I don't need credit, I needed opportunity.
the realest and last musing on this topic. the social change sector is very much like McDonald’s these days.
yesterday, i applied to be an office manager.
doubt i’ll get it.
i should change my hair color. be more respectable. maybe that’s the problem.
i wish i could delete my presence on the internet.
how do i take transgender out of the name of the transgender district so recruiters actually call me back?
maybe i shouldn’t have moved? but like sam francisco foundation won’t even hire me to be a fellow so what would i have stayed for? for community? HA.
fuck the movement. it’s all bullshit anyway.
i should just sell pretty dresses on instagram. that’s the ticket.
yeah- but these heauxs wouldn’t support me doing that either. next time they’ll support me is when i’m dead. then they’ll say “give her flowers”.
should i do instacart? doordash? ugh, there’s a waitlist.
i really should burn these proclamations and awards and photos. toss them in the bin.
why did i ever give meaning to these things?
why did the phone stop ringing? now i have to fire my agent. where is the work?
I debated sharing this piece, as it was written on May 12th, 2024- exactly a year ago.
I am grateful I’m in a much better headspace now, but back then, a year ago, I was navigating immense self doubt and depression and suicidal ideation. for six months, i contemplated. this is from that time and era.
i’ve decided to share it anyway. i hope someone who is navigating a challenging time- or feeling betrayed, unsupported by those close to them, and or in a deep state of questioning: give it time.
if no one hires you, create your own job, like I did. i’d starve if i waited to these people to hand me opportunity.
my entire career, I created my own.
that was a lesson I had to have reaffirmed.
I’ll never forget when The White House featured me on their website as a “leader to watch”.
This was during the OBAMA administration, and gay marriage hadn’t yet passed- and the administration was working more diligently to platform leaders, rising stars and the like- a campaign to shift paradigms about queer people in the United States- a push for inclusion as the stakes for equality felt impossible.
I was angry.
I had been working in housing justice and HIV prevention for years now. Running drop-in centers, supporting my community when crisis came and no one in their world had the coolness of a cucumber or resources to support them.
I sat with numerous trans women in welfare offices, or homeless shelter lobbies, their possessions stuffed in trash bags and grocery shopping bags, at their wits end.
Needing and craving a stability that felt impossible.
The platforming- and acknowledgement, came at a time when I had an eviction notice on my door.
No one except my close friends and family knew that my own displacement was imminent.
The sheriff had placed the unlawful detainer on my door and knocked like the police, demanding that I verify the receipt of the court ordered documents. I was scrambling: case managing my sisters in their time of need and yet, I had no place to call home anymore.
It was the blind leading the blind.
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I remember the sheriff and my landlord holding my door open and removing my possessions on to Turk Street. In desperation I grabbed what I could, stuffing my belongings into trash bags and a trader joe’s shopping bag, tears streaming down my eyes as I fought the urge to scream and rip out the eyes of my landlord.
I had been laid off from San Francisco State University’s Center for Research and Gender Studies program as an outreach worker- and being the State of California, my paycheck came once a month.
Simultaneously, at my second part time job, my hours at Asian & Pacific Islander Wellness Center were halved as the City and County of San Francisco’s Department of Public Health was moving its HIV prevention strategy from “prevention funding” to “test and treat model”- a lovely creation of Grant Colfax that set a domino effect in motion thereby eliminating an entire workforce of Black and Brown queer and trans people in entry level positions in a world where this was really the only industry that actively employed us.
My third part time job, as a test counselor at St. James Infirmary- was as an on call HIV test counselor at that time, as they waited for more permanent funding to come in.
I was screwed.
I had been paying my rent throughout the month- but with recent pay cuts, I made too much for unemployment and food stamps ($100 too much)- and not enough to make rent in full on the first of the month.
Everything I had worked so hard for was sprawled across the floor of my 300 sq ft efficiency studio apartment as the sheriff and my landlord rifled through my things.
To them, it was today’s trash- but for me, it was all the blood, sweat and tears it took- a representation of my determination to one day leave the hell hole of the Tenderloin.
