What Long COVID Taught Me About Mutual Aid

This is Autostraddle’s “How To Survive A Post(?)-COVID World” series. In some areas, COVID restrictions are lifting, but regardless of how “post”-COVID some of our individual worlds might feel, a pandemic and its lasting effects rage on. These writers are sharing their struggles and practical knowledge to help readers survive, heal and thrive in 2021.
On May 1, 2020, I was tested for COVID. This was part of routine testing across our Minneapolis social service agency following positive COVID cases among our clients. My positive test was a surprise to me — I didn’t have any symptoms beyond what I thought was pandemic-anxiety creating shortness of breath. I completed my ten days of isolation at home and returned to work. It was remarkably unremarkable. And — given that two weeks later George Floyd would be killed, the city would ignite in flames and hundreds of us would take over a hotel to get unhoused people indoors and off the militarized streets — it goes without saying that the “asymptomatic” COVID case I had was quickly forgotten. Instead, we were creating mutual aid networks to get supplies to neighborhoods whose groceries stores burned down. We activated community defense networks to protect homes and respond to fires. We raised thousands, then millions of dollars for abolitionist efforts around the city.

It wasn’t until around July 2020 that I started noticing what I would come to understand as some combination of Long COVID and post-viral fatigue. I started wearing a pulse oximeter when things like walking to the kitchen sink would leave me breathless and spike my heart rate. I missed two days of work after walking my dog one July afternoon because I got so sick afterward. I was experiencing shortness of breath; heart palpitations; tachycardia; night sweats; changes in taste, smell and appetite. Even the smallest exertions required recovery time. Every single entry I wrote in my journal during the month of July references my fatigue.

This pattern of vague, diffuse symptoms that left me completely wiped would continue for months to come. An entry in my journal from October 14th reads, “Well, I think a lovely evening drinking with my brothers brought on a relapse of symptoms. I’ve been off work Monday and Tuesday this week and I’m feeling like crap today. I wish I had started keeping a symptom log earlier in this process because it feels silly to try and start one nearly six months in”. It continues with a list of symptoms: short of breath, chest pain/ pressure, shaky hands, flushed face/ itchy skin, fever feelings/ chills despite no fever, brain fog, palpitations (“not racing heart, but pounding heart”), muscle weakness/ heavy limbs, headache (“dehydration? COVID?”), fatigue (“as usual”).

Despite this list of symptoms, no doctor or test found anything wrong. My blood work was normal. The Zio patch heart monitor I wore for two weeks was normal. In September, I took myself to the ER thinking I had deep vein thrombosis due to swelling in my ankles and a severe calf cramp that lasted almost ten days. My CT scan and the ultrasounds were normal. Every additional COVID test I got was “not detected.” With a litany of normal tests, it was hard not to question my own sanity. Am I actually sick? Am I making it up? Do I really even actually feel that bad? And yet, I was still missing multiple days of work per month and the time between sick days was getting shorter and shorter.

I finally collapsed in January 2021. I had been sliding down a hill picking up speed toward this inevitable collapse for a while, but I just hadn’t been able to admit it to myself. It wasn’t until I literally shit my pants at work that I finally admitted defeat and requested a short-term disability leave. January 29th, 2021, was the first day of what would end up being a three month medical leave.

In May, I returned to work part-time. It turns out that the medical leave wasn’t actually enough to cure my Long COVID symptoms, but it did give me enough space to reflect on which COVID lessons are worth carrying forward into the post(?)-COVID world. Going back through my journal entries, notes in my phone and blog posts from the last year, it surprised me to realize that the same things I need in order to manage my Long COVID are the things we all need for the future we are creating: mutual aid, seasons of receiving along with our seasons of giving, self-care that is directly connected to community care, less work, body trust and disability justice.

If you’ve never had a health crisis like this before, it’s quite humbling. I’ve never been good at asking for help, but when you’re so collapsed that you literally can’t manage, you’ll be amazed at how much help you ask for and how the help you ask for still won’t be enough. I had always believed in mutual aid, but I can’t say I had fully comprehended the mutual part. Mutual aid is mutual because, as much as I hate to admit it, we all need more support than we can provide ourselves. I had to ask for help not just once, but repeatedly for months, and I’ve come out the other side as a mutual aid evangelical. People ordered me dinner — not once, but weekly; delivered me meal boxes; brought my flowers and sent me care packages. The more we can think about our personal resources as resources that are meant to be shared, the more we can get our own needs met in our own seasons of receiving; our “winters,” as Katherine May calls them in her book Wintering: The Power of Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times.

I spent weeks in collapse mode, unable to even consider “active recovery”. I watched eight seasons of Supernatural in the first three weeks of my leave and showered only three times in that same timeframe. And do you know what I would find myself thinking about in moments of quiet? Work. How fucking miserable is that? It’s like even though I knew I was off work, my body didn’t know I was off work. It occurred to me that there is a part of my body that has been made to feel unsafe by the chronic demands of work under capitalism. Intellectually, I know I feel safe at work and, arguably, it sounds ridiculous and even dangerous to throw around phrases like “feeling unsafe” so loosely. But my body’s autonomic responses to stressors don’t know the difference between “real” threats and perceived ones. The pervasive demand by society to Do More left me feeling trapped and even — as my therapist sometimes suggests — traumatized by insidious pressures to work, even as my body continued to wear down. In a March 4th blog post, I wrote, “Tonight I did a really casual search for ‘social work’ across a couple of job boards just to see how it felt. I started to cry.”

I did eventually stop watching Supernatural and turn toward healing. It turns out that the diagnostic and treatment process for Long COVID, even in a very mild case such as mine, is practically a full-time job. My process has included a post-COVID doctor that I’ve seen every six weeks since February, an MRI of my brain, a neurology appointment, chest x-rays, an overnight sleep study, multiple sleep appointments, a referral for a neuropsych exam I still haven’t had, a pulmonary function test, a pulmonology appointment, weekly physical therapy, weekly occupational therapy and, coming up, voice therapy for my damaged vocal cords and breathing muscles. My occupational therapist prescribed me fatigue management tools like blue light glasses and note-taking, an 8:30pm bedtime, sunglasses in the grocery store, smell and taste training and more. My physical therapist prescribed me a maximum heart rate of 120 (now, after two months, 140) beats per minute, thoracic stretches, breathing exercises and 20 minutes of walking every day. The sleep doctor prescribed me iron supplements to help with restless legs — supplements that also cause digestive distress. The neurologist told me nothing was wrong “except for the obesity.” The pulmonologist prescribed me an inhaler and suggested that it will be awfully hard to lose the weight I gained when my heart rate needs to stay so low.

Throughout this entire process and as of this writing, the short-term disability claim I initiated in late January has never been approved. I had zero income during my leave because the insurance company still doesn’t have the right medical documentation to prove that I needed to be off work. Even with relatively good health insurance, healthcare is prohibitively expensive and disability insurance benefits (not that I ever fucking got them!) only cover 60% of wages. It was here that the mutuality of mutual aid really came into high relief. After years of facilitating things I call “barnraisers” on Twitter, I needed my own barnraiser. I created a Plumfund, emailed a pointed ask for help to 36 people and shared my ask on Twitter. In four days of fundraising, my community put together over $12,000 for my partner and me. Caring for myself and asking for that help allowed me to get back to the business of recovery and has kept me connected to my community, even in my season of receiving.

I returned to work in May — not because I was physically or spiritually ready to go back to work, but because that was when my short-term disability benefits were due to run out (not that I ever fucking got them!). And, in order to potentially qualify for long-term disability benefits, I had to return to work at least 20 hours per week. If I’ve become an evangelical for mutual aid during this health crisis, I’ve become a zealot about the need for all of us to reduce how much we work. I learned from Long COVID (and my occupational therapist) that my body is my compass and also my captain. If I don’t submit to my body, it will shut the lights off regardless. From my March 19th blog post: “My body has been very clear with me in it’s absolute refusal to participate in work. I said to a fellow disabled friend yesterday that the level of bodily refusal to even entertain the *idea* of work feels so strong that I actually feel like I will be abusing myself if/ when I have to return to work.” My body gives me very clear cues (fatigue, malaise, brain fog, tinnitus, body pain, nausea, hand tremors, etc.) when I exceed my capacity. While I used to be too stubborn to listen, I am listening closely now. My body no longer cares about what is expected of me by society, about how my bills can’t get paid while I’m trying to prioritize my health or about any obligations or guilt I feel toward my job. I am no longer in control of this body (was I ever?); it is in control of me.

My sense is that many of our bodies are reaching this point. A year-plus of pandemic living has revealed just how much our bodies can bear and the end of what we can bear no longer. People are tired, and our bodies will not be forced against their wills. We are all long overdue for a transformation of our working conditions, and our bodies know this. Your body might not have reached outright mutiny the way mine has, but it will — give it time. It has become an essential part of my thoughts to find a way out of this way of working because working like this will literally kill me if I don’t. Becoming disabled by the world is radicalizing, and I already thought I was pretty radical.

Perhaps if you take all these things together — the COVID, the mutual aid, the community care, the body trust, and the urgent need to divorce our health and living from our ability to work — what you get is what disability justice movement has been trying to tell us forever: our bodies are the site of that we carry. As Aurora Levins Morales puts it in Kindling: Writings on the Body, “What our bodies require in order to thrive, is what the world requires. If there is a map to get there, it can be found in the atlas of our skin and bone and blood, in the tracks of neurotransmitters and antibodies.” Looking forward to the world we are shaping (hat-tip to adrienne maree brown) beyond the pandemic looks pretty similar to the radical roots all bodies require for living.

Disasters as Experiences of Care: How to Pack a Go Bag, Give Mutual Aid in Crisis, and Rethink Queer Preparedness

When I was a teenager, my parents prepped for the y2k crisis. Anticipating a global meltdown on January 1, 2000, they bought a farmhouse on land in rural Virginia. On most weekends in 1999, we left our white suburb in Richmond for “the y2k house” so my dad could plant and hand thresh wheat, hunt deer and squirrels, put up shelf-stable supplies, and fix up the bonus room in case more people needed shelter.

This apocalypse was born when programmers predicted global chaos resulting from a software bug. Older computers abbreviated the year in dates to two digits—so “2000″ becomes “00.” This meant that on the first day of the new year, some systems could act as if we were back in the year 1900. Mainframes, medical systems, and government tech were all at risk, experts said. My parents agreed.

I believed what I was told. And yet the chores I was assigned at the y2k house felt impossible. I didn’t want to help my mom double-dig vegetable beds in the front yard. I hated helping my dad organize buckets of food in our basement storehouse. Ashamed, I hid in bed to write in my notebook. Ironically, my inner life centered on computers. I envisioned myself as a programming wizard and sketched the magical characters I roleplayed in chatrooms (ah, the wild early days of internet life!) on my PC at home. I could see no place for myself amidst our family’s preparedness fantasy, so I associated myself with our narrative of threat, while also imagining myself uniquely empowered to fix it.

The eve of the rollover arrived. Prince’s “Party Like it’s 1999″ played over and over on the radio. We watched the New Year’s celebrations on TV, wondering if the power would cut midway through, plunging us into darkness. The lights stayed on, though. We switched them off ourselves when it was time for bed. Since the dates changed at different times around the world, my parents said, the shutdown might not happen for a while. But time passed, and our new millennium arrived with a surprising lack of fanfare—or tragedy. We waited a day, and then another. We listened to the news. Nothing changed. Eventually, my parents packed up the Dodge pickup truck and we made our way home.

Was I relieved? Not exactly. My future still felt shapeless, as it had been before the world was supposed to end. The fact that there had been no apocalypse didn’t change the fact that I was queer. What did change for me, though, was my perception of safety, self-sufficiency, and readiness for disaster. I want to live a life that isn’t defined by fear, I told myself, even if that means living under dystopia.

Years later, COVID-19 hit the U.S. in early 2020, and a few months after we entered lockdown my friend Nina Budabin McQuown, an editor, writer, and producer, asked me if I’d co-host a podcast. The name would be Queers at the End of the World, and the idea was to explore stories of apocalypse, dystopia, and survival through the lens of queerness. Yes, we would be discussing the very narratives of paranoia my parents had fed me throughout my childhood, the stories that had informed our family’s preparation for a false apocalypse. And through those conversations we would try to make queer art.

As little as I wanted to revisit the psychic bunker that had defined my coming of age, I also desired a way to tell my version of that story. So I agreed to the project, and Nina suggested we begin by talking about go bags. Also known as a bug out bag, a battle box, or a personal emergency relocation kit (PERK), a go bag contains the supplies—food, water first-aid, tools, maps, light, masks—you need to survive for several days in a crisis. Even though we agreed it was a smart idea, especially during COVID-19, neither of us had assembled one yet. “I don’t do preparedness,” I said to Nina. But could we change that? Was openly facing disaster, violence, and a climate-changed future something I could do?

When we interviewed organizer Kalaya’an Mendoza, who works with the justice collective Across Frontlines, he told us he didn’t like the term “prepper.” He explained, “The thing I see a lot, especially in the States, around disaster preparedness is the hoarding of supplies, or ‘gotta get all my guns,’” he said. “But the only thing that has allowed our species to survive all of the trials that we have experienced, from colonization to plagues, is building community with one another.”

Mendoza, who identifies as queer, Filipinx, hard of hearing, and as an immigrant, seems nothing like what I imagine as a “prepper.” Nina and I found him on Instagram, where one post in his feed depicts Mendoza serving as a bike marshall at protest. He’s wearing a DIY hot pink onesie made from a safety vest and short shorts, and definitely looks like someone I wish I was cool enough to be friends with. Later, another post depicts Mendoza’s go bag, providing a detailed breakdown of the supplies he’s put inside.

