Futch Night and Queer “Safe” Spaces

OCT–21–2024

Words by: Jordan Massey
Graphic by: Midjourney

For all intents and purposes, it was a lesbian wet dream. A bar that was way too small, stuffed to the brim with the hottest, most fashionable, septum-pierced, carabiner-having sapphics—all in a city near you. It was the place to find love, to fuck, or to prove to yourself that you were still desirable after a rough breakup. Lesbians online were making before and after videos with their hair plastered to their sweat-glazed faces, swaying back and forth with hazy eyes and dopey smiles. They had been “futched” and everyone who hadn’t been was bubbling with vicious, queer jealousy. It was a sexy sapphic fire hazard. It was Futch Night.

I approached Futch with the same caution every sapphic of color approaches any queer event. I was holding my breath, waiting for the shoe to drop and sure enough, the Doc Martens came crashing down from the heavens. Slowly, horror stories started to leak through the cracks of the Futch facade. Lesbians of color started telling their tales of wading through the White sapphic sea dancing way too hard to Taylor Swift or waiting for hours just to be denied at the door all together. Video after video explaining the range of microaggressions they experienced and ending with warnings to steer clear of Futch night all together. Was this revelation surprising? No.

The story of the sparkly brand new queer scene that everyone is loving turning out to be another “Whites Only” dance party was an old one. Queer spaces just aren’t built with people like me in mind. From the music, to the food, down to the people, most queer spaces are made out to only be recognized and appreciated by White people. But how did a place that's meant to be inclusive to all queer people, become the opposite?

There's a phenomenon in the queer community where White people think that just because they’re queer, they couldn’t possibly be racist. I mean, they understand what it’s like to be discriminated against, so why would they do that to someone else? So they set out to make spaces and connections that are safe for them. And that's exactly what they do. They make spaces that are safe for them. The fact is that proximity to queerness or any marginalized people does not shield you from White privilege and bias. White queer people have made these spaces while forgetting that not everyone has the same experiences as them. They forget to leave room for the rest of my identity.

As I thought about it more, I started to realize that Futch Night represented most of my life as a Black lesbian. Futch Night is having no likes on whatever dating apps are preying on the general public when your white friends have new matches everyday. Futch Night is being assumed as straight if I present as anything but masculine. Futch Night is watching non-Black masc’s continue to call themselves “studs” and “stems” after being told those are terms exclusive to Black lesbians. Futch Night is having to ask my friend, “but does she date Black people?” before they try to set me up with a White sapphic. Futch Night is being taken to stay with my ex-girlfriend's family for three days, only to be warned about their disdain for Black people on the drive there. Futch Night is going to a salon with BLM and queer flags in the window and a sign on the door that says “everyone is welcome,” but walking out because they don’t have anyone who can handle my hair. But yes, queer spaces are safe for everyone.
All these experiences had effects on me that I didn’t really understand at first. It wasn’t that I was around White girls who only date other White girls; I was just unattractive. It wasn’t that a hairdresser should be trained to work with all hair types; my hair was just too curly. It wasn’t that my ex shouldn’t have put me in a hostile environment; that was just who her family was and I had to be understanding. I started to take the blame for the ignorant behavior of my White peers. But they’re a part of my community, we all love and respect one another. They understand what it’s like to be treated unfairly; they would never do that to me. Obviously there's just something wrong with me, right?

I take back what I said before. My identity as a Black person was not forgotten. It was excluded. Black and Brown people, and the dangers we face, are not new to the queer world. We have Black and Brown trans women to thank for the right to have Futch Nights in the first place, and yet we are the first to be excluded. When queer spaces are made only to comfort White queers, it’s purposeful. Now, I’m not accusing the founders of Futch Night or any other queer event of being purposely racist. I’m accusing them of not doing the work they know they have to do to make sure that these “safe queer spaces” don’t become places that foster racism and stifle diversity. It’s not the fault of my Black features that White queers will not put in the work to protect them. I’m giving the blame back. You don’t get to hide behind our shared identity anymore.

So if you’re a White person and you’re thinking about starting a new club—or bar, or hair salon, or tattoo parlor—that's safe for queer people, especially if your reading this and thinking to yourself, “well, none of this applies to me,” please do the fucking work. I’m tired of experiencing racism under photos of Marsha P. Johnson and Silviya Rivera.