I’m Black, Queer, and Fighting for Climate Justice at the UN Climate Negotiations
It’s August 29, 2019, and notifications of a deadly Category 4 storm named Hurricane Dorian, with winds upwards of 225 km/h, barreling towards the coast of Florida flood my newsfeed. If it strikes, it would potentially threaten upwards of 10 million people, including Miami, the city I now call home. Frantically researching to gauge the likelihood of disaster, I discovered it would be the fourth year in a row year a hurricane of any strength made landfall in the state, the most since the 1940s. 3 days prior, the storm hovered over Puerto Rico, sending shockwaves of anxiety through the bones of many. For me, now 21 years old, my worries remind why I now consider myself a movement builder and activist with global struggles for climate justice. To uncover the beginnings of my journey, we must go back to September 2016.
As I sat in a classroom in Worcester, Massachusetts, I watched Hurricane Maria pummel islands across the Caribbean with force never seen before. Countless communities in Puerto Rico were wiped out as streets caved in and homes were blown apart. Striking images of people barely clenching to life surfaced, immediately pulling me back to my own memories of fighting to survive hardships in my home city, Kingston, Jamaica. Many poor young black queer people like me are homeless and exiled to gullies and sewers hidden beneath cities and towns across the country. With little to no resources, they are forced to survive in makeshift shacks made of wood and zinc. Paralyzing bursts of pain and helplessness ran through my body when I think of what would happen to these queer communities if a hurricane like Maria struck Jamaica. Warming seas caused by climate change warns us it will happen sooner than later, and when it does, it will be black queer bodies like mine on the frontlines.
To most tourists, Jamaica is the ultimate escape to paradise. Many flock to the island on a yearly basis to soak in our vibrant culture fueled by endless sun. On arrival, they see black bodies glistening with melanin and pride, colorful concrete buildings painted in bright blues and pinks, and lush green trees swaying over much of the landscape. But underneath this picturesque facade, the realities of life for black queer people, like me, are gravely complex because of rampant homophobia, a global phenomenon.
At a young age I remember discovering that something about me was different. I didn’t want to play football to prove I could be rough and tough like the rest of the “boys”. My body felt unnatural, foreign, as if I was wearing it for somebody else, because baggy pants and loose fitting shirts were forced upon me as the only norm for “boys” my age. I stuck out like a sore thumb as people disapproved of how freely I moved my body, from the flicks of my hand to the sways in my hips. The nature of my existence had been predetermined for me by British colonial era laws that uphold binary gender roles of what it means to be a “boy” versus a “girl,” with no space for exploration in between. These cultural norms dominate my homeland.
What at first seemed like innocent questions and demands, warned me of what was to come if I didn’t man up. “Why you so girly? Walk like you have some strength and bone in you!” my sister’s friend once shouted at me when I strutted through her front door for a weekly community meal and music jam get together. By the time I entered high school, it became clear that my queerness wouldn’t leave me. I couldn’t stop being who I was even though taunts from people around me mocked the way I walked, talked, and dressed. He’s a fag. Batty boy. Boom. Bye. Bye. Those words felt like flames, burning me on a stake. I knew I could die at any moment from these threats and the physical violence in the school yards.
Time and time again, boys used their fists and feet to beat the gay out of me, to prove their allegiance to their crews and society’s patriarchal order. Derogatory words stripped me of my humanity.
I wanted to defend myself but I couldn’t. A queer who stands up, stands out, and pays with their life. I poured every ounce of fight left in me into securing an opportunity to attend university in America. I felt I had no other choice but to leave the island to reclaim my voice, and free my body. Life abroad wouldn’t be trouble-free, I would encounter new obstacles prompting me to believe there were no lands, no space, and no communities safe enough for people like me. Though more covert and indirect in nature, my blackness and subtle West Indian accent now became an additional source of much violence and pain. Racism and xenophobia informed how many of my white classmates and professors interacted with me in academic spheres. “No, I don’t believe we should accept refugees, they come with too many problems, attack our people for resources and only cause more violence,” uttered a fellow trans-identifying student in an international relations and policy course I found myself taking during my second semester. Visibly shocked and uncomfortable, the professor stood at the front of the room failing to interrupt and respond. She continued her lecture as if nothing had happened, in pretense these words didn’t invalidate my humanity, causing harm to my body.
Nevertheless, many are not fortunate to explore possibilities of a less-violent life outside of Jamaica, so I struggled to support myself to assert my voice. Knowing I’d return home one day, I frequently thought of the realities of life for those back on the island. Many who come out, including those who are outed against their will, are put out on the streets by their families and neglected by the broader society. Unless they find alternative support systems from fellow queers, they end up homeless, often seeking refuge in the intertwining gullies and sewers running through the heart of the country. Within the gullies, safe havens are born as they, black queer Jamaicans, claim their right to live and express without judgment, proudly calling themselves the “Gully Queens”. Though their populations have dwindled as LGBTQ+ movement organizations like Transwave and J-Flag become more visible and bold in their efforts, offering assistance and access to a myriad of social services, many are still unaware of their presence and continue to face grave realities.
