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Black, Muslim, and gay/queer male allies: an intersectional analysis of men’s gender justice activism

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Black, Muslim, and gay/queer male allies: an intersectional analysis of men’s gender justice activism

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Content Tal Peretz
BLACK, MUSLIM, AND GAY/QUEER MALE ALLIES:
AN INTERSECTIONAL ANALYSIS OF MEN’S GENDER JUSTICE ACTIVISM
By
Tal Peretz
A Dissertation Presented to the Faculty of the USC Graduate School
UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
In Partial Fulfillment of the Requirement for the
DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY DEGREE
(SOCIOLOGY)
December 2014
Copyright 2014
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
DEDICATION
This dissertation is dedicated to all the amazing feminist women, men, and others
who inspired, encouraged, guided, and supported me along the way;
and especially to Dr. Aaronette White, who put me on this path
but is not here to see me complete it.
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Tal Peretz
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A dissertation is never done; it is one step in a longer journey, albeit a major step. To me,
one of the best parts of this particular step is that, while it certainly functions as a gateway and
stepping stone to future accomplishments, it also provides an opportunity to look back at the path
traveled so far, and particularly to thank those whose direction and support guided my steps.
First and foremost, I would like to thank Michael Messner, for not only his patience,
support, and wisdom, but also for his friendship. Kind, easygoing, and always encouraging, Mike
has worked hard to open doors for me, ease my way, and improve my own efforts, and his
influence even extends beyond the things he has done intentionally. I joke with friends about
how I carry “the Messner shield,” which protects me from many of the lesser demons that haunt
academic life; I try not to use this power too freely or too often, but even just knowing it is there
is a great reassurance.
Leland Saito and Sarah Gualtieri have worked wonderfully to complete my dissertation
committee. They have been available and helpful when they were needed, invisible and
insouciant when they were not, and always both agreeable and warm. Having heard and read
horror stories of what can happen when a committee does not work together well, I’ll admit I
was nervous when forming my own. I needn’t have worried.
The sociology department, my home at USC, has been an academic incubator better than
any I could have asked for, even if I had known what to hope for when I was applying. I wish to
recognize some few faculty whose support and contributions were especially helpful in this
dissertation or my progress towards it: Pierrette Hondagneu-Sotello, the graduate adviser who
brought me in to USC and who has probably rescued me from more pitfalls than I will ever know
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
about; Amon Emeka, whose support helped me grow into a confident and capable sociology
instructor and whose offhand comment sent me in the direction of Muslim masculinities; and
Lynne Casper, Sharon Hays, Tim Biblarz, and Macarena Gomez-Barris, who all made time to go
out of their way and contribute to my progress through the program, even when they clearly had
more important concerns to attend to. Dr. Joseph Hawkins of the One Institute, now officially
under the aegis of USC, also deserves recognition not only for his excellent tutelage and his
safeguarding of queer knowledge, but also for giving me the advice that made my time at USC
not only bearable, but joyful: graduate school is not preparation for you life, this is your life.
To my graduate student colleagues at USC, I cannot sufficiently express my gratitude or
commiseration, except to say that I look forward to continuing to grow our personal and
professional relationships, and looking fondly back together on all of this. Kristen Barber, Emir
Loy, Max Greenberg, Jeff Sacha, Jess Butler, James McKeever, Evren Savci, Suzel Bozada-
Deas: thank you for all you have done, whether you knew it or not. And of course, the USC
Sociology Staff, Lisa Rayburn, Stachelle Overland, Amber Thomas, and Melissa Hernandez,
who have not only rescued me from pitfalls I’ll never know of, they also calmed me down about
the pitfalls I did know about, and occasionally let me take the fall that I needed to take in order to
learn from it. I have asked each of them a hundred stupid questions and required their help on
countless minute crises, and they have never stopped smiling and greeting my kindly when I
entered their domain.
Marla Jaksch, who taught my first women’s studies class, introduced me to a worldview I
had never considered but which I now wholeheartedly endorse, and made it clear to me that I had
a place in this work, will always have a special place in my heart. Brian Jara, who held me kindly
accountable for my own male privilege and inspired me in how to compassionately do so for
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others, will hopefully continue to mentor and work with me in the future. Shira Tarrant walked
me through the process of publishing my first piece of feminist masculinities writing and invited
me to my first National Women’s Studies Association conference, for which I will always be
grateful. Sam Richards, Senior Lecturer in Sociology at the Pennsylvania State University and
preceptor of my independently designed undergraduate degree, who not only modeled how to
live a life outside the lines of the academy, but walked me through the first few steps.
Of course I must thank my family: Israel, Becky, Shani, and Roni Peretz. They not only
raised me and supported me, they sheltered me and allowed me to grow into the passionate and
optimistic idealist that decided graduate school was his best option for making a difference in the
world. I also wish to thank my chosen family, the supportive community that took me in when I
moved to Atlanta and held me through the difficulties of the research process and so much more.
And especially to Heather Derby, whose passionate enthusiasm for my work and my company
helped me stay certain that I was on the right path.