In Mendoza’s view, preparing for an apocalypse isn’t that different from getting ready for a protest. When we asked him for an alternative term for preparedness work, he said, “I like to think of the folks who are looking out for the community, one another, folks doing mutual aid, as protectors.” This term, which Mendoza says comes from the native organizers at Standing Rock, poses preparation as healing justice, something we can all participate in together.

Later, I asked Mendoza about the origins of his interest in safety. How, I wondered, could anyone be obsessed with something I so powerfully wished to forget? Mendoza related a memory of the Loma Prieta Earthquake, which struck when he was a child. “I distinctly remember how our community—we lived in a small apartment complex—made it really fun for the kids. All the parents came out with their barbecue grills and we cooked for one another.” In his memory, I realized, disasters are linked with experiences of care.

I don’t mean to imply that Mendoza thinks crises are fun. Rather, I think he has a nuanced understanding of what dangerous circumstances can offer us. I told him that, in my past, fear seemed like it was the enemy, a force to be battled and resisted. Mendoza replied, “I invite folks to think about fear as a teacher. Fear teaches us how to be safe. How to survive.”

Cate Steane, who runs Make it Happen Preparedness Services in Santa Rosa California, also connects the idea of apocalypse with potential healing. This ability, to see opportunity in moments of crisis, seems shared among queer folks for whom preparedness is an obsession. Steane comes at preparedness from a different angle, consulting with larger businesses and essential businesses like homeless shelters and in-home care services on how to rebound after a disaster. But her approach was still all about giving care.

“For an organization,” Steane said, “you have to assume that people’s first impulse is going to be to take care of their families.” Since the continued operation of a business relies on staff returning to work quickly, Steane tells those businesses to support the safety of their employees’ families. “I encourage businesses to give their employees materials on how to develop a family plan. And then offer incentives, where if they bring back in a completed family plan, you give them a starter emergency kit.” Like Mendoza, Steane approaches preparedness by acknowledging community ties, and inventing ways to strengthen those ties in the face of disaster.

For me, though, the best part of talking to Steane was learning about her alternate identity, the Safety Freak. She told me, “I was part of a hiking group that would go on camping trips in the summer and part of our tradition was a talent—or lack of talent—show. Somebody had called me ‘safety freak’ and I’m like, I can hang with that.” She put together a skit, arriving on stage as a superhero in a cape, a helmet, and a leather belt stuffed with supplies. Safety Freak became a recurring character who appeared at Steane’s trainings to explain the dimensions of disaster readiness through comedy. How perfectly queer, I thought, to celebrate this obsession with safety by getting into costume. Maybe I can hang with that too.

The threats Mendoza and Steane focus on are different, even though their love for safety is similar. Mendoza talked about mutual aid during COVID-19, and the state-sanctioned violence he had witnessed at BLM protests in New York City. Steane was interested in the earthquakes and fires that put Californians in danger every year. This difference helped me see why go bags were important to each person. Preparing one isn’t some general queer obligation. It’s a tactical response to a specific threat, and it puts you in conversation with your region, your community, and your future.

If you’re ready to build a go bag of your own, Cate Steane has a guide to go bags and stay supplies on her website. I’d also recommend checking out the New York Times climate risk map Steane shared with me. It’s a good basis for identifying the most pressing climate change-driven threats to your local community. Finally, Mendoza suggested including in your bag “something portable that makes you feel safe — emotionally.” This could be a book, a stuffed animal, or a family photo. “Because when I talk about safety and security,” Mendoza said, “it’s not just physical. It’s also emotional, mental, and spiritual safety and security. That’s the only way that we’re able to move past trauma and towards healing.”

Steph Niaupari, a founder of the Washington D.C.-based food and body liberation movement Plantita Power, also touched on the notion of an internal go bag when we talked. I’d sought out Niaupari because I wanted to talk about community work that wasn’t specifically focused on disasters — but still met head on the threat of dystopia, chaos, and danger. When I asked them to speak on their concept of preparedness, Niaupari said, “I see it more as what skills do I have, or what skills do the people in my group or pod have. We ourselves are our own go bags, because we’re going to figure it out wherever we go. As we have been.”

When they formed Plantita Power in 2019, Niaupari sought to create a community agriculture space where QTBIPOC folks could feel respected. But gaining access to land in D.C. was nightmarish. “The process behind it, the bureaucracy, is ridiculous, and it takes years, and you have to have the connections in order to do it.” Besides, Niaupari added, creating harmony in any private space is inherently fraught. “I wanted to make sure we weren’t replicating the violence we had experienced in other gardens,” they said. “It came to a point where we said let’s just stay at your space. Let’s create a garden in your backyard, on your porch, wherever it may be. And that’s how we started with the collective gardens.”

What would have happened if, in the late 90s, my family had built a community garden instead of a private bunker? As Niaupari said, gardens are not utopias. But I do imagine a world where, when the next disaster hits, I have a keener sense of who to give support to, and how—and who I can lean on when I’m facing grief and chaos. I’m realizing the heart of preparedness involves knowing, and really believing, that you are not alone.

At the end of my conversation with Niaupari, we ended up talking about this cart used by folks in their community to distribute resources at BLM protests—food, water, and even binders. Niaupari, who models for gc2b, was able to secure a supply. At that event, the sign on the cart read, “Water for the revolution, food for resistance, and free binders because we’re fucking fabulous.” When I said that this cart resonated with my musings on go bags, Niaupari let me know I wasn’t the only person inspired by it. In fact, the cart is going to be featured in Syan Rose’s forthcoming illustrated oral history of queer and trans resistance, Our Work is Everywhere (Arsenal Pulp Press).

It’s tempting for me to call Niaupari’s queer cart a “go cart,” but I actually think it’s critical to keep the two things separate. Preparedness might begin with a go bag, but it’s sustained through efforts like Niaupari’s, and those of the other queer community safety leaders I talked to in order to understand what being ready really means. I think, ultimately, it’s something that queers are already pretty good at—as Niaupari said, “figuring it out.” This is not about lingering in paranoia. It’s about being fucking fabulous, together.

When I think about preparedness, part of me will always invoke the “prepper.” Like Steane’s safety freak, he’s become this outsized character, an apparition who helps me understand my relationship with paranoia, isolation, and the hoarding of supplies. A gun-toting sheriff, this guy cleverly anticipates dystopian chaos (because masculinity!) and stands behind the fortified walls of his compound, deciding who will be let in and who will be deemed a monster.

Lately, I’ve been building a compost bin for the community garden on my block in New York City. And much as I’d like to avoid encountering my bearded specter as I enter these grounds, he’s inescapable. Even if my parents didn’t always resemble this awful fellow, he’s part of our history. I think about him when I plant vegetables, and when I dig my fingers into soil. Facing what he represents is a challenge, but when I do, it helps me see my future. I’m no longer occupied with compounds, and which side of the wall I’ll end up on. Preparing is something we will do together, as a community. As Mendoza says, “We keep us safe.”

Worried Your Vote Can’t Protect Reproductive Rights? Mutual Aid Can (and Does)

Four years since the election of President Donald Trump, the worst fears of reproductive rights advocates were seemingly realized with the confirmation of Amy Coney Barrett to the Supreme Court, cementing a 6-3 anti-choice majority to gut access to reproductive care and potentially even criminalize abortion. Naturally, Barrett’s confirmation was followed by reinvigorated calls for voting as the sole solution to the crisis we now face, to prevent even more dangerous judicial appointments on the federal level, and abortion bans on the state level.

Voting can serve as critical damage control — we know a President Joe Biden would support funding for reproductive care and appoint only judges and Justices committed to reproductive rights. And up and down the ballot, plenty of candidates and ballot measures go beyond reducing harm and make real, positive change, especially on the local and community levels.

Yet, many of the crises we’re being warned about with this new 6-3 conservative Supreme Court majority — discrimination against LGBTQ folks, people struggling to afford health care if the Affordable Care Act is gutted, and, certainly, people not being able to have abortions — already exist. From abortion funds, to legal defense funds, to mutual aid networks, the solutions already exist, too, due to the work of people who have long felt their communities are left behind by elected officials, and denied the full actualization of long-standing legal rights.

Across the country, mutual aid networks have long put in the work of moving wealth, and creating funding and logistical arrangements for people to afford abortion care and contraception, as well as transportation, lodging, and child care to reach these resources. In a country where 90 percent of counties lacks an abortion provider, funds have created the infrastructure for low-income people to cross abortion deserts, or regions where one clinic serves over 100,000 people of reproductive age. Some funds have even created special resources for trans people who face added barriers to reach abortion and other sexual and reproductive health care, as well as legal support and other resources for minors and young people to get care, too.

Abortion funds across the country last year supported 56,155 people seeking care, all amid a backdrop of unprecedented state-level abortion bans and restrictions being passed. Several funds in different states reported collaborating to help people travel across state lines to get care, and for funds in some regions, the majority of clients served were people of color. Throughout the crisis of COVID-19 this year, funds have spoken out about how much more urgent their work has become, especially as more people have lost their jobs, savings, or insurance, and all the existing barriers to get care have only worsened.

Groups like this have existed since before Roe v. Wade was decided in 1973, and adapted their work to new political realities following the decision, through bans on coverage of reproductive care, rampant legislative attacks and closures of clinics, and even the continued criminalization and punishment of people who have abortions or lose their pregnancies, and need legal support. Amid COVID-19 and the shuttering of clinics across the country in recent years, community advocates and aid networks have helped educate and facilitate crucial access to abortion pills, which are FDA-approved and allow people to safely end a pregnancy at home without the necessity of traveling to a clinic.

Mutual aid and community care have always existed as a response to the devastating inevitability of state violence. After all, state violence is more than incidents of racist police brutality — it also encompasses the government’s failure to ensure access to basic resources like health care and especially reproductive care, most often for the poor and communities of color. State violence certainly encompasses government policies that deny people bodily autonomy and coerce their pregnancy and reproduction. The inextricable connection between violence and the state, especially for people of color, has led many to be dubious about looking to the state and elections for easy solutions, and instead, create solutions in their own communities outside of the government.

Because of these long-standing mutual aid efforts, the infrastructure to address the crises we face today is already there. To make a real difference, we should invest in what already exists, and the people and groups who have been doing the work.

Following the confirmation of Barrett to the court, like we saw after the confirmation of previous Justices who threatened Roe and other human rights, many social media users shared plans to hoard emergency contraception and birth control pills, or start crowdfunding for others’ abortions and travel across state lines, as well as legal fees if needed. But rather than personally try to reinvent the wheel and divert attention and resources from people who have long been doing the work, we should listen to their expertise on how we can support the work they’re already doing.

And for starters, on top of financially contributing to and volunteering with funds and other mutual aid networks, we could also simply not hoard basic resources like Plan B, which already can be costly and inaccessible, and would become even more so in scarcity.

Participating in elections, and especially elections like this year’s, will always be critical to the fate of the country and its most marginalized — after all, elections and voter suppression are what pushed us to this very point of reckoning. With the Supreme Court poised to potentially uproot life as we know it in America, voting by itself might fix some things, but it can’t fix everything.

Investing our money and effort into community care can go further than just relying on elections and institutions that have always upheld a status quo of oppression. None of us can do everything, or single handedly ensure everyone gets the care they need — but we can all find and contact our local funds, and learn about ways to volunteer, either for their hotlines, or to help with transportation, lodging, child care, fundraising, and other needs. We have to do more than put all our faith into a system that’s working as it was designed to marginalize women, people of color, and queer and trans folks. Instead, let’s recognize the transformative power and potential of mutual aid and direct action, starting in our communities.

Portland’s Black Lives Matter Protests Prove the Power of Mutual Aid

Over the last few months, Donald Trump has repeatedly described Portland’s Black Lives Matter protesters as “sick and deranged anarchists and agitators.” Acting Department of Homeland Security Secretary Chad Wolf has decried the protesters as a “violent mob” of “lawless anarchists [that] destroy and desecrate property… and attack the brave law enforcement officers.” And Portland’s own mayor, Democrat Ted Wheeler, has denounced the protesters, accusing them of “attempting to commit murder” when they started a small fire outside of a police precinct.

It probably isn’t surprising that the protesters, many of whom have gathered in Portland streets for the majority of the last 110 nights — and have stopped only momentarily while air conditions are hazardous due to wildfires — describe themselves very differently than politicians and pundits do. But what may be surprising to outsiders is how tenderly the so-called “lawless anarchists” speak of each other.

“It’s the most welcoming and caring community I’ve ever seen or been a part of,” says Jasmine, a frequent protest attendee. (We’re using a pseudonym for Jasmine to protect her identity.) “I truly believe that you could walk up to a Portland protest naked, hungry, and alone and leave with clothes, food, and comrades.”

Jasmine speaks from experience. Earlier this summer, as she walked to a protest, “literally the first two people I saw who were also in black bloc noticed I was alone and asked if I needed a group,” she says. “That night I got [free] food, medical care, supplies, and protest advice, all from complete strangers.” Weeks later, Jasmine still attends protests with the people she met that night.

