2021

Sanctuary Speaker Series

Harry rooster at Farm Sanctuary.

2021

Sanctuary Speaker Series

Our modern industrialized food system is at the core of some of the most pressing issues of our time: Animal cruelty on an unimaginable scale. Environmental destruction. Human rights violations. Community devastation. Public health crises. To make substantive change, we need to work fast and pursue bold solutions—together.

Join Farm Sanctuary for our virtual Sanctuary Speaker Series: Inspiring discussions with the change-makers and thought leaders whose ideas and actions move our mission forward.

Through one-on-one discussions with advocates, academics, environmentalists, entrepreneurs, and more, we’ll highlight the diverse strategies that fuel our shared goal of a more just and compassionate world.

The views and opinions expressed by speakers in this series are those of the individual and do not necessarily reflect the views, opinions, or official policy of Farm Sanctuary.

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Pride Roundtable Discussion

Sanctuary Speaker Series: Pride Roundtable Discussion
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Transcript

Hello, everyone. Welcome to another Sanctuary Speakers Series conversation. My name is Miko, and I am Farm Sanctuary's Senior Manager of Social Justice Programs. And we are very excited to be able to host our incredible speakers who we have joining us today for a Pride roundtable discussion. Thank you all so much for joining us.


Joining us today, we have LoriKim Alexander, Zane McNeill, Amy Quichiz, and Pattrice Jones of VINE Sanctuary. And you'll have the opportunity to hear and learn more about each of our speakers throughout the conversation today. And on the Farm Sanctuary's Sanctuary Speakers website, you can also access each of their bios there to find out more information about them as well.


And pattrice has actually generously offered to facilitate the conversation today so that I could participate. So pattrice will primarily be the one asking questions and guiding our conversation for today. So with that, I will go ahead and turn it on over to you, pattrice, to get us started.


Thanks so much, Miko, and I'm so, so excited by Farm Sanctuary's Speaker Series, and I'm so excited that Farm Sanctuary is putting together programs like this. So shout-out to Farm Sanctuary from VINE Sanctuary. To start us off, we'll start slow. Miko and I, we're both curious to hear more or to hear something from each person about your personal experience of Pride, what that is, what that has been, and that's because this is a Pride roundtable.


I can go ahead and go first. So Pride for me is actually, sort of, interesting, because I didn't really grow up with it as a concept. Being from West Virginia, I didn't even really understand that gender queerness or transness existed until I went to a camp called Sprog, that Sierra Student Coalition held.


And that was the actual first time I really understood or-- people introduced themselves by pronouns. I just had never experienced it before. And so from that time, it's been almost a decade, and it's been so, so very different, what Pride is. And so I like holding space for that while also recognizing that there are a lot of problems with Pride as an institution that I imagine we're going to be talking about later.


And so it's a space for me to feel like I can exist and I can find myself. It's affirming. It's a space that says, hey, you know, there is freedom here. It's revolutionary, and that's really what I think Pride should be-- is inherently destabilizing and revolutionary.


And so that, plus the wideness-- I mean, in Orlando right now, and everything is lit up with rainbow colors. It means a lot, but at the same time, if BB&T is lit up with rainbow colors, what does that mean? But so that's what I'm thinking about right now with Pride in general.


Yeah. For me, I'm from Jackson Heights, Queens. And when I was a kid, I also didn't know that there was a Pride celebration until I was in my parents' car, and I remember driving by the parade that always happens in Queens. And I remember my mom making a snarky comment, and at the time, I didn't identify yet as bisexual, even though I knew I was some type of queer.


But I remember saying, hey, don't say that. And I was so young, too. I was like, don't say that about them. They're literally just out in the streets, having a great time, celebrating themselves. And I didn't even know. I was probably, like, seven or eight, and even then, I already knew.


And I remember then growing up and going to the New York City Pride in Manhattan for the first time. I remember going with my friends, and I thought it was such a blast seeing everybody outside, but then I also felt like it was very corporate, with all the banks and stuff, and it was just a lot.


But then, when I went with my partner to the queer Queens Pride, it was amazing, because it was my people, and it was just so, so beautiful. And I think that probably, to me, it really is about celebrating myself, my people, the queer community, and getting to be yourself and, kind of, going back against everything that you grow up hearing from parents or family members, from people in general, and combating that, and loving yourself and honoring yourself.


I love that so much. You know, so I was born and raised in Jamaica. And I think unfortunately, our reputation as being intensely homophobic and transphobic precedes us, like many countries in the Caribbean. There are sodomy laws on the books, and it's mandatory jail time. So there's a lot of good work being done.