The men of Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence, the Sweet Tea Southern Queer
Men’s Collective, and Men CARE hopefully already know they have my gratitude, but it bears
repeating. If they had not been willing to allow me in, work with me, open up to me, and teach
me, none of this would have been possible. There is also a wider community of feminist men
working to create a more egalitarian world, and their camaraderie and welcome has meant more
to me than I can say. They make up the first brotherhood that I have ever felt comfortable and
proud to be a part of: Michael Kimmel, Joe Samalin, Marc Rich, Robbie Samuels, Ben Atherton-
Zeman, Jonathan Grove, Ross Wantland, Rob Buelow, Jack Kahn, Rus Funk, Bob Jensen,
Jackson Katz, Gary Barker, Don McPherson.
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I especially want to thank the late Dr. Aaronette White, although I have already done so
and do so again in the dissertation itself. Dr. White combined academic rigor and activist
commitment in a way that inspired me. She saw in me some things I was not yet able to see in
myself, and she modeled for me a way of combining professionalism with interpersonal sincerity
that I will probably always only struggle to emulate. She did not only taught the motto of “each
one, teach one,” she also lived it. Her passionate defense of Black women’s dignity and right to
due respect so moved me that I will probably always call her Dr. White, even though she told me
on many occasions that we had grown too close for that formality. May she rest in peace, and
may everything she worked for come to pass.
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
ABSTRACT 10
CHAPTER ONE - WHY, WHERE, AND HOW 12
Why Study These Groups? 15
Research Questions 20
Why Atlanta? 22
Background Literature 32
History of Men’s Engagements With Gender Justice 33
Current Styles of Men’s Feminist Engagement 35
Tensions in Men’s Engagements 36
Intersectionality 39
Intersectionality and Men’s Antiviolence Engagements 42
Methodology 42
Research Design 42
Sample 45
Data Analysis 47
Reflexivity 48
Terminology 49
Organization of the Dissertation 54
CHAPTER TWO - BEGINNINGS: GROUP FORMATION AND
INDIVIDUAL PATHWAYS TO ENGAGEMENT 57
Group Formation 62
“ I Really Appreciate Having the Road Smoothed Out”: The
Formation of Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence 62
“ I Remember There Was This Spark”: The Formation of Sweet Tea
67
“ MSV Is Not For Everyone”: The Involvement of Men Stopping
Violence in Group Formation 74
Individual Members' Pathways to Anti-Sexist Work 85
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“ I Actually Got Into This Work Because of Her”: The Pathways of
Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence Members 88
“ It Starts With Being a Little Gay Black Boy”: The Pathways of
Sweet Tea Members 95
Conclusion 101
CHAPTER THREE - MIDDLES: ACTIVITIES, GROUP-LEVEL
CULTURE, AND BENEFITS 104
Similarities 112
“ We’re Definitely Going to Be There With Her”: Muslim Men
Against Domestic Violence's Activities 118
“ We Spent Most of the Time Community-Building”: Sweet Tea's
Activities 124
Group-Level Culture 129
“ The Best Among You is He Who is Best to His Wives”: Muslim
Men Against Domestic Violence's Group Culture 131
“ None of Us Are Free Until We All Are”: Sweet Tea's Group
Culture 143
Benefits 159
Conclusion 166
CHAPTER FOUR - ENDINGS: CHALLENGES AND DISSOLUTION 171
Shared Struggles 179
Navigating Privilege 180
Burdening or Excluding Women 184
Membership, Motivation, Commitment 186
Masculinity Challenges 189
Community-Specific Challenges 190
“ Once It Gets Out In the Media, Every Muslim is in Scrutiny”: The
Challenges MMADV Faced 191
“ When We Think of Sexism, We Immediately Imagine A Straight
Person”: The Challenges Sweet Tea Faced 201
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Intersectional Organizing Styles 210
“ There Wasn’t Any Solid Foundation”: MMADV Collapses Inward
213
“ You Kind of Forget the Mission”: Sweet Tea Gets Pulled Apart 224
Flexibility in Intersectional Organizing Styles 234
Conclusion 237
CHAPTER FIVE - CONCLUSIONS 243
Theoretical Contributions 251
Practical Implications 257
Limitations of the Research 261
APPENDIXES 265
A - Recruitment e-mail 265
B - P .O. Informed Consent Sheet 266
C - Interview Informed Consent 267
D - Interview Protocols 269
E - Demographics Questionairre 271
F - Demographics 272
G - Glossary 274
H - Sweet Tea Proclamation 279
BIBLIOGRAPHY 286
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ABSTRACT
“Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies: An Intersectional Analysis of Men’s
Gender Justice Activism” explores how intersecting privileged and marginalized identities shape
men’s efforts to reduce gendered oppression. While there is an increasing consensus among
feminist scholars and activists that engaging men is crucial in working towards gender equality,
men are often framed as a unitary category. While all men benefit from gender inequality,
individual men share in these benefits unequally, depending in part on their location along other
intersecting axes of difference (race, class, sexuality, religion, etc.). Eliding these differences is
not only analytically inaccurate, but also has consequences for women, because if gender
equality organizations are not reaching all men, they are not helping all women.