Tears streaming as I clung to hoodies and my favorite MP3 player, I remember shouting within the echo chamber of my mind:
One day, I would be somebody.
Somebody who would never have to go through this again.
I would prove that I was smart enough and capable enough.
I will command millions. And they will have to kiss the ring.
One day.
I will never ever have to feel like I’m stealing my own belongings- grasping at what I could carry to then move in with yet another “splenda daddy”- the only men who offered to save me. They had their own agenda. I had mine.
I have been meditating on this memory over and over again the past few months.
Why was this particular moment of my life, resurfacing to the forefront of my mind?
Of all the memories to have- why do I keep going back to this one?
Fast forward all these many years later- I think it has come full circle. In some ways it feels exactly the same as before. And in other ways, it feels completely different than what transpired previously.
Both times- the takeaways, the ones I’m still processing, hit the same.
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Over two years ago, I departed my role as Founder/President of The Transgender District after a series of events led to my nervous breakdown.
Ivory Nicole Smith, my trans daughter and former staffer, died from a fentanyl overdose. Case still unsolved as to whether there was malice or foul play- I just remember JM calling me in tears, discovering her lifeless body after the girls had called me to see if I had seen her.
(it’s because of JM Jaffe and Pau Crego and Krea Gomez that I was able to retain an ounce of sanity during that time. i couldn’t imagine shouldering any of that without them. rest in peace, my darling Ivory. i think you daily).
I raced back to the city to begin working on her burial and to find her mother and her brother.
Simultaneously, the district’s fiscal sponsor decided to close its doors- after a string of leadership shifts and changes, catastrophic loss of funding and disinvestment from the board and funders alike.
I had 1 month to get the organization its own 501c3 status and because the reserve I had created- the set aside savings had become mixed with St James’ funding- I had to raise $500k in a month to keep the doors open, staff employed and work with the city and foundations to transition ownership of the organizations funding.
This and the city’s inconsistent nonprofit compliance laws and obstacle course of requirements from the attorney general’s office, IRS compliance and the ominous controllers office- where no one seemed to know what was required and what could wait.
I lost my mind, literally and figuratively. I quit.
Disenchanted by our sector, wondering if I had actually made any real change or impact in our communities lives when the fentanyl epidemic of the tenderloin hit so close to home.
I moved Ivory into her apartment two blocks away from me- and paid the first months rent and deposit- an effort to get her out of the hotels. was I partially to blame? If I was finding it difficult to manage the challenges of the environment after all these years- why on earth did I put her in the fire too?
There was a group of trans folks who believed I was- responsible, for the loss of Ivory and Banko Brown, and the SF Chronicle ran that story- and a part of me died that day.
“Let someone else do this.” I said, 14th ciggarette in hand. That was that.
“They think these people really care about us, but they will soon see”. *flicked my ciggarette*.
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When I announced my resignation, there was a sadness from my peers- what would happen to The Transgender District now? Perhaps you need a sabbatical? The movement needs you, We need you?
I couldn’t hear it anymore. I was exhausted.
Exhausted of having to always be a gladiator for something I wasn’t quite sure I believed in anymore.
I was depleted from the realities of the Tenderloin- it will never change, it’s by design.
I felt betrayed by all the foundations and donors who swore to protect trans rights and invest in our futures- but who began to scale back their signal boosting and financial backing of the organizations most innovative programs in 2022. Two years post the brutal murder of George Floyd- Black led liberation causes weren’t exactly trendy anymore.
The new shiny disco ball? Climate Change. Reproductive Justice.
“Sorry Aria but we’re moving our portfolio towards climate change. Let us know if the district will change its scope” or
“Aria we adore you and the project- we just don’t know if economic justice for trans people is the strategy we should be investing in right now. happy to have lunch and chat more”.
Program Officers LOVE a lunch date.
It’s like masturbation but no orgasm.
The greatest bait and switch in social justice.
The carrot dangle- but then, nothing.
