In the church community in Lebanon, Tennessee, nobody talked about nothing to do with LGBTQ+. I’d known for a little while that I was undercover, but I couldn’t openly explore “the lifestyle.” That was a sin, period. In church I heard sermons all the time about Sodom and Gomorrah, about the stain of homosexuality and the destruction it caused. Nobody ever talked about it any other way.

When I was 17, I was messing with a guy I wanted to bring to church with me. He started to get to know the other members, and word got out. It wasn’t long after that when I was told a detective wanted to ask me some questions about accusations of sexual abuse against boys in the church.

I went down to the county jail on my own. I had never had any type of involvement with the law before, and I just assumed that since I hadn’t done anything, it made sense to go answer their questions, if they were looking for me. Later the fact that I went voluntarily would be used against me as a sign of guilt. 

During the interview the detective said things like, It’s okay that you did it. We can offer you classes, we can help you. I kept responding, No, I didn’t do nothing like that. No, I don’t know where the accusations are coming from. But he said that I had to give him something he could take back to his boss; that that was the only way he could let me go home. So eventually I said what he wanted. I was charged with nine counts of child rape. This was a few weeks after I’d turned 18.

I didn’t really realize I’d pled guilty until later. My attorney had told me to just answer every question with, “Yes, sir.”

I didn’t understand a lot of what was said in court. But I knew I was not guilty, and so I did not want to plead guilty; I wanted to go to trial. However, my attorney kept saying that was a bad idea because I’d get a worse sentence that way. The minimum punishment was 25 years, so I could get 225 years if the sentence was to serve the nine counts consecutively, instead of concurrently. But at the time, all I really knew was that I had to plead guilty in order to get leniency. I didn’t know that I still had the right to go to trial, even if my attorney told me not to.

I did plead guilty. But I didn’t really realize that’s what had happened until later. My attorney had told me that every time the court asked me a question, to just say, “Yes, sir.”

Then he told me I should choose a bench hearing—where just the judge would decide my sentence, rather than a jury. In the end, I did.

I’ll never forget that judge. He told me I would never see the light of day again. He sentenced me to the maximum without parole and said that since my life was over anyway, it didn’t matter whether he gave me to 25 years or 225 years.

Some of the sentencing enhancements he applied were later overturned because he justified them using his personal views, which judges aren’t supposed to do. For example, one was for causing injuries that are “particularly great.” He said that, even though the prosecution hadn’t submitted any evidence of harm, “we’ve all seen it in prior cases.”

In 2010 the Supreme Court issued a landmark ruling that it was cruel and unusual punishment—a violation of the Eighth Amendment—to sentence juveniles to life without parole for non-homicide convictions. When I used this to appeal my sentence, the court found that it didn’t violate the Eighth Amendment because a 225-year sentence isn’t technically a life sentence. But the law says someone’s punishment shouldn’t be more severe than is necessary, and the judge had said it was all the same as long as I died in prison. So I was resentenced to 50 years. 

Members went to the chaplain accusing me of being a homosexual, saying he had to do something about it.

Before I got to prison I didn’t know that they are full of people, Black people especially, whose lawyers pushed them to plead guilty by saying it was their only chance to avoid a long sentence. I didn’t know nothing about prison when I got here. I had never been around gangs or drugs or violence. I was nearly raped almost the first moment I arrived. One thing that I was familiar with was the feeling that it was not safe for me to be myself, because I was in a place where there was no such thing as LGBTQ+ community.

I joined a peer-led ministry where we facilitated our own services. After two years or so, the rumors started again: Tavaria’s undercover. I was called into meetings and asked to confess whether it was true I was homosexual. My peers dismissed me from the service, saying I needed to get my life together.

I found a small choir led by an outside volunteer. One Sunday night I started co-pastoring with her, and from there I helped grow that service from 10 members to 100. And once again the rumors began. Members went to the chaplain accusing me of being a homosexual and saying he had to do something about it. The chaplain went to the volunteer, who was the only one who could dismiss me this time—and she stood by me. I stayed until she retired.

Time and again the church had turned against me by saying homosexuality is a sin. But I refused to let die the vision engraved inside of me. Not long after the church volunteer retired, I founded Be the Change, the first openly LGBTQ+ community in the Tennessee prison system. We know of no other group like this in any US prison system.

Through BTC I found my way to begin living as the transgender woman that I am. This community is not one to judge anyone, but to love them as they are. We keep each other safe. We help each other grow.

I’ve been incarcerated for 13 years now. At times I struggled to understand the path my life has taken. But as BTC has flourished, as our membership has begun to reach other queer people and allies in other prisons across the state, I’ve seen that this path took me from something to nothing, and from nothing to something even greater. To bring community to those who had been alone.

Image via Wikimedia Commons/Creative Commons 3.0

The post In My Church There Was No Queer Community. In Prison, I Built One. appeared first on Filter.

Right now we have around 30 members, most of us being incarcerated at South Central Correctional Facility, a men’s prison in Tennessee that’s privately operated by CoreCivic. Before BTC, the LGBTQ+ people here were scared to walk the compound. When gangs are in power, vulnerable prisoners are extorted and assaulted every day. That no longer happens.

There are a lot of LGBTQ+ people behind bars in the United States, especially transgender women like myself. One reason you may not have heard of a group like ours before is that prison administrators have a way of shutting down any peer-led organizing, by labeling you STG—security threat group, meaning gang-affiliated. Even just a couple of people standing together and talking can be taken as evidence of gang-related activity. Early on, there were some threats to label us an STG. But there are certain criteria a group has to meet in order to be classified STG. They know the gay flag isn’t gang colors.