Other protest attendees also speak highly of the free supplies provided both by individuals — several people have stories of strangers gifting them respirators shortly before tear gas rolled in — and by an array of self-organized affinity groups: The Witches, whose slogan is “we hex fascists,” often appear on the riot lines toting glowing wagons of water bottles, snacks, masks, and earplugs. PDX Shieldsmiths turn 55-gallon plastic barrels into DIY shields to protect against batons and crowd-control munitions. Portland Action Medics equip trained street medics with housemade eye wash, hand sanitizer, and chemical weapon wipes, used to treat the effects of tear gas and pepper spray. And, for a few glorious weeks, volunteer-run outdoor kitchen Riot Ribs served copious amounts of free food to protesters and passerby alike.

These efforts (most of which, for what it’s worth, are organized by queer and trans people) are all real-life examples of mutual aid, a term coined by anarcho-communists in 1902 and re-popularized during the COVID-19 pandemic. Mutual aid occurs when people work together to take care of each other as a community; it’s a simple concept that contrasts sharply with capitalism, rugged individualism, and other systems that most Americans are raised to idolize.

“As an anarchist, this is the kind of shit I live for,” says Rosie G. Riddle, an independent journalist covering the protests. “Total strangers bandaging wounded comrades [and] offering food, water, protective equipment. Dearresting folks; shielding downed people (again, strangers) with their literal actual bodies. Offering shields for free. Posting each others’ Cash Apps to get them taken care of. The community surrounding these protests is the reason I bother getting out of bed anymore.”

Portlanders unable to take to the streets have also created roles from themselves within the movement. Sarah, a grad student at Portland State University, quickly realized that they weren’t well-suited for marching on the front lines. Instead, they cofounded AccessiBloc, a coalition of volunteers who work with independent reporters to make their protest coverage accessible to a wider audience.

“It’s something that is close to my heart because I’m hard of hearing and have low vision myself,” explains Sarah, who also does accessibility work at their day job. “A group of us get in the [Twitter] feeds of journalists and add image descriptions and captioning so they can focus while on the ground doing the documenting.”

Through AccessiBloc, Sarah enjoys the same sense of camaraderie that other protesters experience on the front lines. Once, when Sarah injured themself, a fellow AccessiBloc member immediately volunteered to drive them across town to the doctor. And when Sarah worried about covering their medical bill, protest supporters on Twitter quickly mobilized to help.

“I was panicking because I’m a student and don’t have a huge income,” says Sarah. “While I was at the doctor, I tweeted out my situation. By the time I left an hour later, my bill was completely taken care of.”

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Portland’s Black Lives Matter protests have been held daily since May 29 to seek justice for Black individuals killed by police. In addition to protesting for George Floyd and Breonna Taylor, organizers — most of whom are Black, and many of whom are queer — have drawn renewed attention to instances of law enforcement killing Black Portlanders such as Patrick Kimmons and Quanice Hayes. In August, the increased pressure spurred Portland State University to disarm its campus security officers, two of whom shot and killed Jason Washington in 2018.

For most of the country, however, the Portland BLM protests only became noteworthy when news broke in mid-July that federal agents were using unmarked vans to grab protesters off the street. After national news outlets reported on US Marshals and Department of Homeland Security officers indiscriminately teargassing thousands of protesters night after night (and leaving protesters and press with lasting head injuries from crowd-control munitions), the federal forces promised to retreat from the front lines of the demonstrations, and national attention quickly faded once again.

Many Portlanders also seemed to think that the protests would end once the feds retreated in early August. But despite national reporters leaving and crowd numbers shrinking, hundreds of determined protesters continued to gather nightly to decry police brutality against Black Portlanders. At this point, the demonstrators’ demands had become more specific: defund the Portland Police Bureau by at least 20% (although many protesters insisted on 50-100%); redistribute those funds to Portland’s Black communities; drop all legal charges against protesters; and remove Mayor Ted Wheeler from office.
Instead of gathering in downtown Portland, as they had since May, protesters began planning actions at other targets across the city, bringing chants of “Black trans lives matter” and “no cops, no prisons, total abolition” to the Portland Police Association union building, the local ICE facility, and the north and east police precincts. An average evening now includes dozens or hundreds of protesters (mostly young people in black bloc) marching and chanting — and often spray-painting, throwing eggs, or setting dumpster fires. A team of journalists and ACLU and NLG legal observers tag along to document the night’s events.

Unsurprisingly, the Portland police bureau invariably declares these gatherings to be unlawful assemblies or riots. Using a variety of tactics — pepper balls, tear gas, foam-tipped bullets, flash bangs, batons, and violent tackles, among others —the officers typically arrest up to 25% of the crowd (sometimes including journalists, medics or legal observers) and chase the rest into dark residential neighborhoods. As law enforcement tries to disperse the crowd, protesters work together to protect each other in various ways, from creating a wall of shields to using leaf blowers to disperse tear gas.

“I was shot in the ribs with a less-lethal ammunition,” says Maddy, a protester. “The response was immediate — someone with a shield ran in front of me, my friends helped me walk away and then escape the ensuing bullrush, and medics arrived to help as soon as we could stop running.”

Countless protesters have stories of strangers offering eye flushes (useful for recovering from tear gas) and other medical care in times of crisis. They also share instances of being physically pulled to safety as police ran towards the crowd.

“The officers ran out and pushed us up against a wall, telling us to move,” says Maddy, recalling another recent incident. “Protesters began climbing the wall, simply because there was nowhere else to go. I heard someone behind me say ‘I’m getting you out of here,’ and a complete stranger lifted me by my waist like a sack of potatoes, over the fence, and in the clear.”

“I had no idea who it was or where they went, but I will forever remember it,” she says. “The fact that someone looked down and saw this tiny five-foot protester in black bloc and thought to physically lift her to safety.”

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After more than three months of continuous collaboration — first providing mutual aid at the protests and later, as wildfires ravage Oregon, caring for evacuees and other vulnerable community members — Portland’s community of left-wing protesters still rarely know each other’s names. For personal safety, protest attendees often refer to each other by twitter handles or nicknames like “Beans,” “Bulba,” “Antifa Hot Dog,” and “Revolution Daddy.” Nevertheless, they’ve become closely bonded by common goals, mutual aid… and shared trauma.

Many protest attendees report feeling permanently changed by their experiences, and not always positively. “We’re all going to need therapy after this” is a popular half-joke among protesters, often uttered while listing new symptoms of post-traumatic stress. And yet, those same protesters often feel reluctant to take a day off from the front lines.

“One of the reasons being away from the protests is so difficult is because you’re forced to face a lot of the trauma and PTSD symptoms that you don’t necessarily feel when you’re on the ground,” independent journalist Alissa Azar wrote in a recent tweet. “Jumping and flinching at sudden sounds; turning your head when someone gasps because you’re worrying riot cops are about to storm in from behind you and brutalize people, even though you’re nowhere near any kind of action…  [that’s] not something everyone can understand.”

It’s not surprising, therefore, that many protest attendees now struggle to connect with friends and family who haven’t spent time on the front lines and don’t engage with the protests online. After all, the vast majority of Portlanders have continued to move through their lives as if the protests aren’t happening — a choice that can make traumatized protesters feel alienated, angry, or abandoned. “There’s this rift, or a feeling that they aren’t being understood, or a new impatience with people — like ‘how can you still act the same when all this has happened?’” explains Cata Gaitán, an independent journalist in Portland.

While Cata emphasizes that they’re not a scientist, they nevertheless have a theory about what’s been taking place: “I think protesters experience this constant loop of adrenaline/cortisol/serotonin from being angry, scared, and then momentarily relieved,” Cata says. “They are upset with cops; then they get chased, beaten, gassed, and shot at by cops; then they successfully escape those cops; then it all repeats itself moments later. And the people you experience that with become like a family, because you’ve gone through so much trauma together.”

“Family” is not a word that most people would use to describe a group of anonymous antifascist protesters. But after more than 100 days of protesters chanting “stay together, stay tight” and “we keep each other safe,” of them giving eye washes and safe rides to strangers, of them handing out free pizza and masks and hand sanitizer to anyone who asks, of them dearresting each other and bailing each other out of jail, it’s the only word that seems to fit.

Even Cata, the reporter, has a story of feeling like part of the family. As it turns out, they were trapped in the same rush as Maddy, where protesters began climbing a wall to avoid being kettled by police. As the officers drew closer, an anonymous protester reached out a hand to Cata. They wrapped their arms around the stranger’s neck and were lifted up and over the wall.

“That was the first ‘hug’ I’ve gotten in months,” says Cata. “I don’t think I’ve ever had a moment where I felt so protected and cared for — and it was by a complete stranger.”

“For three slow-motion seconds, I felt safe.”

This Relief Fund is Supporting LGBTQ Immigrants During the Pandemic and They Want Your Help

Mateo Sánchez Morales and Raini Vargas are two Bay Area trans activists who created a Covid-19 relief fund for LGBTQ immigrants. In this interview, Lia Dun talks to Mateo and Raini about how the pandemic has affected queer and trans immigrant communities, the power of mutual aid, and ways we can all show up for LGBTQ immigrants.

Can you describe your involvement with LGBTQ immigrant communities before the pandemic?

Mateo: As a transgender person and a second-generation immigrant, I feel close to both of these identities. For the past three years, I’ve worked with LGBTQ immigrants to attain legal immigration status. I’m also involved with mostly Spanish-speaking LGBTQ immigrant groups in the Bay Area that are rooted in community and mutual aid.

Raini: Both of us are openly queer and non-binary and have backgrounds in organizing and activism. I was born and raised in Anaheim, California, so many of the people I love and grew up with come from immigrant families. At my current job, I interact a lot with Mateo’s clients, and we’ve formed incredible relationships.

How has the pandemic affected LGBTQ immigrants?

Mateo: The pandemic has affected LGBTQ immigrants, not because it necessarily created new problems but because it exacerbated existing ones. A lot of people were already struggling to keep a stable job and pay rent and bills. Many people also had mental health conditions before the pandemic. After the coronavirus hit, people’s situations got worse. For people who had pending immigration cases, the courts have slowed down significantly, leaving them in uncertainty. Other folks lost their jobs. Many have found themselves in situations that are extremely unfavorable.

A lot of people have also had to start relying on technology for the first time to access services. I’ve had a lot of people come to me with questions about how to apply for unemployment. Even to me, these processes are confusing, so I can only imagine how difficult it must be for someone who has never used a computer or doesn’t have an email address. And that’s not even mentioning the language barrier that exists for a lot of folks. Sometimes if people need therapy and I want to refer them somewhere, I have to make sure that there are options aside from Zoom calls because that can be very challenging for them to use. A lot of funds also require people to have Venmo, CashApp, or PayPal to receive aid, and I have had to talk a lot of people through the process of downloading the app onto their phone and creating an account because this is all new to them. Many of the people we have assisted with our relief fund do not have electronic payment services and we have actually had to send physical checks to them or give them cash. It has been frustrating to see all these limitations and honestly very eye-opening because they’re things I hadn’t thought about before.

Why did you decide to start the COVID-19 relief fund for queer and trans immigrants? What were the challenges to accessing other forms of aid?

Raini: We officially started the fund on May 9th. Many of the people we know were working under-the-table jobs at places like restaurants, bars, and hotels. These were the places that were the first to shut down. When we referred people to resources, most, if not all, of the funds that we recommended were full or waitlisted. After realizing this, we decided to create a Covid relief fund specifically for queer and trans immigrants to pay for necessities like rent, groceries, utilities, phone bills, hospital bills, hormone replacement therapy (HRT), and mental health services.

There are many issues to accessing aid through institutions. Many LGBTQ people and immigrants have an understandable hesitation in approaching and relying on institutional support. There is something very powerful about direct community aid because it allows people to bypass institutional barriers and access what they need. There isn’t a Board of Directors or a group of powerful people controlling what to do with the funds. It’s just community members supporting other community members.

How has it been working on a two-person relief fund? What have been the challenges, successes, and lessons learned?

Mateo: We realized very quickly that there is a lot of work that goes into putting together something like this.

First, there’s publicizing it — Raini creates the graphics that we share on social media often. We spend a lot of time drafting our updates and messages to the public. Then there’s the logistics and keeping track of everything — how much money we receive, who needs money, how to get the money delivered.

Raini: We also have to think about how we communicate with fund recipients and with donors. People like to be communicated with in different ways. Some folks prefer to talk on the phone, while others rely mostly on text or email. Also, we’ve already seen donors reach out and ask how their money was used. While this is completely understandable, it’s been hard to share updates with our donors while also constantly communicating with our recipients to make sure their needs are being met. Coordinating this and splitting the work between just the two of us has been the most challenging aspect of this.

Mateo: Yeah, it’s a lot of work, physically and mentally, to add on top of both of our full-time workload. We’ve also had to learn how to adapt to each other’s work styles since this is our first time working on something like this together, but generally, we work well together. Both of us come from low-income backgrounds, and now that we’re in better situations, we recognize the importance of using our resources to support others as best we can, while also acknowledging our own privileges — we have a lot of shared values, which makes our visions for the work we’re doing align.

Raini: Yes! Communication is never really an issue. We essentially read each other’s minds and finish each other’s sentences, so when it comes to working on our fund, we are always in-sync.

What are your plans to expand the relief fund?

Mateo: As our reach has expanded, we’ve been seeing an increase in donations but also an increase in people contacting us in need of assistance. We also know that a one-time payment is not enough, and many folks who already received aid need recurring payments. Although our initial idea was to support people through this really rough time, people need aid all the time, not just during the pandemic. Raini and I have talked about making more streamlined efforts to get people aid. We’ve been considering the possibility of a website and getting more people involved in this who can help our fund grow.