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I thought I had proven myself. I interned at the white house at 17, then made strides at Habitat for Humanity. Then after dropping out of college where I spent more time cleaning rich people’s vacation homes and waiting in line at the food bank then I did my college courses, I dropped out.
It was Tracy Chapman’s “Fast Car” replaying on my mp3 player as I slept on the back of a greyhound bus to San Francisco- a girl with dreams. I was going to open a bridal atelier in Pacific Heights, and make the most wondrous wedding gowns. And FIDM was going to get me there. I just know it. Nevermind that I can’t sew, I’ll learn!
After what feels like an entire life of street life as a 18/19/20/21 year old sex worker- oscillating between homeless shelters, hiding in stairwells from police and drug dealers alike and the seedier realities of survival sex worker I don’t want to remember- I tried to bounce back.
In service to my trans sisters. Part altruism, part survival.
I worked the “chitlin circuit” of public service- part time test counselor job here, part time late night outreach worker there- and part time (but really full time) untrained pseudo-psycho therapy clinician, case manager, drop in center manager, resource navigator, peer navigator.
The creme de la creme of our sector- how you knew you made it- was to get signed on to a university and lead their research studies. The pay was far better ($16 an hour) and you got to wear cute clothes and show up at community events to table.
No more welfare office visits or knocking on SRO room doors. No more outreach in the sex clubs and bathhouses.
There, I could be somebody. I just have to get there. Prove myself. And I’ll get there.
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Since those early days, I’ve created 3 organizations, 2 of which became multi million dollar nonprofit organizations, which I founded and led. I’ve authored 10 pieces of legislation with the California legislature, served on the board of the Women’s Foundation of California, launched and created numerous “first in the world or first in the country blah blah blah” programs, initiatives, campaigns. I knocked on doors, phone banked, led marches/protests, panels and the bit.
I became visible as a trans leader during the early days of BLM- there was a hunger to hear from trans voices in the conversation on the sanctity of black life.
So I began to share stages with Alicia Garza, Al Sharpton, Dr. Cornel West, Barbara Smith. Keynote speeches at Columbia University and USC. Guest lecturing at Mills College and Rutgers. Partnering with brands to expand our message: be it Uber or Airbnb or Postmates, Sephora, and everything in between. She would become the first black trans woman in a senior position in the mayor’s office- the youngest to receive lifetime accolades from the California legislature and the Governor.
Blah blah blah, basically the first transgender to tie it’s own shoes ok?!?! sheesh, i’m so sick of saying “i’m the first transgender to slice bread and make a sandwich”.
But anyways:
Much to the irritation and eye rolls of Cecilia Chung, we were receiving our lifetime achievement accolades together.
As Dominique Morgan once told me, “and you wonder why these girls hate you”. *sigh*.
Of course my work grew during the onset of trans visibility in the media- and from there it just kind of happened. I truly believe I was just at the right place at the right time.
You can google everything else. I don’t feel like reminiscing anymore.
The point I’m trying to make- what good is any of it,
if it doesn’t give you footing into the doorway of opportunity?
This past year, I nearly lost everything again.
I had quit my job with savings and a cushion- but after a year of endless searching, no one would hire me.
For anything.
It’s how I ended up diving back into freelance consulting- the phone rang and someone asked, “could you teach me how you fundraise” and I said “well, I suppose I could.”
The Mahogany Project became my first client as a full time solopreneur- I’m forever grateful. I raised $300k in the first months of my contract with them- no small feat. Overhauled their communications strategy and top line messaging. Co-developed with their founder a palatable theory of change that encapsulated everything they already were building. It just needed some sauce.
Though Verniss and I have had our disagreements, I will respect them more than they know- they gave me a sense of purpose when everyone else seemed to move on.
The girls would job and kiki “you’re not really relevant anymore. old and over”, as it was told to me.
I had started to believe it.
Verniss gave me a purpose, when I needed one. And utilized me- something often that doesn’t happen as a consultant. Actually utilizing them and their expertise. Whew.