I just want to shout out J-FLAG, TransWave Jamaica, organizations like this that are doing really good work to push against those laws and the mores of the country. So I'm saying all that to say, I came to this country at 13. I came out at 14 in 1990 in New York City.


And so it was, kind of, how it just happened organically. And I didn't get to go to Pride, though, that year. And I wonder. I wonder what it would have been like. I've always wondered what it would have been like to go as a Black child to Manhattan Pride specifically-- is what I'm talking about, in 1990. I probably would not have had any space to be, not really.


So when I think about Pride and what it's supposed to mean and what actually happens, I find myself square in that margin of, this might not be for me. You know, because even those corporations that come through, they don't care about me. Maybe now, maybe now when they're afraid of getting a brick through their window, but not before.


So my first Pride was four years later as one of the co-presidents and founders of Pace University Stonewall Coalition. Man, we were so bad. We were just so bad. That was a Black-led org. And it wasn't even intentional. It just that's what happened.


You know, the Black dykes came, and said, oh, the org is failing. Let's put it together. You know? And everyone came, and it was mostly BIPOC in that organization, and that's how we do things. That's how we've always done things.


So when I think about Pride, I think about that day as an 18-year-old. And I'm going to try real hard not to get emotional, because it's too early in the conversation. But you know, I think of that 18-year-old. I found a little flagette uniform out of the dollar bin at an East Village consignment shop.


I put on the rainbow flag on my body. The fact that I could touch a rainbow flag and have it draped across me, my heart was so big. I was so proud. I felt 10 feet tall. You know, I had on glittered Doc Martens. Nobody could tell me not a thing.


And we stomped down that 5th Avenue street all the way from way at the top of Manhattan to all the way down to Christopher Street, and folks who don't know Manhattan-- that's almost the whole thing. Just think of the entire island. And so it was beautiful to be there. And I was galvanized, because the day before, I'd been at the Dyke March. And that was the Dyke March, the first year that you could go topless in New York City.


And so some of us were like, OK, yes, but because the cops were-- they weren't aware, so they were arresting people for doing that. And so several of us got arrested, you know. Luckily, I was not one of those people, because an 18-year-old undocumented person in a jail for being queer in the street? Right? We can all understand what that would mean.


So I remember all of that, and I remember the joy and the liberation of being in glorious Black lesbian space, because I was surrounded. Automatically, as soon as I took my top off, automatically, there was a-- somehow, I was surrounded by Black women, right? Because we keep ourselves safe in that way. Somehow, those cameras and-- you know, and it was gay nudes! Gay nudes is a thing, right?


And before that, the week before that, I was galvanized by the Brooklyn Pride. Brooklyn Pride was very Black and Brown, but mostly Black. And it was just a beautiful sight to behold. I felt lovely, and in the area of Brooklyn where people have routinely been stopped-- or at the time, have routinely been stopped for being gay and especially trans, right?


So I'm going on a long time just to make sure you have some grounding in the realities that a lot of us face going to Pride as Black people and as BIPOC in general, right? So there are these beautiful moments, but in general, a lot of the memories are tainted by interactions with the cops that didn't need to happen, tainted by the fact that everything, everything-- all the parties were so expensive, so expensive.


And they don't provide food, you know. So if you've been out all day in the sun with no food, guess what? You're going to have to find these high-priced food. And then, what's on top of it? It's gay white men, all of them-- gay, cisgender men, you know.


And so that was the reality of all the parties and all the spaces. Now, it's very different, and I love what is happening. I love the becoming of community. Before we started recording, pattrice, you talked about family, the fact that you asked somebody, are you family?


Ah, that's my favorite. That's my favorite thing. And that's my favorite greeting-- peace and love, family, right? Because this is how we make our way. And so I will stop talking, because Miko needs to say something.


I'm appreciating this conversation so much already and want to really invite y'all to take up all this space and go on for as long as you want and truly share honestly, and I'm appreciating what you're sharing already. And you know, I go by Miko, but I think when I think of my past self, her name was Kameke. And it's so interesting to revisit this freshly now and what Pride means for me.


Because I think one of the things that I really value is this idea of liberatory spaces, these kinds of spaces that we carve out for ourselves, where we can access a greater sense of freedom or liberation than what really exists beyond those spaces for us. And within these liberatory spaces, we have liberatory relationships with each other, where we, kind of, reflect back to each other our fullness and the wholeness of who we are, worthiness, all of that. And so that's an idea that's really important to me.