Raini: We’re mostly looking for Spanish speakers who are able to share our fund and also communicate with some of our recipients. We’re also looking for folks who have more experience with fundraising and coalition building. But we’d love to work with anyone, as long as you can show you’re devoted to the movement!

What are some other ways folks can support LGBTQ immigrants and/or undocumented folks?

Raini: Outside of donating, people should continue staying informed about attacks on immigrant communities. We are currently seeing the government rip apart and destroy the asylum system, proposing a new rule that would make it impossible for anyone to be granted asylum in the United States.

We also think it’s important for folks to become aware of their individual privileges. How does your citizenship status affect the way you navigate the world? As a white-passing queer person who was also born in the United States, there are certain aspects of my identity that are more protected than others in my community. It’s our responsibility, within the LGBTQ community, to continue to support and uplift our immigrant siblings.

Mateo: This fund started because we saw a need in our community that wasn’t being met. There are people in need all around us. If you see resources being shared on social media, share them widely with the people around you so that they can reach someone in need. If you speak another language, volunteer with organizations that serve populations that don’t speak English. If you already work in direct services, like therapy, keep in mind the populations you serve and do research about how to better serve your clients. Challenge policies in your workplace, neighborhood, or city that target these populations. LGBTQ immigrants are our neighbors, and there are always ways to offer help, even if it’s smaller, individual-level things, like checking on your neighbors and building trust with your community so that when folks need help, you’re better able to support each other.

If you’re an LGBTQ immigrant in need of aid or if you’re interested in getting involved with the relief fund, you can contact Mateo (@hijxdemimadre) at mateogael1818@gmail.com and Raini (@rainiv) at rainivargas.7@gmail.com To donate, you can Venmo Mateo directly (@M-Sanchez-Morales).

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus. If you would like to write about a mutual aid and/or community care effort happening where you are – either as a first person account or as a reported piece – please send a pitch to vanessa [at] autostraddle [dot] com with the subject line PITCH: COMMUNITY CHECK. We are particularly interested in publishing Black writers, Indigenous writers, and all writers of color; we are looking for stories from smaller cities, towns, and rural communities as well as big cities; we would really love to hear what mutual aid and community building looks like as we fight for Black lives and Black futures, work to abolish police and prisons, and fight against white supremacy.

How to Start a Mutual Aid Fund

On March 10th I launched Harvest, a mutual aid fund named after the following lines from a poem by Illinois Poet Laureate Gwendolyn Brooks (1917-2000): “we are each other’s / harvest: / we are each other’s / business: / we are each other’s magnitude and bond.” The fund has since redistributed over $10,000 and its straightforward structure has been adopted elsewhere so now there are multiple Harvests across at least three different cities. 

To start, I mass emailed my community with $222 of seed money. Here’s what I said in a nutshell: make donations via Venmo and requests via phone by texting me the code word HARVEST, a dollar amount, and your Venmo (I switched to PayPal upon exceeding Venmo’s weekly spending limit). I sent a daily email with the available balance, which fluctuated dramatically, and often asked folks to fundraise because as closures increased so did the volume and dollar amount of requests. I received approximately seven texts per day, usually from friends of friends.    

Some quick logistical tips:

• Team up with folks to create several Harvest funds that are each coordinated by 1-2 people
• Focus on the local, meaning where you currently live or your concentric circles of people (do not go viral – spread the word through word of mouth)
• Establish stewarding principles that prioritize those most impacted (BIPOC, disabled, and elder folks)
• It’s okay and will likely be necessary to put a cap on the requested dollar amount

While Harvest is indeed an example of “mutual aid” as opposed to charity, the idea for it didn’t come from studying solidarity economics but from my family of origin’s survival strategies. I am the descendent of immigrants and refugees who engaged in anti-capitalist practices (e.g., sharing and bartering) out of necessity. My aunts in particular have always relied on each other for resources that were inaccessible to them including child and elder care. As a queer femme of color, I have taken part in similar practices among my chosen family, especially fellow sick, disabled, and neurodivergent femmes. Together we have provided in-person and also remote support for one another with everyday tasks that meet our basic needs, post-surgery recovery, and more. The common denominator for these mutual aid efforts is people-to-people relations. 

Harvest is likewise based on relationships rather than accumulated capital. For this reason, Harvest fund coordinators have encouraged folks to “organize your pod” or network of people you can call on for support and shared the Bay Area Transformative Justice Collective’s pod mapping worksheet. Building what Leah Lakshmi Piepzna-Samarasinha calls “care collectives” is a core principle of disability justice and, more broadly, of radical interdependence. I say radical because interdependency challenges the rugged individualism underlying ableist ideology and capitalism, which thrives off disconnection. As adrienne maree brown recently wrote, to resist capitalism “spend less time consuming the internet, and more time developing relationships with real people with whom you share the tangible…and the intangible (listening, loving, dreaming, trusting, laughter, grief).” 

https://twitter.com/redfishstream/status/1248989182854217730

The sustainability of Harvest hinges on “deep reciprocity,” in the words of Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, not debt. My emails stated: “multiple requests welcome, no questions asked [or application], and 100% confidential.” The fact that someone can access money immediately with no strings attached sets Harvest apart and is pretty extraordinary given the capitalistic way in which even non-profits administer resources. The fund redistributed wealth as one might gather and give away the fruits of a harvest. What makes mutual aid transformative is precisely how it functions outside of oppressive systems much like abolitionist responses to COVID-19 that organize toward a world without prisons. 

https://twitter.com/monicatea2/status/1243779305915719680

I know that collective care is the future because it has made my past and present possible. We must acknowledge that mutual aid is not original—or optional—for chronically dispossessed people and therefore, always already political. Global histories of settler colonialism, racial slavery, and empire precede this genocidal time. Marginalized communities developed mutual aid and other collective care practices to go on living despite quotidian white supremacist terror. As Franny Choi’s poem puts it, “before the apocalypse, there was the apocalypse,” which brings me back to Brooks and the liberatory teachings of Black feminism. The only way out of ongoing state violence and into a new social reality is becoming each other’s business.

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COMMUNITY CHECK originated as a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus, inspired by the ways in which queer people came together in so many different ways to care for one another from the very early days of the pandemic. Autostraddle planned to publish the original series twice a week from May 12 – June 18, but we do not want to stop highlighting these efforts, so we are extending the COMMUNITY CHECK column indefinitely.

We are actively accepting pitches for the COMMUNITY CHECK column from today, June 18, 2020, onward. We will publish 1-2 COMMUNITY CHECK articles each month moving forward. We are particularly interested in publishing Black writers, Indigenous writers, and writers of color; we are looking for stories from smaller cities, towns, and rural communities as well as big cities; we would really love to hear what mutual aid and community building looks like as we fight for Black lives and Black futures, work to abolish police and prisons, and fight against white supremacy.

If you would like to write about a mutual aid and/or community care effort happening where you are – either as a first person account or as a reported piece – please send a pitch to vanessa [at] autostraddle [dot] com with the subject line PITCH: COMMUNITY CHECK. Please feel free to share this call far and wide.

Queens Center for Gay Seniors Creates Phone Check-In Project, Connecting LGBTQ Elders and Youths During the Pandemic and Beyond

When it comes to our center, we refer to our members as family, cheesy as it sounds. Queens Center for Gay Seniors, a program of Queens Community House, is a drop-in senior center in Jackson Heights, Queens. LGBTQ seniors and allies can take classes, exercise, and enjoy a warm meal. Many of our members have known each other from the Queens LGBTQ scene for years, and continue to support one another through the challenges of aging. Even on days when our center has no programming occurring, seniors still come to sit and talk with friends for hours.

“Being a gay man, I found myself having nothing in common and often isolated and unwelcomed at senior centers,” one senior wrote to me for this article. “At QCGS I was welcomed and at home amongst new friends. Gay seniors no longer need to be isolated without a place to be themselves and to feel comfortable among their peers.”

Isolation and depression become serious issues as we age and our center is the main tool for elders to combat these concerns. When the news came that we had to shut down all programming due to COVID-19, it was devastating. Our staff of three was left trying to stay in contact with 500+ members and scrambling to figure out how to connect meals back to seniors.

When the elder check-in phone outreach project started, it was only 10 volunteers making calls to a handful of members. We had connected with a professor at Hunter College who helped us build the initial group. Volunteers were responsible for informing seniors of the rapidly changing emergency meal policy. It wasn’t until we partnered with We-Work and NYC Dyke March that the project evolved and expanded. Our volunteer pool went from 10 to 150 people, all wanting to connect with LGBTQ elders. What started as a few emails changed into a full-fledged intergenerational network.

Seeing so many young LGBTQ folx come forward to help keep seniors safe and connected was moving. We had tried for years to create intergenerational programming with varying levels of success. It was often hard to reconcile differences to build lasting connections between youth and elders. These barriers, combined with the fact that American culture often ignores or forgets elders, made successful intergenerational work difficult. This group is dedicating their time to shift the intergenerational dynamic. The virus was tearing NYC apart at the seams, but through the phone project, our community felt more connected than ever.

Volunteers shared that they were relating to seniors on a multitude of topics, from LGBTQ movies to favorite recipes. Differences that once made this work so challenging felt small amid the crisis. Many were feeling degrees of isolation when this program started, so not only did seniors benefit, but younger LGBTQ members were able to feel a new sense of community. “I never met an elder queer person before. These calls gave me a sense of what my history was, and what my future could be,” one caller wrote.

Volunteers were also able to share important center updates and food resources. As the program took off it started to become abundantly clear that seniors were struggling without the center’s meal program. With the help of Green Top Farm, Love Hallie and Queens Together, we were able to form an emergency meal delivery service. The two organizations helped us fundraise to buy meals for seniors from vulnerable local restaurants. Every Friday a team meets to deliver meals to members throughout Queens. This food program has become a saving grace for senior health while the city works out gaps in its system. Volunteers making calls assess food needs and update the delivery team with the information needed to support our community directly. Without this team of volunteers making outreach calls, we never would have been able to reach the number of members we have today. These calls help make sure no member falls through the cracks and that our family can stay connected through this turmoil.

When asked about the project one senior wrote: “To me, The Queens Gay Senior Center is a place where I can be myself. I am able to feel comfortable and happy with people that are also gay. During COVID I was able to have food delivered to my home and weekly calls which took away a lot of stress. It means that someone is always checking on me to make sure that I am doing okay. Living alone during these very difficult times it has meant a lot to have them. With so much going on in the world today, I love and appreciate Queens Center For Gay Seniors.”

As we move through June, this incredible showing of support and care across generations makes us hopeful for what the future of the New York queer community will look like moving forward. The bonds we’ve built through this program feel uniquely strong and nuanced. I hope we can continue to develop a network that supports and celebrates all generations of the LGBTQ community.

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

MedSupplyDrive Relief Work Started with COVID-19, Now Includes Support for Protestors

When the hospitals started sending out distress calls for PPE in mid-March 2020, I was electrified and searching for a way to help, so I responded to a call on social media from a volunteer organization called MedSupplyDrive for a regional coordinator in NYC.

In the blink of an eye, the efforts for gathering PPE in all of NYC on behalf of a national organization lay on my shoulders.

On day 1, it was just me and my partner Charlie. We cold-called and emailed hundreds of places, heart in mouth, praying for someone to be generous. And people came through, offering gloves, masks, and more. By day 3, we were still alone, and gloves needed to be delivered, but we had no car. I’ve been a distance runner for over a decade at this point, so I pulled on my running shoes and battled the wind along the Hudson River Parkway for a 14 mile-round trip. I returned home sore and exhausted, but I felt exhilarated. I knew we were making a concrete impact and helping the providers who keep this city safe. But we couldn’t do it alone, and I was tired of waiting for people to find me.

So, as I always do when looking for solidarity and support, I turned to my queer community. I texted my friends, put out calls in the Facebook groups which have been a safe haven for years, and asked for all hands on deck. The NYC queer community, which has housed me when I had nowhere to go, fed me when I was hungry, and held me through my worst traumas and losses, came through in a landslide. My inbox was flooded with offers of support, and within hours we had a driver team. We had folks driving from Manhattan to Far Rockaway to pick up single n95s, calling hundreds and hundreds of small businesses, giving money out of their own thinly-lined pockets. Our volunteer Tea, a queer tattooer and astrologer, mobilized the tattooing community and brought in massive amounts of medical-grade gloves that undoubtedly saved lives. Brennan, a local theatre producer, connected us with hotels and secured hundreds of shower caps to be used as hair covers.

We were strangers in March, but have turned into a thriving albeit socially distanced family. It was precarious and turbulent aboard our rickety little relief ship at the beginning, but as the weeks have gone on and the pandemic has continued, we have found our sea legs. Our team continues to grow, made of people from all communities and walks of life, but largely composed of a queer core. We welcome people to continue joining our ranks, as this pandemic and the crises it has created are far from over. Whether here in NYC or anywhere across the nation, our website remains open to new volunteers and regional coordinators. We do not have chapters in every single state, and we would love for someone to step up in our underserved areas the way I did in NYC. Our donations continue to go wherever they are needed, but the ones we make to queer youth shelters and LGBTQ medical centers hold a special place in our hearts. We have connected with queer community organizations in every borough, and the ties that bind us together grow stronger by the day. Interacting with the medical system can be fraught for many queer people, and it can be rife with traumatic memories. But they continue to show up, and there is a particular nobility in those who fight to save a system that does not fight to save them.