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But in the job market, I was just a washed up activist who lost her prime.
No one wants to hire a former executive director to work for them- let alone a black trans woman. Let’s be honest, most people find trans people to be just a teeny bit annoying. Whiney? No? mmhmm *files nails*.
Who wants to hire a liability? The trans person who is asking for accountability on restroom access? I mean, I was leading the pack and I found most of them annoying.
I’ll say the ugly thing. I don’t care anymore.
All those teach ins and cultural competency trainings I led for foundations, corporations, nonprofits and NGO’s and government departments across the country on diversifying their teams?
yeah.
they humored me and gave me an interview here and there but then it fell flat.
For that entire year, I reflected on just how much lip service the trans community gets from the powers that be.
Just how much performance and virtue signaling happens- just enough to say we’re a part of the solution (but not really).
Trans rights have been on the chopping block for, well, forever.
There are some institutions- they will step up, provide funding to a random intermediary and wipe their hands and off they go. tick the box and then op-ed on impact for inside philanthropy. and done.
but then, I jog my memory bank- and reflect on all the leaders who promised to support my work early on. where did they go?
Eventually, the phone stopped ringing. I spent 2 decades wishing it would stop ringing. I guess I got what I wished for.
I spent a year thinking it was me. My friends gave me incredibly generous and often unsolicited feedback: “you’re generation is entitled”, or “maybe you’re landing as arrogant”. or “the economy is tough” (when is it not?).
They sent me countless job openings for jobs we all knew would never hire me- but I applied anyway.
Everyone in the sector knows Gill Foundation is a “white ghey only” operation. I’m blonde, but I don’t have blue eyes.
I applied for Astrea Foundation, but I’m not queer enough for that enclave. I’m too binary. They’d hate me.
I applied to lead Opera houses, art groups, and struggling HIV prevention orgs in rural areas. I’d hate that, I thought. Same amount of work but a quarter of my rate.
The only job interview that I actually gained in the 300+ applications I sent out? Neiman Marcus. Part-time Beauty Counter.
I did 2 interviews, but sadly, I had been out of the game too long. I hadn’t worked luxury retail since I was age 17/18. Sales quotas and POS systems are different now- they needed someone with demonstrated sales abilities for this current economic landscape.
Someone who has sold $500 perfumes AFTER the 2008 recession.
I’ll forever shop Neiman’s because they at least humored me.
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“You should announce the launch of your consulting firm”, they said.
When I launched my consultancy, they didn’t share that out. The platform I worked so hard to build- I had to beg for them to share my “impact report” that we spent $20k to produce.
Beg. For the platform I created? WILD. guess that’s impact, but not the kind I was expecting.
I may be entitled, but it’s because I slaved away and did the work.
I’m not like my former staff that championed one piece of legislation from start to finish- and then certified themselves as an icon.
I actually out worked my peers. 10x over.
Look at the accomplishments of the LGBT Center and look at what my team and I did in 5 years. Is our data informed praxis formed from the amount of years spent leading marches or the innovation to utilize resources to serve multiple liberation agendas?
Perhaps I’m too arrogant. I’ll accept that. But I come from a sector that loves to humble me, time and time again, and then acknowledge me. With nothing to stand on.
Political Theater.
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Last year, as I prepared to pack my house in Texas to move in with my mom- GLAAD and Human Rights Campaign decided to platform me for Black History Month and LGBT Pride Month.
All the same feels from the early days where the white house platformed me whilst an eviction notice was on my door came up again, like projectile vomit.
“How dare they? They don’t even invite me to their stupid events” I thought as I saw the tags on social media.
Funny, the tags were coming from fellow leaders because GLAAD refused to actually tag any of us- they just used our images.
Ornamentation.
Tick off the box.
Other platforms- similar things.
Request for interviews.
Acknowledgement of my “trailblazing advocacy”.
Requests to do reality television or news station interviews.