And something that I'm also being with and reflecting on in my past experience and what Pride meant for me-- what's coming to mind is this memory of this young person who, coming into her queerness at the time-- and even for myself, I don't experience myself as having any gender, so I don't use gender pronouns for myself, but when I think of this past person and her experience, it was really one of coming into queerness, particularly in San Francisco, because I was living in San Francisco at the time. And this person who, it felt like, was operating in this kind of bubble of safety that she had created for herself, going to the gay clubs in San Francisco and going to Pride and feeling joy in that and being able to explore this part of myself, and also recognizing that it wasn't for me, but still being able to access that.


And in retrospect, I recognize that that's a Black survival skill, right? That-- oh, I'm navigating these spaces that weren't meant for me, and yet I'm able to be here and take what works for me and leave the rest. And that was, kind of, the experience. Like, I was able to access it when I needed it, and it meant something for me, coming into my queerness, in this space with all these white, gay, cisgender men and this woman who I loved, and being able to explore that and experience that.


And that meant something to me. And even-- I'm remembering, for one of my birthdays, my mom came out to visit me, and I was living in New Jersey. And she went with me to Pride. I was like, we're going to pride in New York City, and she came with me, and that meant so much to me.


You know, Pride was what it was and all of that, but this moment that I was sharing with me, my mom, and my sister friend, and what we were having together in that space meant so, so much. And now, I think, as a person who I am today, Pride has those fond memories for me, in terms of those relationships and those moments that I created with the people that I loved, those liberty moments. And now, I think I really experience it as more this pride, this sense of pride, and who I am as a Black queer person.


I am so proud specifically to be a Black queer person because of this lineage that I am connected to-- James Baldwin, Audre Lorde, Marsha P. Johnson, all of these people. And I just feel that strength with me, you know, that legacy of who they are and all the people who are present now. That is what I associate with Pride-- is this kind of tapestry that I'm connected to across time of all these people who in their queerness and their transness and their gender expansiveness are showing up in the world and being their authentic selves, and just what that requires and calls forth for us.


So it's like, yeah, there's this whole Pride corporate thing, whitewashed, all of that, but there's something in my experiencing of survival where I just navigate the world in the ways that work for me, loving the people who I love, loving myself and creating spaces for myself in that way. So that's what really resonates for me, especially in hearing what you all shared as well.


I would also like to add-- sorry, just hearing everybody's comments has been so incredible to hear, and I really resonate with everything y'all said. And I think that even when we're talking about Pride, I think that, like LoriKim mentioned, the New York City Pride is very white men-- gay men, specifically-- out in the streets, throwing the parade. And I remember one specific Pride in 2016, when Pulse Orlando happened. It was-- it was so devastating.


I came home, and I remember leaving with my flag and my mom being like, where are you going? Why are you going over there? You know, it's so dangerous, now with this, what happened, and I'm like, yeah, more than anything, I have to go out there.


And I remember crying, and I remember crying to her, and I was like, you know, that could have been me. Like, it was all Black and Latinx folks that passed. And I remember going to the parade, and I remember seeing marchers wearing all-white, with all the names to remember them by, and I felt like it was the most I've ever seen people of color speak at the parade, because of what happened.


And I think that it's so sad that basically the mic was given to people of color at Pride when something devastating happened and not always centering our voices at Pride. And I remember going back home and honestly just crying, because I have never experienced a Pride like that before, until obviously, I found the Queens Pride, and I was like, wow, this is more me. But it was just really sad and devastating how they just center our voices when something like this happens.


Wow, this has been deep already, from just an introductory question. And I'll just say, for me, as someone who went to the 10th anniversary of Stonewall March in 1979 as a 17-year-old when they, as far as I know, weren't yet calling it Pride, and who actually got really annoyed when they started calling it Pride-- which to me seemed so corporate in the 1980s. And then, I saw that the-- so I actually feel like, LoriKim, if you had been there in 1979 with my crew who drove up from Baltimore over-night, drunk, to go, you would have fit right in.


It was a really queer-- the 1979 march that I attended, whether or not some people had started calling it Pride, was gay liberation as far as we were concerned. And you would have fit in just great. You know, and then I started to feel uncomfortable, but then came AIDS, and ACT UP busted out, you know, so I'm not even sure.


You might have been comfortable in '94, because ACT UP was still-- like, in '91, '92, and '93, ACT UP was messing with the Pride parade a good bit. But then, after, that's when the Human Rights Campaign, which doesn't even have gay or queer or anything in the name, took over nationally, and the people started marching for marriage and-- let's be in the military. And you know, it was only then that-- so then, it goes right and corporatizing.