As the racist murders of George Floyd, Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, and Tony McDade brought our country to a flashpoint, we have expanded to gathering masks and medical supplies for protestors and street medics, and I am heartened to see the queer community continue to show up again and again. From jail support to street medic bridge training to protest organizing, I see my kin everywhere, and I am proud. Black queer organizers have been at forefront of organizing and relief work for a long time, and I am proud to stand in solidarity with them now as always. The pain is palpable. The grief is unending. But there is and always has been strength in numbers, and ours continue to grow. People who I met for the first time on Instagram have reached out to make sure I’m doing ok. We end every conversation, every text thread, every Zoom meeting by saying “stay safe.” We know all too well that it is not safe, but we wish it for each other anyways.

Sometimes, I make eye contact with a stranger at a rally and there is an unspoken acknowledgement, I see you. Call it a spidey sense, call it an instinct honed over years of being unable to speak our realities, but Queer Eye Contact exists. And it is the most comforting thing. I see you. You are not alone. We will get through this. Together.

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

Support Black Community With Your Money: A Living Index of Local Mutual Aid Efforts

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• Jump to mutual aid funds by state.
• Contribute to this living document of mutual aid and community care.

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Navigate mutual aid funds by state:

• California
• Connecticut
• District of Columbia (DC)
• Florida
• Georgia
• Illinois
• Massachusetts
• Minnesota
• Missouri
• Nevada
• New York
• North Carolina
• Pennsylvania
• Rhode Island
• Tennessee
• Texas
• Wisconsin

California

Oakland

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Connecticut

New Haven

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Washington, DC

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Florida

Miami

Tallahassee

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Georgia

Atlanta

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Illinois

Chicago

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Massachusetts

Boston

Worcester

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Missouri

St. Louis

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Minnesota

Minneapolis

• Twin Cities Mental Health Support
• The Minnesota Healing Justice Network
• SPIRAL Collective: We are a QTPOC-centered reproductive justice collective providing free, compassionate, non-judgemental support to the full-spectrum of people across all pregnancy outcomes & reproductive experiences.

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Nevada

Reno

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New York

Brooklyn

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North Carolina

Charlotte

Chapel Hill/Triangle area

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Pennsylvania

Pittsburgh

• Pittsburgh Covid-19 LGBTQIA Emergency Relief Fund
• SisTers PGH is a Black, trans-led transgendercommunitycenter, that provides supportive services, emergency shelter and housing for the trans and non-binary communities of Pittsburgh, PA. A primary function of SisTers PGH is to amplify the voices of trans people within conversations around housing access, art, city/state leadership, mental health support, medical care, employment opportunities, and education.
• Harm Reduction Resources by Queer Appalachia

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Rhode Island

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Tennessee

Knoxville

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Texas

Austin

Dallas

San Antonio

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Wisconsin

Milwaukee

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Contribute to this living document of mutual aid and community care

Bed-Stuy Strong: How to Start a 3,000-Member Neighborhood Mutual Aid Network

What became Bed-Stuy Strong began as a spiral of anxiety and rage. On March 12 I was reading the news about the coronavirus, and reckoning with the possibility that New York, where I live, might be about fourteen days behind Italy, which was then under full lockdown. A few years ago I had determined to never again let the ineptitude and cruelty of the current administration shock me. No, I did not expect much of the U.S. to respond to the burgeoning pandemic humanely or well. To say the least. I thought of K, my next-door neighbor whom I’m especially fond of, who is not in great health, and wondered if he would be okay. Two thoughts danced inelegantly around my brain, bumping up against its furniture. Nobody may come to help us in time; we are all we’ve got. We need to organize, quickly, online, and geographically.

After looking to see if what I wanted existed already, I mapped out different ideas, sketching them out on legal pad: a series of connected private Facebook groups, branching WhatsApp phone trees, feeling increasingly unsatisfied, and then it hit me. Housing a neighborhood-based network on the messaging app Slack would work well, at least as a start, and if it made sense to, we could set up a phone number for neighbors without reliable Internet access. I built out the Slack infrastructure in about forty-five minutes, with lighthearted channels like #pictures_of_pets, as well as channels for people to share what they needed or wanted to organize around. I made a quick how-to resource in case other people might want to do this for their own neighborhoods.

Staring at the empty Slack, I felt a wild throb of preemptive embarrassment: what if no one joined, what if people joined and then were awful to each other. I texted my friend N these fears, and he very kindly told me to stop being a chump. I ran out and put a note on my neighbor K’s door, asking him to call me if he needed anything. My partner and I printed out twenty pages of flyers, cut them up into quartersheets, and then walked around my neighborhood of Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, putting them up on street corners and bodega doors.

This was March 14, right around when most people began to voluntarily try to stay at home, exactly one week before shelter in place was announced in New York. The flyers had a join link. By the time I got home, sixteen new people were in the network. By the end of the day, sixty-five. Neighbors began introducing themselves, expressing gratitude and relief that this existed. Again and again people said, here are my cross streets, this is what I do, I want to help. The next day eighty people joined, the day after a hundred fifty, and Bed-Stuy Strong was born.

The we of Bed-Stuy Strong is what electrified and astonished me, and continues to. We: my neighbors, my fellow organizers, the eventual thousands of ordinary people who raised a hand and said, hey, I want to do something. We made a phone number on day two. We had an organizing meeting on Zoom: day four. We made a new bilingual flyer and thirty volunteers papered the neighborhood with it: day six. We set up a rudimentary system: a neighbor would leave a message on the hotline, a member would call them back and find out what they needed, and post it on Slack for other neighbors to respond to, or offer to contribute money too. Most neighbors calling needed groceries – they were elders or immunocompromised, they couldn’t leave the house or they had been laid off and had no funds. We began to receive thirty to fifty calls each day. We set up a community fund to buy those groceries, stitching together cash apps like Venmo and Paypal and Zelle to a personal bank account: that, I think, was day eleven. Some of our members who had backgrounds in tech raised their hands to offer to try to build a more sophisticated system so we could help more people and faster, given that hunger is a pretty immediate need. We put it in motion. By the end of the first two weeks over a thousand people had joined. This was terrifying, and exhilarating too.

Mutual aid, that is, reciprocal intra-community help and support expressed in a spirit of solidarity, is the heart of Bed-Stuy Strong, which today is a multiracial network of three thousand people from all walks of life, from grocery store clerks to software engineers to artists. In our first nine weeks of existence, we have supported over five thousand neighbors with a week of groceries delivered to their door, creating an estimated 100,000 meals. It’s absolutely wild to me. It demonstrates the power of emergent networks and of organizing, and the reality that most people are hungry to be decent in an indecent time.

Many of these neighbors pay it forward in some way; some join Bed-Stuy Strong and volunteer to run other deliveries, some offer contributions to the community as they can. The network has had multiple other initiatives its members are working on, from getting folks to complete the census (Bed-Stuy was undercounted by an estimated 49% in 2010) to providing masks to healthcare workers to helping coordinate supplies for our neighbors who don’t have homes.

Besides solidarity, we articulated other guiding principles for our work together: accountability, resourcefulness, care, imaginative thinking, joy, and crucially, humility. We know other community organizations have been doing the work for a long time. We were, and are, a volunteer-run network of ordinary people, and thus have to own our finiteness. We were, and have to be, part of a great patchwork of efforts to take care of our communities during a calamitous global crisis that has reverberated along long standing faultlines of structural racism, economic inequality, and healthcare disparities. We saw, and see, any worthwhile thing we accomplish as a small part of the long legacy of joined hands here in Central Brooklyn. This is, after all, where the Black Panther Party set up a free medical clinic, abolitionists worked to get enslaved people to freedom, and people who were marginalized by the state in a variety of ways have looked out for each other, and shown up for each other, for a very long time.

It’s wild how many of us are queer, G, one of my fellow organizers, messaged me the other day, I wonder why that is. It seemed pretty straightforward to me. Queers, Black people, brown people, immigrants – all have had to learn to take care of our own in this country. Any group of people relegated to the margins has. Mutual aid organizing is a codification of that care, and an additional assertion: you matter. Whatever they tell you, whatever the system tells you, you matter, we matter, you matter to me.

If you would like to support Bed-Stuy Strong, please go to ioby.org/bedstuystrong or Venmo @bedstuystrong. Every dollar will end up helping fill the fridge of a neighbor in need.

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

Keep It On The DL Encourages Community Members to Share Tips and Resources for Distance Learning

I can still hear my students telling me, “Mx. I look forward to your class every day.”

Most days, now, I am inseparable from my computer, compiling lists of free resources for my students, their parents, and fellow educators. I can’t stop wondering if my students are having trouble with the academic shift of distance learning and if their parents are struggling to help them with their work. What in the world can we do when our only connection to our classrooms is one dead battery away from being nonexistent? If there’s one thing the queer community has taught me, it’s the importance of mutual aid. Mutual aid is the sharing of supplies, equipment, personnel, and information across political boundaries.

Passing around documents on doctors to trust or organizations dedicated to our well being is what keeps many of us alive day after day. Days after the shutdown, I established the Instagram account @keepitonthedl2020, a resource hub and platform for educators, parents, and students adjusting to distance learning. Teachers from all over the world take over the account for three days at a time, discussing their experience during this pandemic and providing others with lesson plans, stories, solutions, and guidance. All people deserve the right to continue their education regardless of their ability to sit in a physical classroom. Accessibility should never determine a child’s ability to learn.

Working in underserved communities and coming from one myself, I am no stranger to the stark challenges of seeking an education. Though they cared very much about my education, my immigrant parents became unable to help me with my homework before I even reached high school. Tears fill up my eyes remembering the relief and heartbreak of all schools in New York officially closing. I have a compromised immune system and am very used to being isolated to protect myself, so the idea of a lockdown didn’t feel too unfamiliar. Being around so many young children had me dealing with a cold at least once a month, but it was worth it. I passed up on many fun nights out because if I was going to spend four days a week doing anything it was teaching my students how valuable they are. I spent nearly all of the time my body could handle being outside working in my classroom and it was beyond worth it. Seeing the students self esteem, sense of community, and empathy grow is the greatest privilege I have ever had. One day, after sharing journal entries, we were all huddled together crying tears of gratitude in a group circle. My girls told me that our class gave them the chance to speak on and manage pain that they held in their whole lives. Equipping them with all the tools they would need, felt like something I could only do in person, tangled up in hopeful arms.

Like every other educator moving from room to Zoom, I had to think fast. Our students need us now more than ever – how can we help if we can’t show up? How do we connect in a world that is at our fingertips but is prioritizing distance? We are able to come together in a way that has never happened on our planet before. Not to sound like a gay superhero (am I, though?) but when we join forces we are truly unstoppable, and it’s high time that we use the internet for good and not evil. Our program offers an open, free, and growing resource list for the community. All community members are welcomed to add PDFs to free articles, lesson plans, health & wellness hotlines, etc.

“Communities and Educators are so thankful for this kind of page. Thank you for doing the work and creating this.” – L. Cancel, Hudson County, NJ

On the Instagram account you will find extra resources listed in the story highlights as well as the archived takeovers of past educators, parents, and teachers. For three consecutive days, participants are able to share how distance learning has affected them and impart knowledge on how they’re getting through this challenge. This page is for everyone who wants to learn (and unlearn) and share their wisdom. In the past our takeovers have featured a music therapy expert with activities for children, an artist sharing self care practices, and a literacy focused teacher with a passion for helping parents and children making progress together. The variation within the takeovers is what makes them so unique and engaging; we all have something to offer to our communities and it’s a beautiful thing to be able to share that. It’s such a privilege to be able to connect virtually and I am endlessly inspired by our capacity to share and work together to build a better future. We strongly encourage anybody who would like to help to reach out to us, even if they don’t know how their skill set matches with our needs. There is a place for everyone within this project and a resource for everyone within our resource guide.

My hope is that this Instagram account and guide can continue to build a bridge between the triad of folx in need of a helping hand and a community to call their own. KIOTDL is a space where we can embrace all of our identities and utilize mutual aid to navigate the ever changing set of rules of the world around us. This project is committed to being a radically inclusive, accessible, and community lead platform for those participating in social solidarity and affected by this global crisis.

You don’t need to leave your home to reach your destination.

Interested participants and folx in need of distance learning/education related resources can email myself at sophialafi8[at]  gmail [dot] com

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

My Mother’s WeChat Mutual Aid Network Is a Project of Diaspora Activism

Like many young adults, for me COVID-19 redefined what moving into your parents’ house after graduation looked like. The rupture of globalism meant that I had to give up my cheap downtown apartment in Taiwan and go back to the United States, my passport nation, for an indefinite period of time, living in my family’s house in suburban New Jersey and having to deal with a mother who is not supportive of my queer identity. Participating in her diaspora mutual aid WeChat group helped me learn how far diasporic people will go for strangers sharing a common language when governmental aid fails.

In late March, my mother and I were relaxing after dinner in the living room when her phone went off, her phone OLED screen showing a new notification from WeChat. The app is ubiquitous in China, used for everything from paying for utilities to ordering food to video chatting grandma, but rarely used anywhere else in the world besides by the Chinese diaspora. My mom, like so many other Chinese moms, spends all her free time on the app, texting her parents or my dad and watching Chinese dramas.

This message was a little bit different from usual family updates. When she read it, I could see my mom’s hesitation through her immediate brow furrow. “Lei Ke’s mom wants me to organize her mutual aid NYC group,” was essentially what she said to me offhandedly in Mandarin, before typing furiously on her phone. Lei Ke was my cousin’s roommate from graduate school, and I hadn’t thought about him in a solid six years. I didn’t really think much of it at first, just smiled a little bit on her and went back to scrolling Twitter. But in the next few days, I was astounded by the sheer investment of everyone in the group and the ways they would move mountains to make sure strangers were taken care of.