This dissertation is based on a year of qualitative fieldwork in Atlanta, GA, with two
men's gender justice groups directed towards men at specific intersections of identities, using
previous research with unmarked men’s groups—those directed at all men—as background.
Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence and the Sweet Tea Southern Queer Men’s Collective
are both majority-Black grassroots gender justice groups that organize around their disjointed
social locations as people who receive male privilege but also experience oppression. I argue that
their intersecting identities shape their gender equality work, and explore how they navigate and
deploy their multiple intersecting identities while working for gender equality. I find that men’s
different intersecting identities effect many aspects of their work, including group formation,
individual involvement pathways, activities, group-level culture, and struggles.
By investigating the effects of social location on the ways men understand and engage in
gender justice work, this dissertation complicates the burgeoning literature on engaging men and
boys in women's rights work. It also extends and clarifies theories of intersectionality as they
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apply to individuals’ experiences of disjointed social locations, those intersections of identity
where some identities are socially privileged and others are marginalized or oppressed. Finally, it
contributes to scholarly analyses of identity movements by introducing the concept of
intersectional organizing styles, different paradigms for understanding and navigating
intersectionality that impact group cohesion and effectiveness.
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CHAPTER ONE
WHY, WHERE, AND HOW
Across the country and around the world, the projects, organizations, and movements that
women have created to push for gender equality are increasingly finding support from male
allies. Groups like Men Can Stop Rape, Men Stopping Violence, and A Call to Men are working
nationally to engage men in the United States in shifting the gender order; internationally, they
are mirrored by such groups as Men’s Action for Stopping Violence Against Women in India and
Sonke Gender Justice in South Africa, and linked transnationally by networks like the
MenEngage Global Alliance. These groups challenge sexism, educate men, and support women
in many ways, and their contributions have been recognized and analyzed by sociologists and
feminist scholars across disciplines.
In Atlanta, Georgia, I found groups whose names revealed that while they were also
working to challenge sexism and support women’s equality, they were doing so in different
ways, inflected by the particularities of their own communities. These groups had names like
Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence, the Sweet Tea Southern Queer Men’s Collective, and
Black Men for the Eradication of Sexism. They clearly state an anti-sexist purpose, but they are
just as forthright about the marginalized masculine identities from which they begin. A
commitment to end the oppression of women and a personal lived experience of oppression
intersect in the narratives of these male gender justice activists. This is the problem that
intersectionally organized men’s gender justice groups must manage: how to engage in social
justice work around an axis of difference that privileges them, without losing sight of those axes
that marginalize them.
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In this dissertation, I investigate what such groups can tell us about feminism,
intersectional organizing, and men’s gender justice activism. Beginning from their experiences as
men marginalized by race, class, sexuality, or religion but still working to change social systems
that provide them with male privilege, I argue that social location shapes men’s gender justice
work. I explore how organizing around multiple intersecting identities (gender, race, sexuality,
religion) affects the pathways that bring these men to anti-sexist organizing, the ways they
understand and talk about their work, and the challenges they face. I ask what these groups can
tell us about the current state of men’s gender justice organizing, and how they can help move
that work forward. I also look at the different ways these groups organize around their
intersectional identities, and what these different organizing styles can tell us about intersectional
social movement organizing.
Most writing on men’s inclusion in gender justice work purports to understand men as a
group, but this view of men is problematized by both the literatures on intersectionality and on
masculinities (Connell 1987, 2002, 2005; Collins 1986, 1990, 2005). At its foundation,
masculinities research reveals the multiplicity of masculinities by drawing attention to the
differences between men, including subordinated, marginalized, and complicit masculinities
(Connell 1987, 2002). Intersectionality reminds us that social dominance must be understood in
reference not only to gender, but to “a range of interlocking inequalities. . . . a 'matrix of
domination'” which filters the way the world affects individuals, such that the social reality a
person faces varies “depending on their social location in the structures of race, class, gender,
and sexuality” (Baca Zinn and Dill 2000, p. 326). Therefore, this dissertation begins from the
understanding that men do not constitute a unitary, monolithic, or static group, and that therefore
their relationships to gender justice work also vary. The way they do gender work is different in
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part because the social categories where they are privileged and where they are marginalized are
different. Their experiences of the world, of society, and especially of systemic inequality are
different.
This dissertation is a comparative, qualitative analysis of two men's gender-justice groups
directed toward men of different social locations: Muslim men, and gay/queer-identified men.
Both groups are majority-Black, creating a further contrast with the previous research with white
men that forms this project’s background. I spent a year in Atlanta, doing anti-sexist work
alongside Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence and the Sweet Tea Southern Queer Men’s
Collective. I attended all group meetings, helped plan and produce events, and interviewed group
members. I used grounded theory techniques and intersectional feminist theories to interpret
what I learned and to draw new questions out of the experiences of these groups. By the end of
my time in Atlanta, both groups had ceased functioning, and I worked to understand what factors
lead to their dissolution.
This research has important practical implications for projects and organizations that aim
to engage men in ending sexism. Understanding the ways these men become involved can help
us to engage more men from marginalized communities, thereby increasing the diversity of
men’s inclusion and allowing the benefits of men’s involvement to reach wider communities.