So I just have-- like, I can't even with it. But to hear-- for me, at least, to hear that-- oh, and there weren't rainbow flags, right? The rainbow didn't even come in till late 1980s, early 1990s, and there was some fuss about whether the queers were taking it from Jesse Jackson's Rainbow Coalition. So that was a whole other drama.


But to me, to hear that, for folks-- even with the corporate, even with all of it, that folks are able to seize that feeling of pride that Miko talked about, that feeling of fabulousness that LoriKim talked about-- to me, that's really heartening. I mean, of course, things are going to be dreadful and dreary in some ways, because we're fighting against this giant system, but that revolutionary spark has not in fact been drowned out by the corporations and that younger people who go to Pride can still feel that-- that really means something to me. Even if I don't hear anything else in this conversation, I'm really happy to have heard that.


But you know, we have lots more to talk about, and I'm going to skip to one of the questions that Miko came up with, which was the question of the power of sanctuary. So Miko and I, we actually both work at formal sanctuaries, but a refuge doesn't have to be-- lots of places can be sanctuaries. So what Miko wanted to know is, when you think of the power of sanctuary, what does that mean for you?


Considering your experience as a queer, trans, gender-expansive person, your overall lived experience in the context of veganism and farmed animal sanctuaries-- wow, that's a lot-- how do you see the sanctuary? What does sanctuary mean to you? And since we're doing this for Farm Sanctuary, what things about that should those of us who are running sanctuaries take on board?


I think it's really interesting, what you were saying, Miko, because as a trans non-binary dude, I think of ways I existed in my past life. I think of-- she was a bi girl. And so I was actually interning at Farm Sanctuary one summer in, it must have been, like, 2015, 2014. And I didn't even start thinking through gender, but it was a space where-- it was at Watkins Glen, and so you're there all summer, and there's no internet service that really works.


There's no real phone service. I would hula hoop next to the pig pen all the while just to get my phone to work. We watched all the Gilmore Girls on VHS, because there was nothing else to do, and then we had bonfires. And I think all of us, kind of, were queer in an unspoken way, but we hadn't quite understood that, because we were all very young. We were all 18 to 20.


But we all, kind of, held that space, and it wasn't the main thing we were thinking about at all, because you couldn't have guests over. We were all just from other places in the country, all this farm, and none of us had cars, right? But having that space to learn about each animal's personality and feel safe in that, having space to be able to feel safe walking up and down at night and actually see the heat storms roll in, or reading next to where the chickens were dustbathing-- none of that was inherently queer, but it was very freeing in a way that I had never really felt before, and it was really safe.


And so when I think of sanctuary and security and liberation, I'm so glad Farm Sanctuary is having these conversations now. Because these weren't really conversations we were having in 2014, but it was still creating the space for queer people to be able to engage in multispecies relationships, to work with animals, to work with nature, and hold space for ourselves and start that kind of exploration. And so not only was Farm Sanctuary such a transformative space for the animals that we were lucky enough to come to know, but I'm sure, as it was for me, it was for everyone else who interned there and stepped foot there as well.


So I think, as the founder of Veggie Mijas-- Veggie Mijas is a folks-of-color collective, queer-folks-of-color collective, where we talk about our plant-based lifestyles and our marginalized identities and how they intersect. I started Veggie Mijas with a sense of-- I needed more friends, I just needed a couple of friends to connect and to speak about my vegan journey, our vegan journey, and provide plant-based options in our hoods. And I remember even telling my partner, this is something I want to be really small, nothing big, just me and some queer people together to eat good food.


And now, it's turned into a whole collective with over 14 chapters where people get together and do a bunch of events for climate, environmental, and food justice. And most of our events are also the entry points of having picnics and potlucks, and if you all know the history of potlucks, it's very queer-centered and specifically lesbian-centered, where it has been a space where people have gotten together to eat delicious food and talk about some real stuff. And I think that food has always been something that has been used to create safer spaces, especially when we're talking about queer and trans folks that often get kicked out of their homes or don't have a good relationship with food, et cetera, et cetera, and come together for their chosen family to eat amazing food.


