms. Major. Tanya. Kiara. Gabriel. Sasha. Olympia. Tourmaline. LaLa. Maxwell. Kimberly. Tiq. Ola. Elle. Sean. Raquel. Ceyenne. Titi. Nala. Alisha. Achebe. Naa. Ana. Beverly. Mustafa. Maura. Cleopatra. Chris. Kim. Robert. Mandy. Andrea. Clarence. Imani. Kierra. Rashad. Kenyon. Cara. Jose. Yoruba. Glenn. Will. Andre. Zakiya. Geoffrey. Roz. Antoine. Alvin. Ejeris. Marvin. Amber. Cardozie. Julian. Christian. Isaac. Cymone. Yvette. Derek. Nevin. Maryse. And on and on and on.

May the list go on until peace is ours.

Jarrett Lucas
Executive Director

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