I'm Not Brave For Eating Brunch

Disclaimer: This essay is about brunch, but it's not about "brunch". Brunch as an invitation to engage in praxis, if you will.

I used to make a lot more money than I currently do, and one of the things I loved doing is going to eateries and restaurants in the more expensive parts of town. Sometimes, it was Committee in Boston (overrated in my honest opinion), traipsing through Butterfield and Citarella in New York, or just getting a regular latte and kouign amann from Maman here in DC when I have the cash. I have shopped at Neiman's before I finished elementary school, and spent the monthly stipend my family gave me on baking mixes from Williams-Sonoma.

I am privileged, and I will not shy away from acknowledging that I am. I don't write all of that as a flex, but at a baseline understanding for my readers. I had a college fund, multiple degrees and an inheritance on the way that would people's eyes widen. I never had to want for much of anything in my life and have met, befriended and defended people who didn't grow up with the same resources. Well, I did want for one thing, or really two things: to be left alone, and for everyone to be able to afford brunch.

I am black, female, queer and come from a family where half of them are immigrants. I am also a size 16 (at time of writing), dark-skinned and deep voiced in a society that doesn't value any of those things. Which means that people (more specifically those with more demographic privilege than me) are always so surprised when I'm in those spaces. There's a specific brand of bigotry that takes place when minorities enter spaces they "aren't supposed to". Some people call it "rich nigga racism". I personally call it "class-specific racism' because I'm an academic and understand that while intersectionality is an important term, it is too broad to discuss the intersections of class and minority status.

The "in-group" are little too enthusiastic, or dismissive. The staff is too curious about my intentions. The people are too available to explain to me what an opera cake is, when I know they have never set foot in an establishment that had them or the place the dessert is named after.

I grew up in the Deep South, I am used to racism. However, I moved up North a few years ago and I'm still getting my bearings when it comes to blue-state bigotry. Blue states bigotry leans toward the systemic and Red states leans toward overt violence. In blue states, I am viewed as a servant to those who are liberal, a walking sign of society's views on many subjects. I am not a person who likes brunch and pretty perfume, I am engaging in activism around black people being in those spaces. I am "The Help" by another name.

I had the idea percolating in my head for years to write about, but with a number of essays of mine, I needed a catalyst. That catalyst came from video game reviewer and Steam curator CaseyExplosion. She has put me on at least 3 video games that have become favorites of mine: He Is Coming, Demonschool, and Look Outside. I and around 35,000 others respect her opinions and commentary on games, their development and their developers. I emphasize her actual work because too often I see it be reduced down to her being trans on the internet by onlookers.

When she expressed her exasperation with how the term "activist" gets used to dehumanize trans people, I felt that on a spiritual level. Enough to quote the post (I refuse to call them "skeets") with my own thoughts, that resonated with a number of people.

In fact, I have seen a number of creators from different minority groups get labeled as activists because we ask to be left alone. To not have the media talk about us as though we an invasion or an infection. To be able to do the things we love without commentary or violence. To not have our actual activism be watered down because people with privilege cannot see us as human beings who are people first, activists second. Or that we aren't activists at all.

There is a specific dehumanization that comes when people—often liberal minded people—label us as activists or 'brave' for living our lives instead of doing the actual work to dismantle the cultures that ask us to be 'brave' in the face of violence and harassment. Joy is political, yes, but I'd rather people ask why it's political than look at a marginalized person like a spectacle for going outside.

This spectating became stronger during this current administration because there is a contingent of well-meaning liberal people who view activism as content, a badge of honor, or a way to score points in this political "game" (which is an entire essay in itself) and not a practice that can span generations. That our lives are living Wikipedia pages that the privileged can demand access to and not a fully fledged life that can exist in places and frameworks outside of an established narrative. That all we are saying when we actually engage in activism is "Ouch, stop fucking hurting me" but it's perceived as a threat or uncivil by the same people who think wearing sloganeering Lingua Franca sweaters is enough activism for them. That when we say, very rightfully laugh at a white nationalist getting got because he espoused hateful terrorism-inciting beliefs his whole career, that we don't lose our jobs.

Usually in essays where I have gripes, I give calls to action, but in this, it's simple: I want my activism to be defined by own terms, not by other people. I want my life to be seen as full and interesting for its own sake, not for the sake of political score-settling. I want to eat my brunch in peace.