Understanding their reasons for forming these groups can also help us understand the
shortcomings other men’s organizations have around involving marginalized men, and think
about ways to overcome these challenges. The understandings and discourse that undergird the
work these groups do can help us think about the different ways men understand gender,
inequality, and violence, and thus appeal to or challenge them more effectively. Finally,
investigating the different ways these men organize around their multiple identities provides
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strategies for improving the efficacy of other social movement and social change groups that
struggle to organize intersectionally. Theoretically, what is at stake is how intersectionality and
privilege meet each other. Scholarship on intersectionality so far has concentrated on
investigating social locations that are multiply marginalized (Baca Zinn & Dill 1996; Collins
1986, 1990; Ferber & Herrera 2013; McCall 2005). So far, however, there has been little
“research that examines issues of privilege and intersectionality,” or concentrates on the
workings of intersectionality at social locations where people are both privileged and oppressed
(Coston & Kimmel 2012; Ferber & Herrera 2013, p. 84; Kimmel & Ferber 2013).
Why Study These Groups?
Growing up on the privileged end of multiple axes of difference, my life provided few
openings to understand structured inequality. I had few opportunities and no encouragement to
understand the experiences of people on the other end of those axes until college, when I took
my first women’s studies class. I learned about sexual and relationship violence, pay inequality,
and street harassment, but I was just as struck by the myriad routine struggles and everyday
abuses that illustrate women’s increased vulnerability and decreased value in society. I made new
friends and learned about racism, homophobia, and transphobia through their experiences. I
started to understand that everything I had been told about fairness, meritocracy, and level
playing fields was wrong, and I was outraged. This not only meant that my friends and loved
ones were experiencing unfair hardships that I would never face, it also meant that all the
accomplishments I'd thought were mine alone were actually facilitated by socially structured
privileges that I had never asked for. The only way I found to feel less frustrated and hurt and
angry was to get involved in changing things.
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I got involved where I could and learned as much as I could, and with some luck and
effort and probably more help from my structural privilege, I was invited by Dr. Aaronette
White, my professor for a class on African American women, to work with her on a study on
Black male feminist organizers. She started by handing me a purple folder full of photocopied
articles about men’s engagements in feminism, and I remember feeling amazed that this existed
—that I existed—in the literature. Some of the articles were about whether men could be
feminists at all, some were about why men should be feminist, but most were just beginning to
lay the groundwork for including men at all. Although some discussed race, class, or sexuality,
they still tended to speak of men as a unitary category, and implicitly assumed that the
experiences of white, middle-class, college-educated, heterosexual men could be used as a basis
for understanding all men. Of course, because they mostly matched my own experiences as well,
I had trouble seeing exactly where or how that was a problem. Dr. White, on the other hand, was
trying to show that this was a damaging “false generic” by illustrating the specificity of Black
men's experiences as feminist organizer (West and Fenstermaker 1995, p. 11). In doing so, she
was struggling, as were the Black men we interviewed, to push back against myriad stereotypes
of Black men as hyper-masculine, misogynistic, sexually aggressive, and innately criminal.
After graduation, I knew I wanted to continue doing feminist activism, and more
specifically I wanted to work to get more men involved without compromising the movement or
undermining women. Again, though, I did not know how to do it, especially given my privileged
social location. I asked Dr. White what she recommended, and she urged me to get a Ph.D. She
said I had the skills, abilities, and intelligence to earn a doctorate, and that when I had one I
would be able to be a more effective advocate for gender equality. Perhaps she was being polite
in leaving out the resources and privilege that would make graduate school easier for me than for
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any of the six women with whom I began the program, but in effect, she was saying I should take
my privilege and turn it to good use.
While applying for graduate school, I volunteered at a local sexual assault and domestic
violence shelter, answering hotline calls and doing office work. Occasionally I would be asked to
spend some time with the children of the women who were being housed at the shelter, and the
women were always so grateful that their sons—it was always sons—would have a positive male
role model. Some actually seemed amazed that such a thing could exist. There were two other
men who volunteered there on occasion, and the employees seemed very eager to have us meet
each other. We didn't become close friends—we had little in common other than our volunteering
—but we did talk about our experiences volunteering there. Like all employees and volunteers
will when given the chance, we talked about things we liked and things that bothered us, and I
noticed that we had all struggled with finding our place, as men, at the shelter. We were singled
out frequently, given extra attention and extra thanks, often for simple things that every volunteer
was expected to do. I started thinking about how male privilege and structured inequality
function, even within feminist organizations, and how they might create trends and recurring
concerns for feminist men.
I looked into this further during graduate school, doing a year-long participant-
observation study with a campus-based men's group called Men CARE. We went into all-male
spaces, mostly sports teams and fraternities, to talk about consent and to try to get audience
members to intervene if they ever saw signs of a possible sexual assault. I continued noticing
trends, like the unequal attention and gratitude we received and the difficulty we had navigating
between our anti-sexist ideologies and our own male privilege; I also noticed some recurring
difficulties. I saw that we had trouble holding our audiences accountable for sexist things they
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said because we did not want to alienate them and that we struggled to talk about protecting
women from sexual violence without being patronizing or policing women's sexuality. I saw
these difficulties as stemming from the sexist social structures that surround and shape the
group’s work (Peretz, unpublished paper). What I failed to see was that I was making the same
mistakes Dr. White and I had tried to draw attention to! My group was almost all white, upper-
middle class, and educated, and while more than half identified as gay or queer, there was little
discussion of it in the group's work or in my resulting paper.