And obviously, as queer people get together, we're already challenging this heteronormative life, so it's no surprise that we come together and talk about our food choices, our critiques, and capitalism, and what they're doing to the animals, and all of that good and bad stuff, while eating plant-based foods. And I think that it has-- while we can't compare, because it's definitely super different-- the sanctuary of a person, a queer trans person, a queer trans person of color, versus animals-- I think that we can definitely talk about how there is some kind of similarity of the concept as to having a safe space, having people you trust, having animals trust you. And yeah, and I think that food is just super, super important, and it's a way that people can connect, and it's a place where people can also advocate for the animals as well.


I think that-- well, first of all, yes, Veggie Mijas! I was supposed to be doing a workshop for Veggie Mijas, right as the pandemic hit, and I was like, oh, no! It was rough. So we can work it out, though. We can work it out.


Anyhow, I feel like this question had to be deep. It had to be. You can't have a shallow conversation about a word like sanctuary, a story word, a word that, around the world of cultures-- and I would say that includes the cultures of different species of non-humans. And that's not anthropomorphizing. That's actively watching animals, watching non-humans live their lives, and not trying to put anything on them.


But there are different cultures of birds. That's just one example. You can have one species of songbird, and they have regional dialects, all different dialects. Now, is there space for that bird in the woods, in somebody else's woods, comfortably? Maybe, maybe not.


But when they're in their region, you know, they're able to communicate freely. They're able to be in space with each other. And then, also-- so when I think about sanctuary, I think about the reality of the fact that-- when I ask you the question, who keeps us safe, what's the answer? Y'all can all [AUDIO OUT] if you know the answer.


Who keeps us safe? That was the question?


Who keeps us safe?


Who keeps us safe? Hmm, I feel like I don't know the answer to that.


Well, OK. And you know what? We have to sit with that, right? When I think of the answer to that, immediately, I think we keep us safe. We the folks have always kept ourselves safe. We the folks have always held everybody else.


And when I say the folks-- the folks who have always had to navigate unsafe spaces. So I think truly, for me, I have always, kind of, felt safer in non-human space. There is no kind of foolishness there. There's no artifice.


There is of upfront direct conversation, heart to heart, always, even with the ones with behavioral issues that they don't understand-- and it's not even behavioral issues. They don't understand you, and they're not trying to. You know? That's not their fault.


And so I have felt decidedly more at peace with, quote unquote, "wild animal spaces." Because those spaces have no borders, really, except for the ones that have been physically placed, you know. And usually, when we're in space with wildlife, they provide so much space for you out of whatever-- fear, memories, or just intention.


You have space to be, and I will be over here. You know? We could learn a lot from those interactions. And anyone that has sat with non-humans, and specifically wild ones, knows that peace of, thank you for allowing me to be in your space, and thank you for being in space with me.


And so I think about that, and then I think about what it's like to hold space for QTBIPOC folks-- queer and trans, Black, indigenous, people of color-- people of the global majority, let's be clear. And it's always a hard-fought space. Why we gotta fight so hard to be in space with each other?


And so I have always felt that we've been so far in the margin, so far in the margin, that whenever we hold space, it is just this glorious expression. It's a transcendent space, and we just inherently call all our ancestors in. And so I think that what is lacking, though, in sanctuary spaces-- spaces that are specifically deemed sanctuary spaces-- is introspection.


A lot of times, these spaces are started by cis white folks who really just want to be a good person and want to do the right thing, and that's lovely. However, you can't do the right thing without talking to all the people, and so invariably, you end up talking to other people who mean well and want to do the right thing, but invariably, the wrong thing happens. And when it does, it's better not to triage, but to long-road a conversation.


Is it time now to buck up this table and build a new one, having invited folks at the start of creation a new table? Zane knows how I feel about this, because I don't want to be included, right? Don't include me. 'Cause you know I've been here. We've been here. So don't try to be inclusive.


Because invariably, you're going to leave somebody out, because you don't realize that you've already left us out. You forgot. You forgot the words we gave you. You forgot the fight we gave you. You forgot the traditions that unfortunately were co-opted or stolen. So that's just one of the things to think about.


Do that work, do that deep work, and sit in the discomfort of that word. It's possible. It's possible. It is absolutely possible to listen to the voices of the folks who have been silenced. If you can do your very best to center non-humans, you can do your very best to center the most marginalized of humans as well, right?


So the other thing that I'm thinking of is that we cannot separate ourselves from our identities. So we may need sanctuary in multiple ways, you know. Sanctuary can look like x one day and y the other, and we have to allow for that flexibility. That does not come from settler-colonial structures. It never will.


And a lot of our spaces are nonprofits that are built upon that structure. That structure is inherently oppressive and just a shit-show. Let's just be very honest. So what is important is to consider all the ways.


