As I have recounted in a previous edition of this newsletter, visibly queer representation and participation in the profession of architecture has had many starts and stops over the past several years. I wrote in 2020:
Some context: …During graduate school, I helped found Queer Students of Architecture, Planning, and Preservation (the website is horribly out of date, but I did design the logo!). After graduating, I was briefly part of the now-inactive QSPACE (cool name though, right? I wish I could borrow it). In 2018, I marched in NYC Pride with Build Out Alliance, a professional development organization for LGBTQ architects (we stepped off 2 hours late -_-). I’ve been to a couple American Institute of Architects (AIA) conferences and paid the extra $60 to attend the LGBTQ Happy Hours. At last year’s AIA conference, I spoke on a panel session titled The Silent Minority: LGBTQ+ Voices in Architecture. Back in New York City, I spoke on a panel organized by FXOne called Let’s Talk Identities.
Since 2020, violence against LGBTQIA+ people across the country has been a feature, not a bug. (DO NOT click the links if you don’t want to re-expose yourself to these events!) Holden White survived a homophoic attack in Lafayette, Louisiana. Two unidentified men survived attempted murder in Bushwick, Brooklyn. Jenny de Leon, a 25-year-old Latina transgender woman, was murdered in Tampa, Florida. A mass shooting at a gay bar in Colorado Springs, Colorado. And now Tennessee has passed bills to ban drag shows and puberty blockers. Really?! Don’t they know that everything is drag???
What’s being an out queer architect got to do with anything? From my/our position of privilege, how can we make even a tiny dent of change?
I would argue that being visibly queer and open to sharing my experiences is a little revolution, in and of itself. If we think about the canonical Western history of architecture, I shouldn’t exist. I don’t look or think or feel like any of the forefathers (or foremothers, for that matter) of architecture. It’s an aberration that my queer trans racialized self has cleared so many hurdles. Queeries, as a collector of stories, seeks to widen the field a bit, to bring to light the stories of other queer folks in architecture and design. To really declare that we’re here, we’re queer, and we have opinions on the design of the built environment!!! Not everything is as black and white as it seems.
Hopefully I’m not the only transgenderqueer / nonbinary person you know, especially if you’re a cisgender, straight ally. But after coming out in 2015, I was told over and over by architects and designers that I was the first nonbinary person they’d ever met. I’d like to think my visibility has made all my non-queer friends allies, because the more allies, the better: that groundswell of empathy has the power to shift culture and beliefs.
So the question becomes: Is there one right way to amass allies, or to achieve positive changes for queer people’s experiences in the built environment, or in the architecture and design professions? NO, and that’s okay. Let me explain why…
I am of the opinion that every single person brings something unique to the table, something that only they can contribute, because we are all molded of different experiences, reactions, brain chemistries, and fantasies. Our different interests, strengths, and weaknesses lead us in different directions, to do different things.
Since the dawn of my architecture career—interest, even—the AIA has loomed large as the official organization for architects as a whole. But in reality, the AIA is for specific kinds of architect (and there are very many kinds!): ones who are firm owners or part of a large corporate structure, practicing “traditional” architecture (I use the quotation marks because there’s much debate about what “traditional” means—perhaps a topic for another newsletter).
Now, though, after participating in many AIA activities over the years, I think I am evolving beyond the need to be a part of the AIA. I don’t need to participate in the AIA to feel like I play an important role in things. I think my talents and offerings and time and energy are more impactful in other, parallel / overlapping worlds that include Design As Protest, Dark Matter University, and Queeries—though these organizations may not be (and may never be) as large and influential as the AIA.
But do the organizations I am involved in need to be as large and influential as the AIA? Do I believe that the AIA can actually influence policies on LGBTQIA+ people’s health, wellness, and safety? Do I want to participate in systems that grind the common architect down? Do I want to draw other queer designers into the not-super-inclusive-but-you-can-make-it-inclusive fray? For whom are we making room through diversity and inclusion initiatives, and why? What is our goal?
This is not to say that I think the AIA or LGBTQIA+ Alliances are terrible ideas that should be abolished. I think the AIA is a longstanding institution that creates welcoming space for many professionals. But I just want y’all to know that I am out of patience for submitting to hierarchies and structures that are opaque. I don’t want to be the token BIPOC person, or nonbinary person. I don’t want to be the one who creates the diversity that does not yet exist. I have had to align myself with whiteness to get things done for far too long, and from it I am finally divesting.
Maybe the 🅰️ in the queer alphabet soup could refer to “Action”—in the sense that there should be clarity in purpose. Or it could stand for “Agency”—the capacity to act. I want to be allied with taking action and having agency. I want to build solidarity between disparate groups, not repeat things into an echo chamber. Because architecture as a profession and practice should go beyond diversity and inclusion, and to do that we need to go beyond our own (self-made) borders.
And just like that… Queeries the newsletter becomes bi-weekly! ;}
Something that’s been tugging at me for the past year is the use of design standards in the built environment professions. What role do they play in underwriting dominant cultures or norms? Are the “standard” or “guideline” designs for door swings / table heights / corridor widths / kitchen layouts / parking lot designs based on, and thus productive of, certain kinds of subjects? What’s considered standard or normal, and how did that come to be?
And is this a way to queer architecture—by questioning and exploding the norms and standards that spatial design guidelines create?
What do you think? Is it that deep? Respond to the poll—and I want to hear your reasons in the comments…
🅰️
As always, thank you for reading. I hope these words inspire in some way, shape, or form.
🅰️
Until next time,
🅰️.L.