In writing up the results of that study, I noticed that most of the literature on men’s
feminist engagements still struggles to include socially marginalized men in a meaningful way.
These studies, like mine, tended to take place on college campuses, introducing a sample bias
toward the educated middle-class (Ahrens et al. 2011; Breen & Karpinski 2008; Coker et al.
2011; DeKeserdy et al. 2000; Earle 1996; Foubert & Bradford 2007; Piccigallo et al 2012; Rich
2010). Despite the frequent anecdotal evidence and on-the-ground conversations suggesting or
presuming some positive relationship between feminist identification and non-normative
sexuality in men (Christian 1994), most also ignored sexuality as a factor (Bridges 2010; Casey
& Smith 2010), or reported an overrepresentation of gay and bisexual men without doing any
analysis of that result (Shiffman 1987). These studies were more likely to be aware of race, but
since they seldom had more than token representation of men of color in their samples, they were
usually only able to report the demographics and list the missing data as a limitation of the study.
While Aaronette White (2008) had published a book called “Ain't I a Feminist? African
American Men Speak Out on Fatherhood, Friendship, Forgiveness, and Freedom” (see also
White 2006a, 2006b, 2006c), the overwhelming trend was a “glaring gap” when it came to the
impact of race (Casey & Smith 2010, p. 970). From previous research (Brod 1988; Shiffman
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1987) and my own interactions with social movement groups, I knew that gay, Black, and Jewish
men tend to be overrepresented in gender justice movements (as compared to their percentage of
the population), but they were mostly not making it into the literature (notable exceptions include
Deeds 2009; Messner 1997; White 2006 a, 2006b, 2006c, 2008; White & Peretz 2010).
Eventually I realized that, although I had been thinking of my results as trends that
emerge any time men work for causes that society understands as women’s issues, I really had no
way of knowing if they were consistent concerns for all men, or if they were really in part related
to race, class, sexuality, nationality, etc. Without any significant comparisons across different
groups of men, there was no way for my study to parse which characteristics of their work were
linked to being men, generally, and which were specifically linked to being white men (in a
predominantly white institution), or middle-class, or straight. I realized that if I wanted to be able
to generalize my results, I would need to see if they held true for marginalized men doing
feminist activism. I also saw the possibility that, proceeding from a different social location,
some group of marginalized men had found a way to sidestep or strategize around the difficulties
my group had faced. Tony Porter, the co-founder of A Call to Men, also pointed out to me that if
the movement to include men in anti-sexist activism is only reaching a small, specific subset of
privileged men, then it is primarily helping a small, specific subset of women as well. In looking
to investigate the experiences of socially marginalized men, I found Muslim Men Against
Domestic Violence and the Sweet Tea Southern Queer Men’s Collective, both of which are also
predominantly African American and both in Atlanta, Georgia. At first I just thought it was a
coincidence that would be logistically convenient, but when I found that Atlanta had also been
home to the now-defunct Black Men for the Eradication of Sexism, I came to wonder, "why
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Atlanta?" and to expand the range of my research questions from there (Byrd & Guy-Sheftall
2001).
Research Questions
When I began working with the two groups in Atlanta, it was with three related research
questions in mind, all fairly straightforward. By exploring the ways that differently situated
groups of men understand and enact anti-sexism differently, I planned to investigate the ways
social location shapes:
1) the ways men come to see gender, sexual, and relationship violence as problems and
become engaged in work to reduce or end them;
2) anti-sexist men’s understandings of and beliefs about gender-based violence and the
discourses they use to explain their relationship to violence in society;
3) the actual work the groups do and the ways they do it, including primary concerns,
strategies, programs, short- and long-term goals, activities, and challenges.
I had hoped that by answering those questions, I would contribute to knowledge on how to get
more men from marginalized communities involved in reducing gender inequality and gender-
based violence. The first question, on pathways to engagement, was designed to help with the
recruitment of more diverse men. The second would provide information about how to tailor
anti-sexist messaging for men of different social locations, making targeted campaigns and
presentations more effective. The last was intended to see what materials and ideas these groups
of marginalized men had come up with that could be used to improve the effectiveness of other
men's organizing, and to see if the patterned tensions and difficulties I found in my previous
research held true for these men as well. That is, are they difficulties that occur whenever men
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organize against sexism, or are they specific to certain groups, communities, or styles of
organizing?
These questions are still addressed throughout the dissertation, in ways that I hope are of
use to activist and nonprofit groups interested in getting more men, and specifically more diverse
men, involved in the work. Reading it with this set of questions in mind will provide insight into
how these groups can attract these men, speak to their issues and their communities, avoid
homogenizing narratives, and build productive relationships across difference. However, as I
gathered and analyzed data, I began to see this project in a broader way, and more theoretical
questions presented themselves:
1) How does place factor into men’s intersectional gender justice work, through
geography, history, local resources and localized culture, etc.? Or, as I first thought of it: "Why
Atlanta?"
