Activist and all-around creative Qween Jean on the “angry Black woman” trope, the importance of infusing activism with joy, and how exposure doesn’t pay the rent. From Mission’s BIPOC issue.
If you’ve been protesting police brutality or transphobia in New York City over the past two years, then you’ve likely seen or heard Qween Jean. Clutching a mobile microphone in her hand and surrounded by community everywhere she goes, Qween is a born leader in every sense of the word. But even if you haven’t been an active participant in one of the dozens of actions they’ve led this year alone, you’ve likely seen her vibrant clothes, heard her booming voice, or watched her dance as she advocated for the most marginalized among us. It’s the Qween Jean way, and we all have no choice but to stan.
As a Black trans woman, there is no shortage of injustice for Qween to organize against, which has kept them busy. However, what struck me most was that each time I’ve seen Qween speaking out against the violence that affects people like her, she also manages to exude so much joy. How in the face of so much darkness does she manage to radiate light? As an activist who feels burned out time and time again, it’s a secret I had to know.
Thankfully, Qween sat down with me and spilled all the tea on her work as both an activist and artist, as well as what liberation truly looks like. Qween clearly has no shortage of responsibilities (#bookedandbusy), yet they manage to show up with energy and passion everywhere they go. Whether they’re teaching in the classroom, working in the wings of a theater stage, or advocating on the streets of NYC, Qween is committed to using each space as a vehicle for social change.
We kicked off our conversation by exploring the many hats Qween wears. Working as a stage and film costume designer has been a natural extension of her creativity, and it has allowed her to explore economic justice in real-life settings. In fact, Qween’s creative work—which led her to essentially unionize her fellow freelance fashion workers for pay equity, as well as call out racism in predominantly white creative spaces—is a core part of her activist origin story.
“As a designer, there was a very important space for me to advocate for myself and my community, including the behind-the-scenes workers,” she says. “Oftentimes it’s women of color who are doing the work without being paid equally or on time. We all know that ‘exposure’ doesn’t pay the rent, so there was a huge need for us to say that this is not equitable or sustainable, and that the people doing this work deserve respect.”
Even before officially assuming the title of “activist,” it was simply who Qween was. Activism often begins incredibly personally, and then it expands to include others who are experiencing similar situations and consolidate power. This was definitely the case for Qween, and she immediately noticed that many people didn’t want to see or hear her demanding her just due. “A lot of spaces are innately racist,” she says. “They didn’t want to speak up about what was right because of their fear of retaliation. And I didn’t even have time to fear retaliation, because I wasn’t being treated like a whole human!”
She goes on to describe how advocating for herself caused people to be intimidated by her: “I would often hear, ‘Oh, Qween is so rude and loud.’ No, I’m impatient and loud. I will not allow you to treat me any kind of way and on your time.” It’s not lost on Qween that her blackness is what leads people to label her as “rude” or “aggressive,” as opposed to her white peers who are not nearly as ostracized for self-advocacy. Qween isn’t wrong at all. The connections between misogynoir and tone-shaming have been well documented, as the “angry Black woman” trope is weaponized to avoid accountability.
Many have encouraged Qween to keep her head down or wait her turn, often because they find her advocacy “inconvenient.” This is especially insulting when it comes from people who face oppression in some way and pursue power at the expense of others who are more marginalized than they are. How do we disrupt this pattern and carve out a new vision of leadership? Qween believes it begins by taking cues from non-patriarchal styles of coexisting. “There’s a different way that women lead,” Qween says. “We do it without stepping on someone’s back or shoulders.” Black, queer communities are known to be environments of love that surpass nuclear family structures. “The idea of unconditional love and support is our innate power. Unfortunately, a lot of the time it comes from a place of trauma or displacement, where we have to seek out places of refuge [where people] know how to love us without asking for something in return,” she explains.
At one point in our interview, I pause to simply give Qween her flowers. Qween has a distinctive style that centers on helping the people who are most vulnerable to systems of oppression, while simultaneously ensuring the space is extremely joyful. Demonstrations that are co-organized by Qween, such the “Last Ball of 2020,” fuse celebration and righteous rage—take, for example, videos that show Qween doing the electric slide while chanting “Abolish the police and set our people free!” Qween says this dichotomy was an intentional choice she made to ensure her culture was always part of her advocacy. “I saw a need to activate this space and make it a space that’s welcoming and affirming. From there, joy was woven into all parts of it.” It’s what keeps people coming back and showing up for Black trans women, gender nonconforming people, and those most marginalized.
Images courtesy of Stanislav Ginzburg.
