When my graduate school, the Kroc School of Peace Studies at the University of San Diego, announced a practicum traveling across the southern U.S. by train to engage with areas of conflict, I was captivated. As a visibly queer, transgender, nonbinary, white Jewish, conflict resolution student, crossing divides is second nature to me. The prospect of experiencing the South – a region I had previously avoided due to safety concerns – in such an immersive and educational manner was too compelling to ignore, and when I was selected as one of the eight students for this inaugural trip, I was elated.
Over the past two years, increased legislation targeting transgender communities in the southern states heightened my travel anxiety. As I prepared for the trip, I wondered whether I was overreacting to potential discrimination or if I was naive in assuming that traveling with a group of predominantly gender-conforming and straight-passing academics would afford me safety. These questions lingered as we set off from Old Town Station, embarking on a 13-day journey through nine cities, seven hotel rooms, and three overnight trains, covering 3,216 miles to reach our nation’s capital.
Prior to departure, we were assigned readings and materials to give us background on the issues we might encounter. This included literature on the psychology behind political polarization, a film detailing the rise of white Christian nationalism, and articles offering advice on navigating tough conversations. Despite this preparation, I truly had no idea what to expect from the journey ahead.
As we traveled, I was struck by the remarkable ordinariness of my interactions. Contrary to my concerns of encountering explicit hostility in the South, the reactions I received were consistent with those I experience in my everyday life in California: primarily polite with the occasional note of distaste. When I observed my classmates engaging in friendly conversations with locals and tried to join, there were occasional shifts in body language and tone that were palpable. Individuals became curt and closed off, signaling a clear, non-verbal “no” to further interaction. In response, I adhered to my core value of consent. Everyone has the right to choose not to engage, and that boundary must be respected, even if it stems from bias.
While I was aware that the South is the region with the highest population of Black people in the United States, the laws emanating from the region paint a picture of a monolithic, white supremacist stronghold. I envisioned the South as dominated by white gun-toting Evangelicals, intent on targeting my community and condemning us for our lives full of sin. Despite the disproportionate power held by lawmakers pushing marginalizing policies, my daily interactions revealed a different story.
The practicum took us to sites and organizations that underscored the deeply racialized reality of labor and exploitation in the U.S. The Equal Justice Initiative’s Legacy Museum vividly illustrates this country’s history “from enslavement to mass incarceration,” which we see play out in countless ways. The South’s past is marked by brutality, degradation, and violence against Black communities – a legacy that persists today. This is no more apparent than at Angola Prison, where the unconstitutional farm line forces inmates into labor under conditions that replicate those of slavery.
These systems are not anomalies but are deeply ingrained in American institutions, particularly in the South, where the exploitation of Black labor has profound historical roots. Despite systemic pressures that compel many Black individuals in the South to relocate, scores of communities have chosen to remain, or even move from the North. On some of the reasons why communities have chosen to remain, see the following.
My journey through the South as part of the Kroc School practicum shattered my preconceptions of our country and deepened my understanding of the importance of travel. My fears of rampant anti-transgender laws, flourishing white supremacy, and my own discrimination, led me to hold an entire region at arms length. I bought into a pessimistic view of what I would find as a visibly queer traveler in the South, mistakenly believing that the politicians with the mic represented the majority of the people that they governed. Instead, I found a much more complex and familiar reality: that the narrative of those in power tells only a fraction of the story – an important reminder for myself and all of us living through one of the most politically polarized times in U.S. history.
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