I have no gang affiliations, but the affiliated people here have come to respect me as a leader and they know everyone BTC is to be left alone. If they’re not sure whether someone’s one of mine, they’ll find out. When we need to negotiate for our interests, I have a seat at the table. The last time I remember us having a problem with anyone gang-affiliated was maybe a year and a half ago, when a fan was stolen. I went into their unit and said there’s property here that belongs to one of mine, and if someone steals from one of mine they steal from me. The fan was returned. 

When a new officer is starting the job, an officer who’s been here longer will say, Hey, this is Varia. If there’s a problem with anyone LGBTQ+, she’s who you talk to.

It’s extremely rare that any BTC member is given a problem, but if it happens I make sure it’s addressed. I remember one incident several ago when I was called down to see a community member who turned out to be sitting inside his cell and I couldn’t get the door open. Come to find he’d tied a string to the handle and tied the other end to his bunk. When I finally got in he said, Mama T that string is to keep me safe. They have robbed me, they have beat me. They have done everything. 

I went to administration and said, I got one of mine down there who’s been assaulted. He needs to be moved to a different area immediately. And because the staff here respect me, he was moved.

I help staff make cell assignments so LGBTQ+ people here don’t end up with a cellie who’ll cause a problem. Sometimes they’ll bring me to people who just got off the transfer bus. In 2023 they invited me to a training for new officers, when they’re supposed to learn about the policies for the LGBTQ+ people here, like how people with a diagnosis of gender dysphoria like myself are not supposed to get pat-searched by the male officers, or are on a list to shower at certain times.

Almost every time a new officer is starting the job, an officer who’s been here longer will introduce us and say, Hey, this is Varia. If there’s a problem with anyone LGBTQ+, she’s who you talk to.

Like in any other community, not every BTC member is perfectly behaved. I got my “rough kids.” And when a staff member comes to me saying, One of yours got smart with me today, I’ll go and correct my people. BTC has laws that we all agree to abide by, one of which is we don’t disrespect ourselves, staff or anyone else.

If a BTC member is in medical and doesn’t want to talk to staff, I get called down. Two or three times staff have even called me down to see someone on suicide watch who won’t eat. But I talk with them, and they eat. It’s that community bond they need to keep going.

Staff is apparently claiming that I said as a transgender woman I did not feel safe going to that unit. This is a lie.

Up until late July, most current BTC members including myself were living in the same pod. Then with almost no warning, everyone in the pod except me was suddenly relocated to a different unit down the hill from the rest of the compound, with a pod known for being gang-affiliated. Since then, the community has faced physical attacks. Meanwhile I’ve been in a unit where I’m the only person identifying as LGBTQ+.

Staff is apparently claiming that I said as a transgender woman I did not feel comfortable being housed down the hill. This is a lie. First of all, nobody wanted to go down there but I’m a leader and I would not leave my people like that. Second, why would I feel safer in a unit where I’m alone, instead of where I’d have 15 or 20 people to have my back? I’ve filed grievances and written in-house letters to the warden describing how I do not feel safe where I am currently. CoreCivic and South Central Warden Grady Perry did not respond to a Filter editor’s request for comment.

In 13-plus years incarcerated I have never requested to see someone in mental health, but since being separated from BTC I have gone and seen mental health two or three times. And I told them, I have to stay strong for my community but I am going through some depression right now. I feel vulnerable. I have nobody to talk to. And I know my people are suffering, too. 

Most days I’m advocating for my community rather than myself. But I definitely advocate for myself. I’ve probably filed at least 20 grievances over the years based on violations of my rights as a trans woman. I’ve filed grievances about being pat-searched by male officers, or strip-searched in full view of others. I’ve filed grievances on staff who don’t follow the policy allowing those of us on the list to shower when the rest of the unit is in their cells, so we don’t get assaulted or pushed out of the shower or taxed by gang members.

However, the majority of staff here like me and are supportive of BTC, and don’t treat me as if accommodating my rights is extra work. Because if it wasn’t for me, their job would involve a lot more cell reassignments. A lot more people checking into protective custody because they got assaulted or got into debt. A lot more paperwork that I know staff does not want to do. And I’m still getting called down the hill to help sort out problems.

Maybe this isn’t just about punishing me, but about weakening BTC by separating it from its leader.

Multiple members of administration, including the warden, have said they have no problem moving me. The unit manager down with the rest of the pod is supportive. I’m seeing other people around the facility put in for cell transfers and get moved with no problem. But I’m still here. When my first grievance was denied they wouldn’t tell me why, other than to say it was not discriminatory based on me being transgender.

More recently I was told that me being housed here was due to PREA reasons or security reasons. The Prison Rape Elimination Act would support them overruling my housing preference if I had ever been assaulted or had a problem with anyone in the new unit. But there is nothing on my file to even suggest that anything would be a PREA issue, other than the fact of me being transgender.

There aren’t many people here openly identifying as trans, but I’m not the only one. Just the only one being treated differently right now. I’ve never experienced prejudice or retaliation anywhere near this level before. Maybe administration isn’t doing this just to punish me personally, but because they saw opportunity to weaken the community by separating the leader.

There are 14 state prisons in Tennessee, and I get letters from people in seven or eight of them asking about BTC and saying how inspired they are, that they had no idea a community like this could exist. The longer that prisons, especially private prisons like this one, can keep us divided, the longer they can get away with finding new ways to cut costs, putting our lives in jeopardy, and not treating us all equally. They don’t want incarcerated communities. They want incarcerated individuals.

Image (cropped) via Be the Change LGBTQ+ Community

The post Prisons Crush Almost All LGBTQ+ Organizing. Our Community Survives. appeared first on Filter.