Ironically, these gullies are extremely prone to flooding and leaves the Queens extremely vulnerable and susceptible to the consequences of climate change. What will happen to us when barriers between land and sea break through? As the gullies flood and we’re washed away by rushing waters, relentless homophobia will drown out our voices. No will save us. No one will hear our cries.
All the odds are stacked against us. Our resilience against systematic abuse isn’t enough to protect us from the wrath of encroaching waters and storms of brutal caliber. Meanwhile, governments globally fail to take urgent action on the national level, neglecting to rapidly transition their economies away from fossil fuels towards renewable energy sources. Furthermore, year after year global leaders meet at the UN Climate Negotiations to decide the collective fate of humanity and ignore the voices of communities like ours on the frontlines of climate crises. As our communities on the forefront of environmental collapse face dire consequences, our needs go unheard and we are left out of the solutions. Channeling inspiration from Queers before me that fought hard to resist society’s death trap, I started organizing with the activist community on my university campus, coordinating rallies, marches, protests, and teach-ins, as part of the youth climate justice movement to speak up about the myriad of struggles facing black queer people in Jamaica, and globally.
Countries of the Global North, also referred to as “developed”, like the US and those in the European Union, are historically the largest polluters and contributors to the climate crisis. Yet it is Global South countries, also referred to as “less-developed”, like Jamaica and other island nation-states that will be hit first and hardest by climate change. Black queer youth like me will bear the brunt of its impacts. This is an injustice. With the United Nations (UN) and the world’s top scientists telling us we have just 12 years to prevent irreversible climate damage, wealthy countries like the United States need to step up and act to transition the world towards 100% renewable energy to ensure communities on the frontlines, those Black, Brown, and Indigenous, have a chance at survival.
After engaging in movements on the local and national level for over a year, I felt called to put my body, story, and experiences of societal persecution on the line to demand the survival of people like me all around the world is part of the global conversation. With the support of many peers and mentors, I joined SustainUS, a U.S. youth climate advocacy organization, with a mission to empower black, brown, and indigenous youth to show up and disrupt global decision-making spaces of power influencing action on climate, from the UN to the World Bank. Last December, I traveled to the UN Climate Negotiations (COP 24) in Katowice, Poland with a group of 12 other SustainUS youth delegates for what was being called the most important talk at the COPs since the Paris Climate Agreement was signed in 2015. Global leaders gathered with high stakes looming overhead, they were to decide how the frameworks and commitments made in Paris were to become reality.
As I roamed the halls of the expansive conference center, it became clear to me that government delegates had no interest in involving our voice and wisdom in the process. We would be deliberately shut out of the rooms where they met to hammer out the real decisions that would gravely impact our very lives. To make matters worse, fossil fuel companies were some of the main sponsors of the negotiations with promotional booths promoting “clean coal” and natural gas strategically positioned throughout the halls, a clear conflict of interest. Angered by the scale of inaction embedded within the text of the agreements after 2 whole weeks of negotiations, we had to take bold protest action to demand our voices be heard. SustainUS joined forces with other grassroots activists from around the globe to co-organize a large walk-out of over 400 civil society delegates to send a clear message to the UN we disapproved and were deeply disappointed with the process. Asked to be one of the main MCs for the mobilization, I overcame my fear and anxieties of public speaking to bring light to my truth and the needs of my communities, knowing this would be a prime opportunity to heal many of the wounds from my past.
Returning home after the negotiations left me with a few important realizations and learnings. Black queer people are among the most resilient and adaptive I know. We know what it is like to be forced out of our homes, to make the most of the least, to fight everyday just to survive. We need to be at the forefront of the solutions to the climate crisis, not government officials who are far removed from the conditions of reality. The Talks are more than just an arena of dialogue, they are a space and opportunity for us to fight for the liberation of marginalized people all around the world. However, the negotiations will not provide us with the action and solutions we need, we must also root ourselves in local communities and work tirelessly to make sure those most subject to violence and harm are part of the conversation and steer the direction and strategy of our movements. We are on a journey to reclaim our right to control our bodies, resources, and fate of our communities. We must come together across struggles, ancestries, cultures, and identities to envision and create a world that will work for all of us, and not the few.
Phillip Brown is a queer non-binary femme immigrant originally from Kingston, Jamaica, where they birthed 18 years of life in deep relationship with the earth for survival, protection, and resilience. They are a creative writer, poet, and spoken word performer who comes alive as a fierce organizer, healer, and facilitator committed to powerful storytelling centering QTPOC (queer trans people of color) voices in the struggle to transform our societies towards collective for freedom and liberation. Their writing seeks to explore how the earth itself reclaims queerness as core to its healing through its relationships with POC bodies. They’ve worked on the local, national, and international scale with organizations including the Better Future Project, SustainUS, Sunrise, and the Sierra Student Coalition. As such, they find joy, passion, and fulfillment in developing curriculum and trainings for climate and environmental justice youth programs to hold space for POC youth to explore their leadership potential, deepen their creative practice, and empower themselves to heal. Their work has been featured in numerous magazines and news-outlets, including Teen Vogue and Grist.org, Ottar Magazine (in Sweden), Nowthis, and Vice. You can learn more about their work on Instagram by following them @palexbr.