That same night, I went to sleep with my hair wet – a big no-no in Chinese superstition – and woke up the next morning with a slight dry cough. Uh-oh. When I told my mother, she panicked, and immediately reached for her phone. I didn’t really understand at the time, but because of her involvement in this WeChat mutual aid group, she had dozens of doctors at her fingertips. These Chinese doctors had seen so many cases of COVID in China that my mother trusted them; a few were Chinese traditional medicine doctors as well. The existence of the group, my mother explained to me, was because Chinese mothers who had children studying in the United States were worried about the kind of care they could get in the American healthcare system. They’re not wrong, I thought, snorting.

My mom took my temperature and took pictures of my tongue, and reported it all to the person across the ocean on her phone. Luckily for me, the doctors on her phone told me that I didn’t have COVID, as I was missing the tell tale thick white tongue that COVID-19 patients had. However, they told me my qi was too hot, and to cool down by drinking herbal tea and eating less fried foods. My mom brewed me ginger tea and a few days later, I was glad the acne around my mouth had begun to calm down.

In the next week, my mother’s WeChat group really took off – she started getting overwhelmed. Something that started as a simple favor from a friend’s mom turned into hours of organizing people after dinner, moderating the chat, and contacting doctors. After someone faked symptoms and wasted hours of our time – for a reason I really can’t imagine – my mom asked me to join the group and help her moderate and organize. I did it willingly, after seeing my mom stay up until 4am trying to deal with the onslaught of messages and requests to join.

My first experience helping a sick patient was when a migrant worker in Flushing joined the WeChat group, asking for help treating his COVID symptoms. The man spoke almost no English and had no family to help him – he was all alone. WeChat doctors diagnosed him, a Chinese American doctor in California prescribed him medicine, and pharmacists Fedex’d him the medicine for overnight delivery. When Fedex, understandably, continued to delay the delivery of the package, Chinese people from all over the world began to zap Fedex’s phone line to help a total stranger. They overwhelmed Fedex with calls, begging them to deliver doctor prescribed medication immediately to a sick man living in a hotel. Fedex delivered the package the next morning. For me, that phone zap and the entire mutual aid group was an amazing act of solidarity. It pulled together Chinese people living in China and the United States and allowed them to contribute in ways they could, whether it was through American doctors prescribing medication or even a phone zap that one could do while quarantined and 5,000 miles away. In a never before experienced pandemic, the resources and grit of ordinary people succeeded when governmental aid and directives failed.

At time of writing, the group has helped more than 20 Chinese immigrants recover from COVID-19. WeChat has a cap of 500 members to a group, and the NYC group has been at capacity for three weeks. Every time someone leaves, someone new will join. I wake up and use my Chinese skills to moderate conversation, terrified about pressing the wrong character, but still happy about my usefulness.

The ongoing political tension between the United States and China has forced Chinese Americans into an enemy, alien narrative they don’t want to be put in. My mother’s WeChat mutual aid network is a project of diaspora activism. It shows that despite governmental narratives and propaganda pushing China and the United States to a virtual cold war, Chinese people and Chinese Americans are solidly rejecting the need to choose sides. Instead, they spend so much time taking care of strangers across the sea, united by only a common language. These days, even though I fight a lot with my mom under her roof about her inability to accept my queer identity, I’ve begun to admire and respect her activism.

If you are interested in joining this group, you can email Rita: wangwrita [at] gmail [dot] com

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

Let’s Live: North Bronx Collective is Building Resilience for the Long Road

I don’t know how to put into words the reality of what it’s been like in this city.

I came back to New York City because I need the city to survive and my mother needs me to thrive. After moving here from Jamaica at 13 and bouncing around the US all my adult life, NYC has always been the only place that feels like home in this country, the place I always return to, and where I’ve lived the longest. This city has always been the physical manifestation of all the lives I (we) live inside ourselves – this city that is everyone’s muse, no one’s friend, but birthed legions of geniuses. After 15 years away, I returned last fall to a city ravaged by gentrification warfare on the lives that made it. Where Trans and Queer Black Indigenous People of Color (QTBIPOC) are pushed so far to the margins you’d think we were never here at all.

Now I’m in the Bronx; it feels like the last place left for poor people here. In a place where gentrification is increasing but agency for Black Indigienous People of Color isn’t, it’s obvious folks really aren’t checkin for us. This pandemic is showing the festering roots of the oppressive systems we are surviving. The city map of the number of positive COVID-19 cases in the 5 boroughs stands as proof of the fact that those of us in the “outer boroughs” aren’t provided with the resources we need to survive.

If QTBIPOC are the least likely to be hired for living-wage jobs, the most likely to be discriminated against by healthcare professionals, have the highest rate of homeless youth, and are the last discussed during this pandemic, but at the same time are likely to be targeted for racist and anti-Black violence by the police, we can see that we are somehow persisting through a very public genocide. People are dying right now because of hetro white supremacist imperialist capitalist patriarchy (shout out to bell hooks).

For decades The Bronx has been a borough made up of folks from the global south: from the Caribbean, Asia, Africa and Latin America. We’re all just here trying to make a way. In response to the inequity exacerbated by the pandemic a group of us, mostly queer women of color who have already been organizing around these issues, formed the North Bronx Collective to provide direct solidarity and coalition building with our neighbors to offer mutual aid food shares, and education and support around housing rights and workers’ rights. We actively center the most tyranized and exploited of us: folks with disabilities of all types, immigrants to this country and those of us who are undocumented here, and LGBTQIA+ folks – especially QTBIPOC.

We jumped into mutual aid with both feet, raising money, passing out grocery gift cards, shopping for families who were urgently calling our google number, and now passing out hundreds of donated meals along with PPE and political education materials once per week.

In the beginning, the Collective delivered these groceries and food mostly on foot. Let me explain that our collectives are small. We are a hand-full of people trying to create resilience in a space where folks are dying not just from COVID-19, but the effects of being poor. We were being crushed by emergencies: Families of four not having food for days; queer students of color caring for their elders who aren’t able to buy food because they can’t leave the apartment and can’t afford the food anyway because they have to pay the rent; a mother who was so sick we thought she wouldn’t make it and were helping her make arrangements to protect her children who had no one else to care for them; people who refused to go to the hospital because they know that they will not get the proper care (because they never get the proper care) and so feel like being in that place is a death sentence.

To help handle the amount of need, we partnered with Chilis on Wheels, an organization dedicated to providing vegan meals to combat food insecurity, for some of the deliveries. But how can crews of two or three people even begin to cover this ground? Mind you, most of us do not have cars and volunteers with cars are few and far between or aren’t in the Bronx and don’t want to come here. And still, we had the matter of how and what to feed folks who couldn’t be reached by Chilis.

As a vegan educator who sees veganism as a necessary step towards upending systemic oppression, I brought this analysis to the collective to explain that there is no way for us to move forward in our work by providing unethical, unhealthy food. Folks tend to look at veganism as a privilege. This is primarily due to the loudness of white “mainstream” veganism which is decidedly biased and overwhelmingly privileged. Now, as white folks flee the city, we are left here to keep it running as we scrounge for scraps amid consistent police harassment to get our food. Veganism has never been a privilege for Black Indigenous People of Color. Our ancestral food patterns are vegan and the spiritual and nutritional teachings around them are vegan. In this moment, especially for QTBIPOC, any small privileges we have for food are gone in a space where food scarcity is a reality that is disproportionately affecting us. Besides, if we’re being killed we cannot be consuming foods that kill us.

Our Collective has agreed and recognizes that sustainable food and our own food pathways are the only way to keep us safe. We are moving towards providing only vegan meals and growing food through community gardening. One of our main missions is to teach folks how to grow food.

Our collectives are here in mutual aid because we are poor people helping poor people. No charity, no hand-outs, just solidarity because we are all in this together building with our community. Being a Black dyke doing this work doesn’t feel like a stretch. That’s what we do. We are the trailblazers, anchors and the backbones of our communities. Working in our community garden with a fierce group of women and non-binary folks feels like an easy revolution. Feeding the people looks like a liberation that’s not a heavy lift, no matter how many heartbreaks we face. I see this work as possible in all of us. We have nothing to lose by shedding the same system that’s breaking us and caused this catastrophe. We can create something beautiful and new with the radical love that has always sustained us just under the surface.

In the next month I am working with others to gather QTBIPOC organizations in NYC to create a larger support network. We are building together for resilience for the long road. We can absolutely win (shout out to Assata Shakur).

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

BUFU’s Cloud 9 Builds New Networks of Care for QTPOC During the Pandemic and Beyond

Before we ascend to the clouds, I hope we can begin with a brief check-in: how are you? Quite possibly, a silly question, I know. The circulated image of Ilana Wexler facetiously air-quoting “how am I?” continues to age like a fine wine. But seriously, how are you? Amid this insidious coronavirus pandemic, the need to foster love, wellness, and community takes precedence.

When the first wave of COVID-19 collided with our precious Queer lives, almost immediately the onslaught of calls for a “return to normalcy” echoed from the shallow shores of government and institutions entrenched in systemic oppression. Typical. As it becomes more evident that our current state- and federal-sponsored capitalist system is incapable of resolving a crisis on this scale, let us honor and shed light on the grassroots activists and organizations valiantly pushing for collective autonomy in our communities.

In a world built By Us For Us (BUFU) — a Queer collective of femme and non-binary organizers co-founded in 2015 by Tsige Tafesse, Katherine Tom, Sonia Choi, Jazmin Jones, and Jiun Kwon — the power of solidarity (not charity) can fundamentally dismantle the systems and structures that fail us. Deeply ingrained within the traditions and histories of marginalized people, mutual aid has long been the political action strategy for centralizing communalism. Especially for LGBTQIA+ folks who exist at the intersection of Black, Indigenous, or Person of Color.

“Under the mission of collaboration, BUFU’s work quickly tumbled into creating programmatic models that centered a ‘living archive’ approach,” co-founder Tsige Tafesse said to me via email. “[We sought] to create collaborative, sprawling projects under various themes that saw our lived experiences as expertise, and non-hierarchical care exchange as paramount.”

At the start of New York’s mandated quarantine this past March, within the perennial moments of deep uncertainty and anxiety for many folks, BUFU organized the Cloud 9: Mutual Aid Resources equipped with financial assistance, political action resources, spiritual/holistic exercises, and more.

“We want to create the interconnectedness necessary to build futures together,” spoke Cloud 9 Core Committee Member, Parissah Lin, over the phone. “With our team of folks — Alex Moon, Lee Jimenez, Michelle Ling, Fiona Feng, and Sajo Jefferson — we wanted to plug in, knowing that our skills, our capacities, and our histories are a valued distribution of information.”

In collaboration with China Residencies, BUFU launched Cloud 9: Collective Love on Your Desktop to virtually “share care strategies, wisdom, sweetness, resources, and love to support everyone affected by the coronavirus pandemic.” Conscious to always revert back to their care work mission, BUFU aims to wage a trusted alliance with their community. On May 5th, the Cloud 9 Mutual Aid team lead a town hall Zoom meeting for all QTPOC folks interested in becoming more involved in the cause. Whether you thrive in Fundraising, Tech, Workshop Programming, Nightlife, or Care Work, Cloud 9 and the Mutual Aid Team would be thrilled to welcome you as a volunteer!

“In solidarity with folks who experienced the pandemic earlier,” shared China Residencies founder, Kira Simon-Kennedy, “Cloud 9 aimed to get online programming and digital mutual support ASAP. All the committees formed organically and mobilized super quickly.”

As we move into a new chapter of archiving long-term strategies, what legacies will establish from our responses to this crisis? What emerging institutions will shape the world to come? Our need for mutual aid certainly existed before the present pandemic, and it’s important for our community to continue cultivating and gazing forward. When we reach a post-COVID-19 world, what do we want our society to look like?

To support the ongoing efforts of BUFU and Cloud 9, please consider donating here. Thank you! Stay safe <3

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

Organizing A Sex Work COVID-19 Relief Fund Restored My Faith In Community

When COVID-19 hit North America, I had pretty much given up on community organizing: More than ten years of witnessing transmisogyny, explosive conflict, vicious call-out culture, and burnout in activism had jaded me to the romance of “the revolution.” An activist since my late teens, I was pretty sure I was done forever with being an organizer.

Then the pandemic arrived and threw everything into pandemonium. Dreams were crushed and plans fell to dust. The socioeconomic devastation of the pandemic has affected literally everyone, but perhaps no community more than the one dearest to my heart: sex workers.

Like many trans women, my life has been intertwined with the sex industry from a young age. Sex workers supported me when I had no one else, taught me how to protect and value myself, gave me survival tools to navigate a transphobic world. As someone who has been a counselor, community organizer, and artist, let me tell you something: No one knows resilience, resistance, and creativity like sex workers. No one does care and love like sex workers.

So when the pandemic arrived, instantly pulling the plug on a vast swath of sex workers’ livelihoods, I let go of my misgivings about organizing and threw myself into a relief fund project with Maggie’s Toronto Sex Workers’ Action Project and Butterfly Migrant & Asian Sex Workers Support Network, two sex worker support orgs in my home city. Our goal was simple: Raise $10,000 and put it into the hands of the most marginalized sex workers.

Sex workers are a vulnerable population: Criminalization and stigma create a context in which erotic laborers – especially queer and trans, racialized, and poor individuals – can be abused and exploited. In the pandemic, these same barriers block many sex workers from accessing the government relief that so many people are now relying on.

