em as connected, part of a global system that punishes “the other.” In this way, social media transcends (most) borders, giving us a sense of “being there,” even as we observe events from thousands of miles away. It should remind us as LGBTQIA+/Queer people that although we may not call ourselves the same names or always agree with each other’s tactics, trans- and homophobia are not nationally or culturally-bounded phenomena, and thus neither can the work be that seeks to end them. Moreover, as we are reminded in the case of Johana, transphobia cannot be separated from the racism, xenophobia, and misogyny that also contributed to her suffering.
Our Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram feeds—overflowing with terrible news like Johana’s death at the hands of ICE, juxtaposed with the beating of a young lesbian couple in Chile, and topped off by the Trump administration’s recent announcement of even heavier immigration arrests in the coming weeks—must also remind us of the need for intersectional (Crenshaw 1991) queer activism. While marriage equality has changed the lives of many queer people for the better (in the interest of full disclosure, mine included), social media allows us to see more clearly than ever where marriage has fallen short. Activists and allies share stories of people with disabilities who would lose their benefits if they married; of record numbers of LGBTQIA+ youth who have been made homeless; and of queer migrants, like Johana, who are systematically being denied basic, life-sustaining medical care.
Unfortunately, social media can also have an “echo chamber” effect, often exposing us to an indigestible amount of news related to our interests and/or identities. The recent tech-driven obsession with constant connectivity has resulted in a feeling—especially for marginalized people—of being constantly bombarded with terrible news. Therein lies the other danger of social media. Do we simply log off? Do we share some—but not all—the information we’re presented with? Does the constant stream of news, petitions, and testimonials we share on social media inure us to actual, offline violence? While I am generally skeptical of critiques of so-called “arm-chair activism” or “slacktivism” (Cabrera, Matias, & Montoya, 2017; Jones, 2015), it is increasingly clear that simply sharing news on social media is not enough (though I emphasize, it is extremely important.)
Rather, I hope we can reinvigorate some of the early dreams for social media, allowing us to connect and build community with people we may never meet in person. Rather than surrendering to the seemingly constant flow of bad news across our screens, what would happen if we were inspired by the very algorithms used to categorize our content to reimagine what the LGBTQIA+/Queer community can look like? What if we participated more actively in this feedback loop, taking cues from suggested articles and friends, posts from friends of friends, and even targeted ads to rethink our connections to one another? In the age of social media, how can we grapple with being constantly reminded of the inequality faced by LGBTQIA+/Queer people around the world when the causes of so much misery seem systemic and out of our grasp?
More than anything, we ( ‘we’ here is a person with both the knowhow and the resources to access social media) can no longer claim ignorance. We—especially those of us most privileged within the community—can no longer tolerate offhand statements about the “inherently” queerphobic nature of certain countries and regions, while ignoring the US’ abysmal history of violence against queer people; we can no longer separate the epidemic of police brutality against Black people and other POC in the United States from increased police presence at Pride celebrations across the country; we can no longer accept events held by and for our community that do not meet basic accessibility standards; and we can no longer pretend that trans and non-binary issues are categorically separate from those that affect gay, lesbian, and bisexual communities. I propose that we 