2) How does simultaneous experience of privilege and marginalization or oppression
shape social justice identities? That is, what are the differences between anti-sexist allyship
performed by men who experience some form of marginalization or oppression themselves and
those who understand themselves simply as men, and what can these differences tell us about
intersectional identities?
3) How do different ways of navigating and organizing around intersectional identities
affect the efficacy of social movement groups?
The first of these three additional questions is addressed in the next section. Broader and more
subtle, the other two questions are woven throughout the dissertation, especially in Chapters 3
and 4.
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Why Atlanta?
Atlanta feels like any major American city in many ways, though very different in some
others. There are many parks and community festivals; liquor is only sold in “package stores,”
which many locals call the packy. The neighborhoods are very distinct, and the legacy of slavery
can still be felt in many of them. Despite its reputation as “the city too busy to hate,” the city is
very clearly segregated by race. Atlanta’s index of dissimilarity is .60, meaning that sixty percent
of Atlanta’s Black population would have to move for their distribution to show no evidence of
segregation (Frey 2013; Logan and Stults 2010). Atlanta’s index of dissimilarity has been
dropping steadily for the last 30 years and is about the middle of the range for the largest
American cities and for those with the largest Black populations (for comparison, Milwaukee,
Detroit, and New York City all cluster around .80), but racial divisions are still palpable in the
everyday experience of living in Atlanta.
When I moved to Atlanta to conduct my research, I talked to a realtor about finding a
place to live. He wanted to start by giving me an overall sense of the city, so he showed me a
large map on the wall of his office. He pointed to the highways on the map, with Interstates 75
and 85 forming an rough X through the encircling perimeter highway, and told me that as long as
I stayed east of that X’s intersection I would be fine. When I started looking at particular
locations, he described a particular apartment complex as nice and well maintained, before
whispering “but kind of a gayborhood.” I did not end up taking his advice on where to live.
I ended up finding a place in Reynoldstown, two blocks from the edge of Cabbagetown,
an artsy, bohemian area. There is no clear geographic marker of the different neighborhoods, but
an astute observer notices some differences. Demographics are the main contrast; whereas
Reynoldstown was first settled by freed slaves, Cabbagetown was settled at about the same time
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Tal Peretz
by poor Whites coming down from Appalachia in search of work. The class similarity and racial
difference make for some interesting comparisons. Reynoldstown was considered a dangerous
ghetto 20 years ago, and was just starting to gentrify when the housing market collapsed in 2008;
now both neighborhoods are full of foreclosed homes and for sale signs, sometimes three or four
to a block. Compared to Cabbagetown, however, Reynoldstown has many more old, overgrown
lots and condemned buildings, with yards overgrowing the sidewalks and spray paint battling
weather damage in an attempt to cover the walls completely. Cabbagetown’s graffiti is more
artsy, and does not seem to ward off the investors and entrepreneurs looking to build apartment
complexes or open restaurants and shops. Rather, it is gaining a reputation as a hip, bohemian,
up-and-coming young neighborhood. Still, all of Atlanta had been hit badly by the economic
downturn; a few weeks after arriving, I heard on NPR that Atlanta had one of the highest
foreclosure rates in the country.
The specific characteristics of geographical areas—things like demographic trends,
financial investments, local government policies, existing institutions, history of activism, etc.—
powerfully shape the possibilities for identity group organizing (Saito 1998). The presence of
Men Stopping Violence (MSV) in nearby Decatur, within the Atlanta perimeter highway, was
one major influence that helps explain the presence of MMADV, Sweet Tea, and other
intersectionally-identified gender justice groups in the area (discussed further in Chapter 2).
Atlanta’s racial history, its sexual history, and its activist history have all, in various ways, laid
the groundwork for such groups. The ways in which the groups function are also shaped by
structural forces like racial segregation, the concentration of Historically Black Colleges and
Universities (HBCUs), and the presence of a major international airport and its effect on the
immigrant population.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
Atlanta’s racial history and current racialized social structure are complex and had deep
impacts on the groups in this study. Atlanta has been and continues to be racially segregated both
geographically and socially; at the same time, there is a history of Black community power,
leadership, and effective resistance. The Civil Rights Movement had powerful effects on the city
where Martin Luther King, Jr., was born, preached, and is buried. Atlanta has a history of
successful Black businesses, powerful Black church and community leaders, and an unbroken
line of Black mayors stretching back to 1974 (Stone 1989). This makes Black-led social change
feel both necessary and viable, while making activist groups identified by race or other
community categories make sense and feel appropriate. That is, this history of effective Black
community mobilization has affected Atlanta’s progressive activist culture such that identity
politics is appealing to people starting new organizations. This is what Harry, 62-year-old
psychotherapist and the only white member of Sweet Tea, was pointing to when he told me about
the “real Afro-centric way in which a lot of people socialize or organize. It's intentional in the
African American community.” While certainly organizing around their identities, Sweet Tea
was critical of doing so in an exclusive way, preferring to acknowledge identities while
organizing across categories. When Jeune, a 25-year-old Black graduate student, was explaining
this to me, he explained it with specific reference to the city itself:
We felt like in Atlanta, specifically, this city, like many cities, the city is very much
racialized, very very much race boundaries, right? And I don't want to demonize those
boundaries, necessarily―so you might argue that it's maybe necessary to have a Black
gay pride and Atlanta pride, for example. . . but I think one way of challenging that very
race-boundaried [community relationship] between queer men's communities is by
having―and I'm not saying that those boundaries are always bad, sometimes they're very
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Tal Peretz
necessary―but in doing this work, where we're thinking about sexism among queer men,
we felt like it was necessary to have this be about queer men of color as well.