“The criminalization of sex work creates barriers to applying for relief. Many workers don’t feel safe providing employment information. For some this means not filing their taxes, resulting in ineligibility,” says Jenny Duffy, Board Chair of Maggie’s. Migrant sex workers face further challenges, such as the threat of deportation and language barriers – my colleague and friend Elene Lam, Butterfly Director, adds that many migrant sex workers are not able to access any emergency support and are struggling to pay for essentials like rent and food.

I wasn’t sure what to expect when I joined the team – like many of us trying to get through the pandemic, I only knew I had to do something. Would “the community” even care about what we were trying to do? Did anyone care about sex workers, when the chips were down? My jaded activist heart didn’t hold a lot of hope.

Imagine my surprise when the donations started rolling in – and kept on rolling. To date, we’ve gone from our goal of $10,00 to raising almost $100,000, and we don’t plan to stop now. Our small team of fundraisers has drawn on all the street-smarts and creativity of the sex worker community to get the word out and bring that coin in: We’ve used tactics from personalized donor calls to a social media influencer campaign to networking with wealthy philanthropists.

People are coming together around this thing we’re doing – and so many other mutual aid projects – and it’s more powerful and vibrant than almost anything I’d experienced in a decade of activism.

As for my jaded, burnt-out, done-forever heart? We’ll see. We’ve still got a lot of pandemic left to go. But it might be starting to soften, just a little.

Donate to the Butterfly and Maggie’s Sex Worker Relief fund: https://www.maggiesto.org/covid19

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

Using Seeds and Soil, Cuir Kitchen Brigade Helps People Feed Themselves and Their Neighbors Through the Coronavirus Pandemic

It’s May 1st, International Workers Day, and I’m sitting at my kitchen counter waiting for a 20 foot box truck to arrive. When it does, the other members of Cuir Kitchen Brigade and myself will offload about 100 milk crates filled with dirt, ready to become a part of gardens in the homes of residents in Bushwick and Bedford Stuyvesant.

We are the last of three stops this truck is making. Its first and second were Kings Manor Museum located in Jamaica, Queens and Universe City in East New York, Brooklyn in which a total of 326 milk crates were distributed.

This journey began at JFK airport, where last week a group of 12 of us spent a total of six hours clipping zip ties and liberating the unused crates in order to encourage what has now become over 600 individuals across the five boroughs and New Jersey to start feeding themselves and their neighbors. This garden was in use for five years, its crops serving the restaurants inside of terminal five, before it stopped running. Through various relationships with organizations we were notified of its impending disposal and decided to repurpose it by distributing the crates to residents of New York. These crates are equipped with liners and filled with clean soil. This work is in collaboration with Cuir Kitchen Brigade, Reclaim Seed, The Curb Banquet, Sajo Jefferson, Sawdayah Brownlee and Lucy Lesser. Together we are known as the Milk Crate Collective.

So what does that mutual aid look like for the Cuir Kitchen Brigade?

As individuals who are constantly on the frontlines, from working in Boriken after hurricane Maria to feeding people at the border, our work in food sovereignty centers the lives of Q/T/BIPOC. Cuir Kitchen Brigade was formed responding to a crisis situation, born out of the necessity to feed Boricuas after the hurricane. Since then our mission has expanded to include frontline communities that are disproportionately impacted by climate change and disaster.

As a group of Queer and Trans BIPOC we have always felt the call of duty to help our communities survive, to reconnect with land, heal our traumas and to frame food soveriegnty through a healing justice lens. So when Covid-19 started and we began to see the impact it had on the BIPOC community we couldn’t help but to get to work.

Two weeks ago we had a line of over 100 people outside of my home – in what is now functioning as our HQ – waiting for us to hand out seedlings, compost and seeds. The line of individuals stretching to the corner as everyone observed the 6 feet distance rule, all of them donning their PPE. As individuals, families and elderly folks crossed the street to our table asking what was available we witnessed the joy on their faces when given the tools they need for their own liberation, for our collective liberation.

We have mailed seed kits across the U.S. and the Carribean and through social media have been fortunate enough to see those seed kits transform the lives of people. One of the people who was sent a seed kit told us that this season two black five year old girls, her daughters, would be planting their first garden in Cincinnati, OH with those seeds. This DIY Urban Gardening Zine illustrated by Ollie Montes De Oca and written by me during this pandemic has been shared and archived as a resource for individuals we are not able to reach through other channels. My living room floor is covered in boxes filled with seeds, my backyard has a greenhouse for seedlings and my home – while always existing to serve the people – is doing so even more now.

Throughout this pandemic Cuir Kitchen Brigade’s goal has been to focus on the long term. Our communities have lots of needs right now and individuals are mobilizing in many ways. Our way is a commitment to long lasting change, to self-sufficiency, to inter-dependence and to creating the world we want to see.

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

Queer NYC Cyclists Deliver Care Amid the COVID-19 Crisis

Mami wouldn’t stop shopping. In the first few weeks of lockdown here in Queens, New York, one of the epicenters of the COVID-19 crisis in North America, she would go out practically every day – unmasked – more than she usually did. Yelling didn’t work to keep her quarantined, but when I started using Corona Courier, a free no-contact delivery service where cyclists pick-up and deliver necessities to marginalized communities in New York City, I was able to give her a concrete alternative. This, coupled with the passing of a family member in her hometown of Guayaquil, Ecuador, ground zero of the pandemic in Latin America, slowed her outings to a stop. Turns out access works better than shame.

“Corona Courier came about after Liz Baldwin did a delivery for a neighbor with her bike,” my friend Sasha Verma, a queer Desi cyclist living in Brooklyn, told me over email. “I had already been thinking about how I could use my bike to help my home-bound friends and neighbors.” She reached out to Liz and became one of the foundational organizers and operators of the project. “The 14-person email chain turned into a Slack workspace of over 450 volunteers. A lot of people just recognized that their bicycles would be a great tool to help others out.”

Corona Courier is one of many mutual aid projects that have sprung up across NYC in response to the COVID-19 crisis and its subsequent mismanagement — to say the very least — by the government and other institutions that gamble with our lives. Mutual aid, a form of non-hierarchical communal care in which individuals provide for each other, is one of the central concepts of the anarchist tradition, though it has existed in many forms throughout pre-colonial Black and Indigenous history. A principal example is the Black Panther Party’s Free Breakfast for Children program established in 1969.

As social and systemic abandonment is nothing new to QTBIPOC, especially amid crises that provide the powers that be with the opportunity to cull our kind out of existence, our projects tend to hold a different weight. “The atmosphere of Corona Courier is very different,” says Sasha of the white cis/het spaces she’s used to. “So many people are openly queer, [and] the energy feels safe.” She adds, “Maybe having so many brown and queer people in the mix has helped to cultivate that.”

I’ve now used Corona Courier three times for groceries and to deliver to groups within the Queens Mutual Aid Network, and each time, I’m deeply touched to know that my family and I are not left alone to scramble to meet our needs. As a disabled person for who social isolation has been the norm for years, I know that care isn’t exclusively communicated through sight and touch — for socialization is often a matter of accessibility. It’s about who shows up.

“Making these connections and finding these alignments has allowed me to not completely fall apart during such a stressful and difficult time,” Sasha says. In this time of physical — not social — distancing, queer mutual aid allows us to transform solitude into solidarity, and make space not just for survival, but for what I call “thrival.”

“We delivered a birthday cake from a teacher to their student in the Bronx for their 18th birthday,” Sasha wrote me. “We all needed a sweet, joyful delivery that day.”

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COMMUNITY CHECK is a series about mutual aid and taking care of each other in the time of coronavirus.

Donate Your Coronavirus Stimulus Check If You Don’t Need It

As part of the United States government coronavirus stimulus package, many people have started receiving $1200 in their bank accounts from the IRS. It’s true that the check is not a sustainable solution for the millions of unemployed people in the country and it’s also true that for many in our community, the check is vital and necessary in order to remain housed and fed. It’s also true that some of us do not need $1200 from the government – we are still employed, we are working from home, we are perhaps even saving money right now if we are still salaried and yet aren’t using our disposable income on the usual things we spent money on before quarantine.

If you received a $1200 stimulus check from the government and don’t need it to support yourself or your family, consider redistributing your money to people who actually do need cash, today, to survive in the very literal sense of the word. Even giving away half your check can make a significant difference for someone else! I want to shout out Stef, Autostraddle’s former Vapid Fluff editor, for bringing this idea to our “office” Slack channel today, and also Lucy Diavolo and Erin Taylor who are the two people I first saw discussing this on Twitter. When I started discussing this with my friends I learned that multiple pals had already had this idea and were already redistributing their funds, and it feels really good and uplifting to be in community with people who put their government bailout money where their collective politics are. I’m proud of us for continuing to take care of each other.

Also it should go without saying: there is no shame in needing this money and needing to hold onto it for yourself. Please do not read this post as a demand or directive to give away money you cannot afford to give away. This post is specifically for folks who are materially comfortable and do not need an extra $1200 to live – if you can afford to give some or all of your stimulus check to someone else, that’s amazing and you should do it. If you can’t, please disregard!

Six Ways You Can Redistribute Your $1200 To Support People Who Really Need It

1. Donate to bail out funds

Prisons have always been a public health crisis, but the need to get people out of jail has become dire during this global pandemic. TIME magazine reported that “New York City jails are the epicenter of the epicenter” and raising funds for bail as well as supporting individuals and their families once they are released from prison is the most concrete way we can fight this dehumanizing system and save lives. I have been donating to and recommending COVID Bail Out NYC and Let My People Go, but any local bail out fundraiser is a great option to support.

2. Donate to neighborhood mutual aid funds

Since the coronavirus pandemic took hold of the United States in March, organized mutual aid pods have popped up in neighborhoods that have always supported each other and neighborhoods where folks used to not know anyone else’s name alike. We published a resource last month (that I am slowly continuing to update – forgive the lags, I am but a single person trying my best) that includes directories to super local mutual aid opportunities and instructions about how to organize your own neighborhood if there isn’t already infrastructure in place. If your pod has a Venmo or PayPal set up, donate to that.

3. Support sex workers

Sex workers are targeted and criminalized by the government at the best of times, and were explicitly left out of the stimulus relief package for coronavirus. Use your stimulus check money to rectify this injustice – here’s a list of regional specific relief funds for sex workers, and here’s a fund specifically created to provide Black Trans sex workers with survival kits. You can also hire sex workers and pay them for their labor and their knowledge, and as always make sure you’re paying for your porn.

4. Support undocumented immigrants

Another group of people who are left out of the government stimulus package altogether are undocumented immigrants. Northern Manhattan Coalition for Immigrant Rights has set up an emergency relief fund for COVID-19 – donations will be used exclusively as cash assistance and food relief for immigrant families and will not be used at all for operational expenses for the organization. It is understandably challenging to find ways to directly support undocumented immigrants, but if you are plugged into local organizing in your community and know how to directly give to individuals that is an ideal situation. Additionally, here is an incomplete list of national and local relief funds for immigrant communities, and here’s a document from Immigrants Rising about how to provide tangible support for immigrant communities during COVID-19. And thank you to Christine Miranda for suggesting Movimiento Cosecha’s National Undocumented Worker Fund, another resource to donate directly to undocumented immigrants.

5. Shop at local businesses

Many small businesses are struggling through this unprecedented moment, and every small business owner I know is scared they’re not gonna make it. Local small businesses, especially queer-owned and POC-owned, need our help more than ever. If you’re not able to give away your stimulus money but still want to use it to support your community, buy groceries from your local farm, buy your girlfriend a birthday gift from your local sex toy shop, or treat your friends to a new book from your favorite independent bookshop.

6. Give to your friends and community members

Venmo or CashApp your friends who got laid off and haven’t been able to get through to the unemployment line. Buy your neighbors groceries. Literally just give your money away – with no strings and no expectations and no fanfare – to people you know who need it more than you do.

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If you have donated somewhere specific that is not included in this list, or if you have other ideas about how to use your stimulus money (or other disposable income you may have) toward redistribution of material resources and community care, please share in the comments!

We Have To Take Care of Each Other: Mutual Aid for COVID-19 and Beyond

The world has never felt safe, but it feels particularly scary at this exact moment. I tried to write the introduction to this post more than ten times because more than anything else, I want to convey a feeling of care and community to anyone reading that is difficult to articulate via a screen. This is a post about COVID-19, and about specific actions we can each take to care for each other – it’s about mutual aid and collective survival in 2020. This is also a post that extends an idea queer community has long been extremely familiar with, and that idea is that at the end of the day, we have to take care of each other, because no one else is going to take care of us.

In that way, our actions during this global public health crisis will be new and specific – none of us has ever lived through this exact moment before – but they will also be rooted in our history. Queer community is built on a lineage of mutual aid, of tangible community care, and of prioritizing and centering the needs of the most marginalized among us. During this pandemic we will not only be relying on other queers – in fact, organizing mutual aid operations in your local neighborhoods with all the humans you call community and neighbors is ideal for this particular moment – but it is comforting, at least to me, to know that as queers we have relied on these methods before. We know what to do to help each other, even when things feel scary and out of our control, even when they don’t just feel that way but actually are objectively scary and out of our control.

We don’t know the answers to most of our questions about COVID-19 and this specific moment in history. But we do know this: together, we can take care of each other. We have no other choice.