Consider, have we done harm? Let's look at restorative justice processes. How do we collect? Let's look at non-hierarchical structures. Who is getting paid? Let's look at where we have some gaps in pay. You know, these just very simple things.


And I'm saying these things, because I don't get to say them often. Nobody's asking. Nobody's asked me. So I'm grateful for that part of the question. You know, I really am grateful for that part of the question.


And lastly, I will say that Black and Brown space is sacred, sacred sanctuary. We can have all the deep conversations, we can be and live, and they should be lauded as such. And so it's not an exclusion of anyone but a centering of ourselves as we've always had to do to keep ourselves in.


Hmm. Yeah. Yeah, I'm just really holding all of what you all have shared. And LoriKim, that question, who keeps us safe-- oh, that's sitting with me. Oh, that's sitting with me. And I'm trying not to get emotional, which is absolutely OK to as well, but I want to make sure that I can articulate what's coming here.


Because what comes up for me is a conversation that I had with a group of folks who I feel I have loving community with. And what came up was a reflection on the killing of Daunte Wright, who was a young Black boy who was killed, and this conversation where his aunt is speaking about our collective loss, losing him. And I have five niblings, five nephews.


And what I was being with was, how do we fortify the Daunte Wrights in our life, right? And you know, this question of who keeps us safe-- I think of the Black folks-- Breonna Taylor in her own home, walking into your-- being in your own home, you know. So it feels like this endeavoring we're doing to try to keep ourselves safe, and then even in our own spaces that we create for ourselves that we have ourselves, there still really isn't that safety.


And so that safety is really something deeper that we give each other, which makes me, again, think about this idea of these liberatory spaces, these liberatory relationships, and how we bolster each other with what comes there. But also being with this question here and why liberatory spaces feel so important to me-- and I think I was aware of this idea before I actually was being with this language of liberatory spaces. But when I was an undergrad, I was doing a thesis around, how do Black women develop a positive identity of themselves despite the narratives that exist about them that are anything but positive?


And what emerged is that they had these liberatory spaces, relationships, communities, and practices that supported them in being able to access that resilience and access this positive self-image in a meaningful way. And when I first came to Farm Sanctuary as an intern, I was coming from doing a national service program where we had spent 10 months doing direct service in a variety of different communities who had invited us in. And so I was really embedded in these different communities who were experiencing the worst of so many different issues that are affecting communities and people throughout our country, and had also come into my queerness at the same time.


And so it was at this moment of-- there are so many issues in the world, you know. How do we fix-- how do we address that? How do we heal this? And then, who am I? Where is my place within all of this?


And coming to Farm Sanctuary-- it was a northern California shelter at the time, when we had that. You drive past all of these farms, where there are fellow animals there who are going to be killed for food. And then, you arrive at this one place here, and you pull in, and it's a sanctuary, where there are animals there who are living out their lives, who are still in a relationship with their family and community members, who are treated with care and respect.


And intentionally, that is what our work is-- this caring for them. And what I was really moved by was the potential of that idea, that there can exist this world beyond what is oppressive or unjust and all these ways, and we can create these pockets of community, where we explore alternative, more just and compassionate ways of being, and where we practice it. And in this practicing, not always getting it right-- but our commitment is to the practice, to cultivating these communities of practice, where we live into these new realities. And so that is why that is what the power of sanctuary represents to me-- this opportunity for us to cultivate these communities of practice with that intention.


Also recognizing, too, that that idea of safety is such an interesting one, particularly with animal sanctuaries, which are often located in rural communities that are largely white and not necessarily safe for folks. Like, I know for myself and all of the-- in two of the sanctuary communities that I lived in, have faced housing discrimination, or losing housing or seeing Confederate flags or other things that in my body made me feel not safe, or folks visiting the sanctuaries and not feeling safe. And so there's really this nuance and this complexity, but I think what really encompasses sanctuary is our willingness to be with all of that together, so that way, we can move toward a more liberatory reality for everyone. So really, that shared intention and that being in community together is what resonates.


There's so much richness that has been said here, and so I'm not even going to try to summarize, but I wrote down a few things. And I did find myself having an idea, so I'm going to go ahead and share it. So for those who don't know, I am a co-founder of VINE Sanctuary, which is an LGBTQ-founded and -staffed farmed animal sanctuary. The preponderance of our staff are queer, trans, gender-expansive, and the preponderance of our staff are people with disabilities.


