Rural Queers Rise! Social Embodiment, Social Contracts, & Mutual Aid

I am a proud rural, Southern, queer and survivor of sexual violence, and these truths have pushed me into the work I do today. I write and produce research because the narratives that should help me and my queer siblings navigate the world have been largely wiped from the historical record. By discussing how we as rural queers see our bodies in space, navigate systems that were not created with marginalized bodies in mind, and utilize mutual aid networks that are central to rural spaces—I hope to write my elders back into the history they helped create and provide a space where my queer, rural, Southern siblings who are also survivors can find solace in their community’s existence.

I want to acknowledge this truth again: There is limited access to the sexual history of my rural, Southern, queer ancestors. 

Ancestors that I know would often operate in secret by cruising through back rooms and approaching the mystery of the glory holes for their safety. I remember reading about a prominent cruising spot off of an Arkansas highway. I often wonder if I sat in the rubble of that public bathroom if I would feel the longing for comfort and love my elders wanted. This feeling of longing is something I have become all too familiar with, especially in the wake of the violence I have experienced. This historical trauma makes it difficult to combat sexual violence in the ways we see discussed in most mainstream anti-violence circles. Throughout this piece I hope to fight the negative feelings this trauma can resurface in all of us, and provide some hope for anyone - especially rural, Southern, queers - to hold onto as we move into an era of political turmoil and increased violence.
 

Social Embodiment & Rural Queers

Rural queer survivors are all too familiar with what it means to have their autonomy taken away from them. When we experience sexual violence there is a loss of autonomy over one’s own body. Political systems strip the autonomy of marginalized bodies by excluding them from healthcare, classrooms, etc., and we, as survivors, often find it difficult to take back the autonomy guaranteed to us as human beings in the wake of our experiences. As survivors, we lose understanding of how our bodies operate in the space around us because we have been altered by someone else’s violent actions.

To better understand why this happens, and help us as rural queers regain autonomy over our bodies, I turn to Dr. Raewyn Connell’s definition of social embodiment. Dr. Connell uses this term to describe “the collective, reflexive process that embroils bodies in social dynamics, and social dynamics in bodies.” In other words, social embodiment helps us to better understand how our bodies interact with the space around us. I use this term as a framework for survivor justice. In many ways, seeing how your body changes after sexual violence and how it moves in the space you take up can be a powerful way to take back the autonomy that is rightfully yours.

When I am outside in the rural spaces that I have called “home” for most of my life, I take time to see how my arms and legs are moving in space. I admire the beauty and the strength my body carries with it. I can feel the sun hit my skin, I can see how the flowers bloom in the spring and frost over as fall turns into winter, I can touch the skin of another person and not feel like I must run away from the loving embrace that they will ask for at the end of our walk. This, to me, is where social embodiment and rurality (the experience of living in a rural area) intersect. Take what you knew before and after your experiences with violence and become reacquainted with what you have always known, of course, only if you feel up for it.

Political Systems & Rurality

It is an unfortunate truth that queer people, especially rural queers, have never been the beneficiaries of the U.S. political system. This has become clearer than ever as trans children become the main targets of education policy, queer survivors are offered no substantial routes towards justice, and systems like Title IX become a weapon of exclusion that disproportionately impact rural queers. The impacts of all of this cannot be understated.

While this piece offers insight on my personal relationship to survivorship as a rural queer, I also want to share the ideas and literature that have helped me look critically at how to navigate a system that would rather see marginalized bodies like my own at the periphery of society than alive and well at its center.

One of my biggest academic role models is Dr. Najja Baptist who wrote the article “As is” America: Subcontracting freedom. In this piece, Dr. Baptist utilizes the idea of the social contract (an implied agreement where people give up some freedoms for the protection and benefits of living in a society) to analyze how the U.S. Constitution views its Black constituents. Baptist deduces that with the social contract we are granted as citizens of the United States (the Constitution), marginalized citizens operate under a subcontract (an extension of the social contract that takes our identities as marginalized people into account, and creates new standards for us to abide by). What this looks like in practice is—not only should I follow the rules ordained by the Constitution, but I have to follow more specific and constricting rules to follow as a queer person. If I do anything outside of the bounds of these implied rules, it is possible that I will be met with severe forms of institutional violence, like the examples listed above. As I discover new parts of my identity—being a survivor of sexual violence, coming from a rural place, and being nonbinary— more rules are created that further marginalize me. 

I highly recommend reading the article to get a more specific understanding of Baptist’s analysis. It has allowed me to better navigate the politics of existing as a rural, queer, Southern survivor of sexual violence.

Mutual Aid & Community Care as a Rural Queer

The final thing I want to look at is mutual aid and community care as a queer individual that was raised in rural spaces. Growing up in the rural South, I was introduced to mutual aid practices before I even knew that the term “mutual aid” existed. What this sometimes looked like was my parents opening up our home to the students my mom taught or my dad coached, the elders in the community teaching younger people how to positively contribute to our community, and enjoying a potluck-style meal with other families as a means of survival and creating connections. These experiences shape the way I view mine and others’ organizing, academic work, and existence.

Dean Spade defines mutual aid as a “collective coordination to meet each other’s needs, usually from an awareness that the systems we have in place are not going to meet them.” This is not a new thing, and rural queers have had to partake in mutual aid to survive always. These networks become even more critical as we experience sexual violence at higher rates than before.

SPADE IDENTIFIES THREE KEY ELEMENTS OF MUTUAL AID:

1.  Mutual aid projects work to meet survival needs and build shared understanding about why people do not have what they need”
2. Mutual aid projects mobilize people, expand solidarity, and build movements.
3. Mutual aid projects are participatory, solving problems through collective action rather than waiting for saviors.

I would like for you, especially if you are a rural queer reading this, to think about how you might have contributed to local mutual aid work without knowing it. This practice has been and will continue to be a crucial element for rural queer existence until time stops, but I challenge you to make this specific to survivor’s needs as well. We often think that there are people already doing the work that is necessary for our survival, but if you are only pointing to nonprofits, that is not always the case.

There are rural queer survivors everywhere doing the work necessary to help our community. Find those figures in your community and work with them. We are the only people that understand what we truly need and want. 

Rural Queers Rise! 

I decided to write this piece because, as I said before, I want to include the stories of my elders and my siblings in the historical record. The work of rural queers that are also survivors of sexual violence across the country must be talked about and highlighted. Many people regard the sites of our livelihoods as a place of social death, but this is where we thrive and create movements for liberation that the metropolis often only dreams of.

I hope this work provides you with some much needed advice, recognition, or reflection as we all fight to simply survive right now. In all of this, remember that your existence is valuable, needed, and brilliantly beautiful.

Reid’s recommended texts

“As is” America: Subcontracting freedom by Dr. Najja Baptist
Mutual Aid: Building Solidarity During this Crisis (and the Next) by Dean Spade
Southern Bodies and Disability: re-thinking concepts by Dr. Raewyn Connell