Safe spaces are a myth.

It's a jarring statement to accept, especially for people of marginalized communities — like the LGBTQ community — who desperately crave security while living out their identities. But labeling spaces "safe" isn't realistic or responsible messaging. We need to call it out — and that's scary as hell.

SEE ALSO: What 14 LGBTQ influencers want the community to know after Orlando

In the wake of the mass shooting at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando — a place deemed safe by many inside and outside the queer community — various media outlets have declared all remaining safe spaces "shattered."

But these safe spaces never truly existed to begin with. Though queer people have always sought out certain areas to find comfort and community, with perhaps the most visible examples being queer bars and clubs, we have never truly had safety in these locations. These spaces, after all, still exist in a society that is deeply unwelcoming to LGBTQ people. Orlando is devastating and extreme proof of that.

We cannot rely on spaces to be entirely safe, only safer. But we still have a responsibility to work toward greater safety — and that can get tricky, especially when it's hard to pin down what "safety" really means.

An endless search for safety

The pursuit of safety — especially for LGBTQ folks — is never-ending. We come up empty-handed, still grasping for a sense of complete comfort and security that is far out of reach.

"When you go to hold your partner's hand in public or lean in to give someone a kiss, always in the back of our minds is ... 'Is someone going to threaten me? Am I going to get beat up for just being who I am?'" Russell Roybal, deputy executive director of the National LGBTQ Task Force, tells Mashable.

"I think the Orlando tragedy has impacted the LGBT community in such a way because we all understand the safety concerns. We’ve grown up with that," he says.

People hold candles during an evening memorial service for the victims of the Pulse Nightclub shootings on June 13 in Orlando, Florida. Image: Drew Angerer/Getty Images

My first introduction to the myth of safe spaces was in college at Syracuse University, where the LGBT Resource Center rebranded its safe spaces campaign with "Safer People, Safer Spaces." The original campaign hinged solely on the distribution of rainbow-themed stickers to self-proclaimed allies who wanted to label their offices and dorm rooms "safe." But sometimes LGBTQ people were still misgendered, misunderstood or stigmatized in those spaces.

The new messaging of "Safer People, Safer Spaces" required allies and members of the queer community to complete inclusion training to earn their stickers, curbing some of the previous false security.

Chase Catalano, director of the resource center at Syracuse University at the time of the rebranding, said the change in messaging was a move toward transparency.

"I think the Orlando tragedy has impacted the LGBT community in such a way because we all understand the safety concerns."

"I had so many conversations with students about the expectation the word 'safe' gave them," says Catalano, who is currently a professor of inclusive higher education at Western Illinois University. "'Safe' implied that work was completed. There is a sense of finality to saying, 'This is a safe space.'"

The term "safer," Catalano says, gives LGBTQ people more realistic expectations. It suggests that a space may not be all a person needs to feel safe, but it is trying to accommodate their identities. The word also implies needed action, suggesting we all have an active role in how welcoming a space can be.

"I can't guarantee you safety, even with this sticker on the door," Catalano says about the idea behind the shift. "[O]ur hope is that this person, or this location, or this context is safer — but I can’t guarantee you that."

Syracuse University was where I found the term "queer," a word I could find comfort in when labeling my attraction to multiple genders. It was where I came out to my dad, where I first kissed a woman, and where I first told a woman I loved her. But it was also the place where I came into an identity I knew could cause me harm.

The new messaging was a lesson that prepared me for navigating a world that allows attacks like the one in Orlando to happen. It's a world where I constantly wait in apprehension after disclosing I'm queer, fearing a volatile reaction from the person I'm talking to. It's a world where strange men disturbingly jeer that they can "fuck me straight."

And it's a world where coming together with my community is often my only comfort, even if it cannot guarantee safety.

What does "safety" even mean?

LGBTQ bars have historically been constructed as safe spaces for the community — but they have also long been sites of violence. The Stonewall Riots in June 1969 represented a breaking point for the community, fighting back against the police raids that had long threatened LGBTQ people, criminalizing the act of coming together.

A crowd attempts to impede police arrests outside the Stonewall Inn on June 28, 1969. Image: NY Daily News /Getty Images

"These spaces we've created for ourselves have always been under some sort of threat," Emily Waters, research and education coordinator at the National Coalition of Anti-Violence Programs, says.

"These spaces we’ve created for ourselves have always been under some sort of threat."

Though the LGBTQ community has always defended itself from harm and harassment, different members of the community experience threats to safety in varying ways. Those who hold marginalized identities along with queerness — like many of the Latinx individuals killed or injured at Pulse — are even more vulnerable to harassment.

And Waters says that’s where the idea of safety gets even more complicated.

"Lots of people are talking about safety in these spaces, as if there is one way that LGBTQ people experience safety," Waters says. "But I tend to challenge this idea that we can create one safe space for everyone. There's so many different identities and so many complex biases that can play out in that."



Though safe spaces may not exist, it's undeniably important to have places where LGBTQ people can come together in community and comfort. These can be places where we bring together realistic expectations and individual responsibility to keep the space welcoming and supportive.

But ultimately, it's about feeling safe, period — and we need to work toward that.

The illusion is shattered. Where do we go?

It's hard to pinpoint tangible steps we can take toward safety, because it's such a flimsy concept. But it's especially important to think about it this month, with Pride celebrations all over the U.S. bringing queer folks together in solidarity and celebration.

In a community still reeling from the violence out of Orlando, safety — not celebration — is on everyone's mind.

"I actually had a queer Latino friend text me on Monday and say he was afraid of going to NYC Pride because he was afraid of what was going to happen," Roybal says. "That really hit close to home for me, because for so many us, Pride is where we go to be out, visible and proud. A little bit of that was taken away from us over the weekend."

Because of Orlando, cities have promised to increase police presence to make the community feel safer. It's a move many find troubling, given the long history of violence on hyper-queer spaces and the realities of police brutality for queer people of color.

Police keep watch during the 2016 Pride Parade on June 12 in Los Angeles, California. Security for the parade tightened in the aftermath of the attack on Pulse. Image: MARK RALSTON/AFP/Getty Images

"There is distrust, for good reason, of the police — particularly in communities of color," Roybal says. "Even after Orlando, I don't think seeing more police on the street necessarily makes me feel safer."

Many advocates agree that what will work is empowering members of the community to keep each other safe.

"It's important that we are visible, because that's what the shooter on Sunday wanted to take away."

Waters says because definitions of safety vary from person to person, "taking care" of each other gets complicated. It's important that LGBTQ people are given space to claim their individuals needs, while also listening to what would ensure someone else’s comfort.

"I love the idea of checking in on each other, and asking someone what would make them individually feel safe," Waters says. "That's a question we aren't often asked — and it’s powerful."

Especially now that Orlando has made it abundantly clear our safety is never guaranteed, coming together — at Pride or simply with pride — holds particular importance. That doesn’t mean it won’t feel risky. But it's a risk Roybal insists is worth it.

"It's important that we are visible, because that’s what the shooter on Sunday wanted to take away," he says. "We can't give in to that."

We can't, and we won't.

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