I am white. Miriam, the co-founder, is Arab-American. And we try specific-- we do things a lot differently than other farmed animal sanctuaries, and one of the things we try to do is make it a-- think of ourselves as a multispecies community that's a safe-enough space for everybody, including the humans. And I'm not saying we succeed, but we certainly incorporated race, gender, sexual orientation, class, everything we can, into our analysis and into our work for 20-some years now.


But I have two things. I'm just so excited by this, so please-- so when LoriKim said, if you do your very best to center-- I'm going to slightly misquote you, because I couldn't write down the exact words. If you do your very best to center non-human animals, then you should be able to do your very best to center the most marginalized people, humans. Something like that, yes? Yes.


And I was writing it down, just because it was a great quote. But then, I was stopped, because I realized that the sanctuaries who are most resistant to centering marginalized people actually don't center non-human animals either. They center themselves in a certain narcissistic way, where they're, sort of, interested in being seen as good people.


And I'm not saying they don't sincerely care for and love the non-human animals, but you often-- some of the differences that I see when I think of how we do things-- a real simple one is that we never, ever, ever refer to non-human animals who are adults as babies, or any infantilizing terms. And we try to make sure-- like, if you look on our social media, you'll see animals in relationship with each other, whereas with these sanctuaries that resist-- also looking at what they would consider as other issues-- they're often centering-- it's always a person holding an animal or petting it.


There's this focus on the people, people, people. So I just had this idea. I need to think it through, but I wanted to share that with you, because I think that we maybe can get somewhere if we-- because my sense is that if we did a better job of truly centering non-human animals, rather than our human egos, then that gives us a place from which it is easier to extend caring concern to other marginalized folks and to center them in our thinking, rather than centering ourselves. I don't know if that makes sense, but that's what I was thinking.


And then, sort of, to toss it back to the group, one thing that Zane said was talking about feeling safe in relationship with non-human animals and feeling safe-ish at Farm Sanctuary despite the fact that it's at Watkins Glen, and despite the fact that at that point, they weren't being quite so proactive about attending to race or gender or sexual orientation. And you felt comfortable being in relationships with animals that were unlike relationships with animals you'd had before, right?


And so then, I was thinking, is there something queer-- not in the sexual sense. Is there something queer about-- what I'm actually talking about when I say centering non-human animals and having a relationship that's peer-to-peer, that's seeing similarities while also seeing differences and appreciating those beautiful differences-- is there something queer about our impulse to have those kinds of relationships with animals? Do you think so? And if so, then do we maybe try to make the animal liberation movement more queer?


And by more queer, are you meaning, incorporating queer tactics, approaches, and lens-- like a queer lens-- in all of that?


Yes, in the widest possible sense. I mean, of course, also elevating the voices of the LGBTQ folks who have been here all along, but a lot more than diversity initiative-type raising up of our voices. But really, what would it be like to queer what we're trying to do here?


I'm really excited about that idea, because the way I came into understanding my identity was actually through queer theory. I was reading all these theorists, and I was like, oh my god, you know, this makes sense to me. I think I was taking this class, and it wasn't until the last week that I realized, oh, queer is more than just sexuality or romance or even identity, but it can be a way of existing or seeing yourself in the world.


And I immediately think about-- when I was at Farm Sanctuary, I built this really-- I felt that I had this really great relationship with this pig named Eric, who-- he was, sort of, isolated also, because he had a kind of-- his mom had stepped on his leg, and so he wasn't able to move around. And so all the rest of the other pigs would-- the way they would associate with him because he was very-- they're very hierarchical. And they're very human-like in a way that I almost feel seen and that I can see in other people.


And so Eric and I-- he was in a pen by himself, and I would sit in it all of my-- every lunch. So I would feed him watermelons, and I would rub his tummy, and I never really had that sort of vulnerability with any other staff or any other people or any of the other animals, other than Eric. And I feel like, thinking back on it, that's probably something that was relatively queer, not just because I think we are able to have spaces where we can imagine different ways of existing and different sort of relationships and imagined futures together-- which is why I feel so thankful to be in this space right now.


Because I feel very inspired to imagine the solidarity enacted right now in this space. And so my relationship with Eric was really that. I felt more seen with him than with anyone else. And to this day, my relationship with him was probably one of the most intimate relationships I've ever felt like I've had.


And so thank you so much for sharing that idea. I was so excited to talk about that. But then, when I was thinking, hearing everyone else speak-- my experience at Farm Sanctuary-- I was walking through these spaces as a white person, as a person who's read as cis. I was in a very, very white space, and so I was thinking, I don't even remember any people of color being there, you know, and how my idea of safety in that space was inherently connected probably to my whiteness and the way I was navigating that space.