(Interviewer: So, in that case you're using men of color, not as a euphemism for Black
men, but in that case you're using it much larger?) Right, much larger. It just so happened
that most of us were Black. . . . We were definitely hoping for it to be more multiracial.
Both racial segregation and effective identity movements contribute to an environment where
identity-based organizing is prevalent—Jeune specifically mentioned Black gay pride—but
Sweet Tea attempted to use identity-based organizing to work across difference (“hoping for it to
be more multiracial”).
Sweet Tea members also brought up the queer history of the city as influencing them,
individually and as a collective. Harry explained his long-time residence in Atlanta and
involvement in the gay organizing community with reference to the longstanding gay-safe
neighborhood near Midtown, and told me multiple times about ALFA, the Atlanta Lesbian
Feminist Alliance that was active from 1972-1994 and for a period of time had a house “that men
were not allowed in - I never set foot in the ALFA house” (Hartle 2010; Chesnut & Gable 2009)
Though there was now at least one past member of ALFA who was a regular and supportive
presence at Sweet Tea events, Harry explained to me that in the late 1970s and early 1980s, “the
lesbian community and the gay men's community did not get along very well,” largely because
of gay men’s sexism and unexamined privilege. Decades later, this same sexism and unexamined
privilege drew Sweet Tea together to try to educate and change their community. Charis Books, a
feminist bookstore founded in 1974 in what was then the lesbian feminist neighborhood of Little
Five Points and surviving still today largely because of the support of the lesbian feminist
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
community, played host to Sweet Tea’s “Coming OUT Party” and proclamation debut (Chenault
2008; Hartle 2010; Chesnut & Gable 2009).
Many of the members of Sweet Tea knew each other through their work or volunteering
for existing gay or queer organizations in the city. Four members had at some point worked for
AID Atlanta, an organization formed in 1982 to provide support services and education for
people living with HIV/AIDS, and at least two more also met through other HIV/AIDS activism
(AID Atlanta 2013). Others had become acquainted through the Atlanta Queer Literary Festival
or through student activism at the Atlanta University Center, a consortium of HBCUs in
southwestern Atlanta. The concentration of HBCUs both signals the presence of a strong Black
middle-class and creates a young, educated, and networked Black community where activism
can germinate and leadership can be developed. Chris, a 52-year-old Black gay social service
worker, also mentioned the influence of Second Sundays; when I asked him to tell me more
about the group and how it connected to Sweet Tea, he explained that:
It’s shared history. It was a discussion group, it began as a very small discussion group of
Black gay men . . . . [Six years later] our meetings would be 150, up to 200 men. 200
Black gay men, in one setting, in the daytime, to discuss issues that were relevant. . . . So,
obviously Atlanta needed something like that.
Explaining that he had co-led the group (with an employee of MSV) for some time, he related to
me some of the group’s conversations about internalized feminiphobia, gay men’s sexism,
dealing with racism and being exoticized by white gay men, all of which previewed the
conversations and intersectional analysis of Sweet Tea.
Atlanta is one of the few cities in the United States that could produce or sustain a group
like Second Sundays, and similar factors make Sweet Tea and MMADV possible. For Sweet Tea,
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Tal Peretz
the concentration of Black gay men, the city’s segregation and history of effective Black
community mobilization, and the prevalence of queer-identified individuals in the close-knit
progressive community were all influencing factors. When I asked Ita, the member who called
together Sweet Tea’s first meeting from among his own personal and activist connections, about
the considerations for this initial wave of recruiting, he told me “[i]t was like, who's going to be a
queer feminist gay guy in Atlanta, Georgia, who would want to do this? We didn't have a long
list.” While Ita seems to be lamenting the dearth of gay feminists, it remains the case that Atlanta
is one of the few places where there would be enough to form a group of their own.
In most parts of the country, there would not be enough gay male feminists for the idea of
a gay men’s feminist organization to arise, let alone enough Black gay male feminists for the
group to take up the intersectional analysis of Sweet Tea. But it was not just the concentration of
Black gay men in Atlanta that was necessary for Sweet Tea’s formation, it was also the way they
were already networked and organized. When I asked Ita to clarify how, specifically, the
members were originally found and approached, he explained that it happened through informal
networks already in place; “It was just knowledge of the community and knowledge of who we
understood to be really invested in those kinds of politics.” The dense network of progressive
and queer organizations in Atlanta was also necessary for Sweet Tea’s formation.