Editor’s note: This post will be updated frequently. It is currently very USA-centric, but we would like it to be more inclusive; if you live somewhere outside of the USA and can point us to mutual aid efforts in your country we would love to add them to our directory. I attempted to give credit to individuals and groups who put together each document linked here but often they are anonymous and I may have missed some info; if you created any of these documents and would like to be credited or would like them removed from this post, please be in touch. You can comment on this post or email vanessa [at] autostraddle [dot] com. Thank you for your patience and generosity!

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Mutual Aid & Community Care 101

First thing’s first: let’s talk about what we mean when we say mutual aid and community care. Whether you’ve heard these terms or not before, chances are, as a queer person, you’re familiar with the concept. That’s because we as a larger community are practiced in caring for each other rather than relying on the government to care for us at the best of times. This is a strength; even without this guide, you would probably intuitively have some ideas about how to help the people you love and your local community during this pandemic. Lean into your intuition here.

Mutual aid is the act of directly helping a community member in need, without a third party like a non-profit or the federal government. When we provide mutual aid we distribute resources amongst ourselves – both material and emotional – and we form bonds with the people we are connecting with so that we are investing in longterm relationships and collective organizing.

Mutual aid is not the same thing as charity; it is not about wealthy people donating small amounts of money to organizations. Mutual aid is transparent, it is by the people for the people, and it not only prioritizes the most marginalized and most vulnerable, but it also amplifies their voices and gives them the autonomy to express exactly what they need and how they would like to receive help. Mutual aid is the logical response to the idea that any community is only as strong and healthy and happy as its most marginalized and vulnerable members. It also emphasizes the fact that we can all help each other, and just because we are not all able to deliver food, provide capital, or do other tasks that are seen as “useful” in times of crisis, most community members are able to offer something to the greater group and are interested in being part of a system that emphasizes sharing not hoarding and connecting not isolating.

Mutual aid efforts do not have to be local; thanks to the internet our communities are vast and spread out, and those connections are absolutely no less real than the ones you have with people who live near you. That said, in times of material crisis like we are seeing with COVID-19, it can be very useful to facilitate local mutual aid efforts. Obviously you will have to decide if it is safe to connect with your neighbors and the folks physically close to you – and if it isn’t, it’s understandable that you would not want to organize with them – but the truth is, as we all currently stay put during this moment, it’s possible your relationship with your neighbors will be more relevant to everyone’s immediate safety than your relationship with the queers you know online who live all around the world.

The other main thing to remember when it comes to mutual aid efforts and organizing of any kind is that you don’t have to provide everything for everyone. The whole point of working together and creating sustainable systems of care is that we can spread the work throughout the collective; no one person holds all the power, which also means no one person holds all the burdens. Do not let the magnitude of the crisis we are facing scare you into inaction. You can make a difference in your communities. We can take care of each other, little by little, for forever. It is what we are on this earth to do.

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Mutual Aid Link Directory

This is a collection of the best resources I have found online when it comes to COVID-19 and mutual aid.

1. Coronavirus Resource Kit

2. Collective Care Is Our Best Weapon against COVID-19

3. COVID-19 MUTUAL AID & ADVOCACY RESOURCES

The first three links will lead you to huge shared documents that include a lot of information about COVID-19, a variety of resources from flattening the curve to preventing illness to caring for someone who is sick to creating your own neighborhood mutual aid group and beyond, and compilations of many mutual aid groups currently already on the ground (organized by state).

4. Database of Localized Resources During Corona Outbreak (USA)

5. COVID-19 UK Mutual Aid Directory (UK)

6. Queer Care COVID-19 Networking (Copenhagen)

Next up we have a database of localized resources in the USA, a COVID-19 UK mutual aid directory, and a specifically queer COVID-19 networking Facebook page in Copenhagen.

7. Half Assed Disabled Prepper Tips for Preparing for a Coronavirus Quarantine

Here’s an incredibly generous beginner’s guide to preparing yourself for COVID-19 and for quarantine, written by Leah Piepzna-Samarasinha, because it’s harder to help others if you’re not taking care of yourself to the best of your abilities. Mutual aid practices are discussed in this document but there is also so much more.

8. Pod Mapping for Mutual Aid

This is another generous and practical guide to check out before you begin elaborate mutual aid structures. Rebel Sidney Black explains pod mapping, a tool originally developed by Mia Mingus for the Bay Area Transformative Justice Collective, and how it can be useful when organizing mutual aid. Examples included!

9. COVID-19 Sex Worker Harm Reduction Resources (USA Based)

Put together by COYOTE RI, this is a document including a variety of resources to promote harm reduction for sex workers during this pandemic.

10. COVID-19 Mutual Aid Fund for LGBTQI+ BIPOC Folks

Exactly what it sounds like. Donate if you can!

11. Service Workers Mutual Aid Fund

This is a mutual aid fund to support service workers who are being sent home with no income. This goes for ANY SERVICE WORKERS, NO MATTER WHERE THEY ARE LOCATED.

12. Emergency COVID Relief for Sex Workers in NYC

This relief fund will be providing monetary aid to sex workers in the New York City area who have been impacted by the COVID-19 pandemic. Allies, clients, organizations, and workers not impacted by the pandemic should donate if you can!

As I stated above, this is currently very USA-centric because that is where I live. We would like it to be more inclusive and if you have more information about mutual aid efforts in your country that you don’t see listed here please either comment on this post or email me. If you have additional links to resources you think would be helpful to the queer community please comment or email me. You can get in touch at vanessa [at] autostraddle [dot] com.

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5 Small Things You Can Do With Minimal Effort To Help

The whole point of mutual aid is that everyone has something to offer, and that while we know the government response to our needs in crisis (and, frankly, every day life) will always be too little and too late, if we care for each other we can not only survive, we can thrive. So what if making a phone tree or forming a pod or introducing yourself to your neighbors feels like too much? Here are five small things you might be able to do with minimal effort to help people in your community; these actions are all just as much a part of collective care as anything else. (I should note – not every step here is possible for every person! If you can’t leave your house, running errands will not be the quick and easy move for you. If you just lost your job no one would expect you to buy a gift card from your favorite restaurant right now. The idea is that depending on what you have abundance of – energy, money, time, extroversion, etc – there is probably something on this list that you could do and that would feel like minimal effort. That’s the beauty of what happens when we all do the work!)

1. Cancel all your plans and stay home

If you are able to, stay home (you can still go outside just stay 6 feet away from other humans), don’t travel (not even a road trip to a national park), cancel your social life (yes the entire thing). We keep hearing about scientists and doctors asking us all to play our part and #FlattenTheCurve because it’s so important. Social distancing is our only proven defense against COVID-19. A couple of days ago a friend said to me, I know how to care for a loved one when they are sick, but how can I care for them before that happens? I told her to cancel all her plans and stay home alone. Social distancing is preventative care.

2. Pay the service workers in your life, even though you canceled

Once you cancel all your plans and appointments, if you have the means (like if you’re salaried or if you’re able to work from home without disruption to your paychecks) pay the people who would have been working for you anyway! Pay your chiropractor when you cancel, pay your house cleaner when you cancel, pay your dog walker when you cancel, pay your nanny when you cancel, pay your hair stylist when you cancel…you get the idea. Buy gift cards from the restaurants, shops, and other small businesses in your neighborhood you won’t be visiting during enforced quarantine but you don’t want to have to shut down because of loss of profit when this is all over. The gig economy is rough and when this pandemic comes to an end a lot of people in our community will not be financially okay. If that’s not true for you – if your income is not at risk – help the people in your life who do not have that kind of security.

3. Run errands for your community IRL

If you’re going to the store, see if your roommates need anything. That way you don’t all go to the store and most of you can stay home. Make it known amongst your friends, even if you’re not ready to facilitate an entire mutual aid project in your neighborhood, that you’re the dude who is down to do the Target runs, the pharmacy pick-ups, the grocery refill.

4. Participate in online community building

Most of us feel scared and lonely right now. Honestly, some of us were feeling scared and lonely before this pandemic even hit. Online community building is real, and participating can make a total stranger’s day. If you see someone metaphorically yelling into the void on Twitter, reply kindly. If you have specific skills that you’re up for flexing that translate well online – offering book recommendations, helping people figure out what to cook with the ingredients in their pantry, leaving positive and affirming comments on every selfie you see – now is your time to shine!

5. Text your people to check in, or just because

I have been texting pals I never usually text lately, and it feels so nice! Yesterday a friend sent me this tweet, featuring a very floofy and very strong sheep, and it truly made my whole morning? When we’re being asked to avoid everyone we don’t live with and we feel sad and alone, a virtual check in can mean a lot. Even your happiest most extroverted friends could probably use some cheering up right now, or at least some commiserating. Plus, bonus – sending a text to someone you care about will make you feel just as happy as it will make them feel. Emojis for everyone!

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Facilitate Mutual Aid in Your Neighborhood or City

So you want to meet your neighbors and create some community offline with the other people in your neighborhood or city so y’all can work together to support each other and make sure everyone, particularly the most vulnerable, survive and thrive? Hell yeah, you have come to the right section of this post.

Before diving into these resources I will say that even the smallest gesture for building connections in your close proximity is worth it. If it feels overwhelming to do anything major but you’re able to put up a note in your building’s mailroom with your email and/or apartment number and make clear what you are able to provide for your neighbors, that’s great! A friend of mine put a sign on their actual apartment door indicating they were available to help pick up groceries and to chat about more extensive bridge building. Every small action counts.

But if you want to build a bigger network, or what organizers in these documents refer to as a “neighborhood pod,” here are step by step instructions, put together by folks who are doing the work in their communities! I am so grateful to everyone who is skill-sharing and making these documents and processes public in this time.

Flyer Templates for Neighborhood Mutual Aid 

Want to start your journey into the world of mutual aid with a simple flyer like we discussed above? Here’s a good template for that.

Mutual Aid: How To Build A Network In Your Neighborhood

Want to build a full on support network in your neighborhood so y’all can rely on collective care? This is a thorough template created by folks in Medford/Somerville, MA so folks elsewhere can replicate what worked for them.

How To Create A Neighborhood Phone Tree

This entire guide from Neighbor Support Network NYC is an incredible resource, but I particularly liked their instructions about how to create a neighborhood phone tree because I hadn’t found that information anywhere else and it is very clearly conveyed and even illustrated with hand drawings! It’s worth it to note that this guide says you should make a phone tree before you do anything else because a phone tree is “the first building block to help make sure that folks stay connected no matter what, and receive the support they need in a timely way,” and also that as time goes on in a crisis it becomes more difficult to make a phone tree, so if this is on your agenda it’s best to get it done ASAP. Aim for this week.

How To Make Your Own Neighborhood Pod

Also from the folks organizing in Medford/Somerville, MA this is specifically how to take on being the neighborhood point person so you can make a neighborhood pod.

How To Make A Slack Neighborhood Hub During COVID-19

Need a Slack channel/neighborhood hub for your newly organized neighborhood pod during COVID-19 and beyond? Here’s how to make one! This guide was written by Sarah, based out of Brooklyn, NY.

How To Assist People In Home Isolation

The most vulnerable people in our communities will be self-isolating at home during the remainder of this pandemic; that is safest for them. If you’re going to include them in mutual aid efforts – which you absolutely should – you’re going to want to offer help in the safest ways possible. Here’s how.

Spreadsheet for Organizing Mutual Aid on College Campuses 

At this point many college campuses have shut down for the semester, but both because some students are still on campus and because I’d like to have this guide serve as a useful tool in the future, not just for this specific crisis, I am including this absolutely incredible and thorough spreadsheet for organizing mutual aid for college students living on campus.

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How To Connect With Other Autostraddle Readers In Your Area

We care about each other a LOT here at Autostraddle. We’re a small independent queer-owned business, we’re a family, we’re a community. And we definitely do not only exist online – we’ve had group meet-ups and A-Camp and individual readers making plans to meet each other for years and years – but usually we predominantly exist online.

However, while brainstorming about this post, I realized that there are likely people who read Autostraddle who are geographically close, who are looking for local community, and who might like to find each other at this very moment. That’s where the comment section comes in.

I think the most useful way to begin making little Autostraddle neighborhood pods, if you will, is for the self-appointed neighborhood point person (that could be you!) to comment on this post with their location and then other folks can reply to those comments if they are also in the same place. Do not reveal more information than is safe or comfortable – please don’t include your full address or anything like that! – but it will be helpful to include city and state if you can, just so folks can actually see if they’re nearby. And then perhaps someone can make a Google doc and link to it here and y’all can take the conversations to some slightly more private internet spaces and figure out the nitty gritty logistics.

Because our goal right now is to get as many people staying put as possible, it may not be helpful to find the other Autostraddle readers in your city at this exact moment – it still may make more logistical sense to practice mutual aid with your direct neighbors, with the people in your building, with your classmates, with your roommates. But if we view this crisis and our response to it as something to build on for the future, and if we aim to create lasting networks of trust, care, mutual aid, and dignity, there is no better time than the present to start making these connections.

We have to take care of each other. It is literally the only way to survive this world.

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Reminders: This post is a living document. If you have a resource you think would be useful here, please either comment with the link or email me. If you made something that is linked in this post and you would like to be credited or you would like it removed, comment or email me. If you have additional ideas about how we can build community care and mutual aid, particularly amongst our Autostraddle community IRL, comment or email me! My email is vanessa [at] autostraddle [dot] com and I will see all comments. A huge thank you to everyone who created the resources shared in this post, and a huge thank you to everyone in our community currently practicing mutual aid and keeping the most marginalized among us cared for and safe. We are so lucky to have one another; gratitude for queer community, for mutual aid, for collective care, and for a better world that we will dream and organize into existence.