I sat in silence, my eyes drifting to the 72 awards and trophies and certificates of honor and proclamations in my home office. Pictures of myself with Nancy Pelosi, Kamala Harris, Governor Brown and Governor Newsom- a host of Senators, celebrities and more. News clips from when Dan Levy helped us go viral for our work- or when Christina Aguilera let us take over her instagram for the day. Pictures from The Winter Gala- our only gala, where I booked all the trans artists I could find who were struggling to gain and keep creative work. The transgender visibility iceberg was beginning to melt, and away with it was the opportunities we’d hoped would stay.
What good is any of it, if it doesn’t actually net any positive outcomes?
I’ve only ever mentioned these moments in a string of bios to prove that I was a capable- that promise I made all those years ago.
But it doesn’t actually mean anything to me anymore.
I hope one day to burn them. Burn all the awards and accolades.
They were lip service gestures anyway.
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My friend offered me $400 to help me make rent. “What am I going to do with $400? I have $400. I need work”- I said.
And there it is.
I don’t care about credit anymore.
I know what I did- and I know it was superhuman. You guys are just slow to catch up and one day you’ll digest it all, and I’ll have long moved on.
I don’t need to be platformed and I don’t need exposure (i’m exposed).
What I needed was something real.
And that didn’t happen.
Opportunity.
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A sober reminder- our favorite activists have had similar strife with the sector.
Rosa Parks nearly lost her home twice, before a friend paid her bills for the remainder of her life.
Sylvia Rivera died in a tent encampment.
Marsha P Johnson was marginally housed and murdered.
Miss Major still has to post GoFundMe’s for her healthcare expenses.
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My success and impact in this realm came from creating my own projects.
Why on earth did I think that ride had changed now?
Why did I convince myself that an industry beset on an infatuation with the idea of trans people existing- but not the realities of our existence, would ever provide me with opportunity to affect change in their spaces?
Trans people have an over abundance of credit- but no real opportunity.
We have the illusion of choice: we get to work retail or sex work or in an entry level role in a nonprofit.
and that’s really it.
if you’re lucky, you get to work at the Chanel counter.
Only if you’re lucky.
I try to stay off linkedin, it only vexes my anger even more. but it’s difficult to not feel bitter, once you’ve watched the sausage get made.
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The social change sector is very much like McDonald’s these days.
When McDonald’s, responded to their customers who were requesting healthier food options beyond double quarter pounders and McRibs, they obliged. “We’re happy to!” They said. So they launched salads. And green smoothies.
A year later, those same critics responded, “where did the healthy food options go”?
and McDonald’s said, “ Less than 0.01% of people bought the salads and green smoothies when we launched them and for over a year we more than doubled our waste- throwing out salads and veggies night after night”.
Because those same critics didn’t actually want to eat the salad.
They just wanted to know it was there.
“That’s good for somebody else, but when I go to McDonald’s I want my Big Mac and 2 apple pies”.
We love and romanticize the idea of things, in our sector. We say things like “hold space” and “liberate” and “ASE”, but it’s all empty compared to the outputs our sector is willing to go through to ACTUALLY hold space.
We don’t really want systems change, we just adore the sexiness of the term.
Trans people are typically the antithesis of “systems”- we represent a change that makes too many people uncomfortable. Black trans people, especially.
Because if we’re honest, so many of us leverage the fact that *we* just got in the space, and *you* need to wait your turn.
“Trans People Should Exist. We love you Trans People”.
Us: Ok, show us.
Ya’ll: Well, I can’t support you but surely someone else will! Because we love ya’ll.
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I paid every staff person a six figure salary at The Transgender District as a “fuck you” to an industry that loves to clap for trans people but not actually give us a chance. at anything.
a panel, but not a job.
an instagram grid singing their praises, but not actual paid labor.
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As LGBT Pride Month comes in as it always does, please do not give me a shoutout for any work I’ve done unless it has a check. No acrylic trophies unless it has a check.
Don’t ask me to do panels for pennies.
Don’t ask me.
Unless there is a check.
Until next time,
the artist formerly known as Aria Sa’id.