So I imagine Farm Sanctuary now has been very proactive about that. I think it's difficult in all these different spaces to really make sure that they are as safe as possible and finding actually as feasible as possible. Farm Sanctuary, when I was an intern, didn't pay, and so I was able to live off of, like, $600 my college gave me for the whole summer.


But obviously, it's just like other internships in the NGO spaces that are completely unaffordable and inaccessible for so many people. And in non-profit spaces as well, workers' rights are usually the last-- we give it all up for the animals, right? You're not doing enough for the animals in NGO spaces in general, and then obviously, with BIPOC populations and queer populations, specifically.


Zane, when you said, oh, you're like, it's not inherently queer space. I was like, yes, it is! It really is. It is, it is, it is. That's what queerness is, right? It's not just a catch-all umbrella for LGBTQIA+.


Queer is revolution. Queer is the alternative to the status quo. Queer is anything that is going to push, push at the margins, push out the walls, push at the bubble. And I think that I loved just that sound bite, Pattrice. Can we queer the animal liberation movement? Yes!


Can we just acknowledge that it's inherently queer any way? You've been doing queer work. Sorry to tell you about it. Sorry about it. Like, it's just-- you know what I mean? It's just, this is the reality, you know.


And it's not a co-optation of anyone's theory or whatever else. It's just the reality of things. And so why does that have to be a separate entity, a separate anything? Why can't we just all be talking about it as, we've queered the space, and have it be that adjective, that verb, that noun? Like, why can't it just be and not be a special box that we're gonna check in the checking?


I'm going to jump in as a facilitator and ask for a show of hands if we declare right now that the animal liberation movement is now queer.


It's always been queer.


Oh yeah.


Always queer.


Then, that's it for now. All of this is just so beautiful. So many ideas. And some of you know I've been moderating queer animal liberation workshops for, like, 20 years. And every time, new things come up, and this is the newest of all.


I'm telling you this is-- and whenever that happens, I feel just this pinging in my brain, as all the different things that people have said are rattling around inside me, and then intermingling with other things I've heard other people say, and things that I've thought, and things that I've read. And it's so effervescent and exciting for me. And I feel like it's been exciting for all of us to be here.


And I really-- so a takeaway that I hope others will have is just the power of collective cognition, the power-- that none of us can possibly figure out the stuff we need to do by ourselves. It's all way too complicated for one brain to comprehend, and just the power that happens when folks are in a safe enough space to have a real conversation-- and the beauty and power of that is, I hope, what people take away. And I also for sure want people to take away the fact that animal liberation is already queer and could be even queerer. And back to you, Miko.


Amazing. This has been so rich, so beautiful. Thank you all so much to our speakers for everything that you shared, for sharing so openly, honestly. Pattrice, thank you for facilitating and sharing as well. Really appreciate the opportunity to hear and be in conversation with you all, and I hope that this isn't the last time.


And to our audience, I want to encourage you all to check out and find out more about each of our speakers. Again, their bios are on the website. We had LoriKim Alexander, pattrice jones, Amy Quichiz, and Zane McNeill joining us today. So I hope that you all enjoy the conversation and want to encourage folks to also go to FarmSanctuary.org to be able to access our previous Sanctuary Speakers Series conversations, and to also find out more about forthcoming events, programming, and other opportunities. So thank you all again so much for joining us.


AMY QUICHIZ: Thank y'all so much. Bye, y'all. Have a great day.

In recognition of Pride Month, this Sanctuary Speaker Series features LGBTQIA+ vegan organizers as well as nonprofit and community leaders in a virtual one-hour roundtable discussion. They reflect on topics such as the history and evolution of Pride, the queer and trans People of Color who are and have been core leaders in the LGBTQIA+ and vegan movements, how the speakers understand racial justice within the context of their veganism, and how being a part of the queer community has helped them to understand the Power of Sanctuary.

The discussion is co-facilitated by pattrice jones of VINE Sanctuary and Miko Brown of Farm Sanctuary and includes panelists Amy Quichiz of Veggie Mijas; LoriKim Alexander of Black Vegfest; and Z. Zane McNeill, activist, author, and former Farm Sanctuary intern.

About the Speakers

Miko Brown

Miko Brown

Co-Facilitator

Pattrice Jones

pattrice jones

Co-Facilitator

LoriKim

LoriKim Alexander

Panelist

Z. Zane McNeill

Z. Zane McNeill

Panelist

Amy Quichiz

Amy Quichiz

Panelist