Finally, the particular ways that queer men were organizing in Atlanta’s progressive
communities became an important part of how the group took shape. The way Jeune put it,
“Atlanta has such a large collective of queer men right now, moving around and running around,
and queer men often taking these very dominant positions in community or representing the
community, where I felt like it [queer men talking about privilege] was so overwhelmingly
necessary here.” The very presence of a critical mass (“such a large collective”) of queer men is
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
a necessary factor for such groups, but their centrality in progressive mobilizations (“moving
around and running around”) and the way they wield privilege in those organizations (“taking
these very dominant positions”) is what made Jeune think a group like Sweet Tea needed to exist
to take a stand against gender inequality in Atlanta’s queer community. Clearly, Sweet Tea’s
existence drew on the demographic and social realities of Atlanta, the queer history of the city,
and the structures, institutions, and relationships that had grown out of that queer history.
Similar factors also influenced the formation of Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence.
As with Sweet Tea’s foundation in Atlanta’s gay community, the presence of a considerable and
sufficiently connected Muslim community was necessary. Without Atlanta’s substantial and
organized Muslim community, it would have been impossible for MMADV to find sufficient
membership or audience. Also necessary was the presence of community institutions like the
Atlanta Mosque of Al-Islam, where the group held many of its public events during my time in
the field. Al-Islam, the oldest masjid in Atlanta, was founded by the Nation of Islam, directing
attention to the history of Islam among the Black communities of Atlanta. In forming the group,
Umm Kulthum, herself a graduate of an HBCU, was influenced by both the history of successful
identity politics movements in Atlanta and the sexism present in many of the Black nationalist
movements.
This connection to a substantial history within the Black Muslim community creates
some difficulties for MMADV as well, though, because the nature of Atlanta’s Muslim
community is changing. Atlanta is home to the busiest international airport in the world, and the
presence of Muslim immigrants has grown steadily in recent decades. Though also influenced by
current economic realities, this mirrors the influx of Muslim immigrants after the repeal of the
National Origins Act and the Asian Barred Zone legislation in 1965, which created a rift between
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Tal Peretz
African-American and immigrant Muslim communities in the United States. According to
Sherman Jackson (2011), this increased immigration helped create “an effective 'immigrant
supremacy,' according to which the priorities, insights, perspectives, historical experience, and
understandings of the Arabs, followed by those of other immigrant Muslim groups, were
established as both normal and normative;” this immigrant supremacy falsely universalized the
particular experiences of a subset of the Muslim community, unfairly judging African-American
Muslims by this standard and finding them lacking
1
(p. 60). While immigrant Muslims often
bring significant economic or educational resources to American in hopes of opportunity,
African-American Muslims often reject the mythology of the American Dream due to historical
and personal racism and structural inequality in the U.S.
Though the divide between the Black and immigrant Muslim communities in Atlanta it is
something of a false dichotomy,
2
it has real effects on the ground and in the lives and organizing
efforts of MMADV members. Though he problematized the divide himself, Sayeed also pointed
to it and acknowledged how it can make MMADV’s organizing efforts difficult:
It's just a big problem in the Muslim community, there's this divide. A lot of immigrants
believe that they're better Muslims, that African Americans don't really know a lot about
the faith. I know one of the pet peeves of African Americans is being asked ‘oh, when did
you convert to Islam?’ because I have a lot of African American friends who were born
1 Though he critiques the false universalization of immigrant Muslim experiences as
“authentic” Muslim realities, Jackson himself seems to be falsely generalizing the experiences of
many communities of immigrant Muslims; he also seems to overlook or be unaware of the
immigrant Muslims who critique the same monolithic notions of Islam that he rejects and
promote more progressive interpretations of scripture.
2 When I asked Sayeed, an American-born Desi Indian man who converted to Islam,
about the rift between Black and immigrant Muslims, he pointed out to me that “its very
problematic to say African American and immigrant, because what am I then? Or there's two
professors at [a local university] who are both Muslim, one is a white woman who converted to
Islam. . . where does she go for a mosque?"
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
Muslim. Their parents converted or their grandparents converted, but they're asked ‘when
did you convert to Islam,’ or even more derogatory, ‘did you convert in prison?’
This gulf between the two communities makes it difficult for MMADV to engage the immigrant
community, to make contact with their imams or provide programming in their masjids. While
my data do not allow me to speak conclusively about the likely possibility that anti-Black racism
has something to do with the difficulty MMADV has accessing immigrant Muslim communities,
it is worth noting that the Black Muslim community also holds some negative stereotypes of the
immigrant Muslims. Many times the problem of domestic violence in the Muslim community
was blamed on immigrant Muslims holding onto the cultures of their sending countries, as when
I asked Abdullah why there are not more imams involved in their anti-violence work, and he told
me that, “It is cultural, a lot of it. Here in Atlanta we have a large Iraqi community, large Somali
community, and unfortunately, women in some of these communities do not get a fair shake, so
to speak. So some of it is based on cultural differences” (this use of immigrant culture as a
scapegoat is discussed further in Chapter 4). MMADV would not exist, or would look radically
different, in an area without the presence of a substantial and networked Muslim community,
without the institutions already established by this community, or without a large airport
sustaining a substantial and growing population of immigrant Muslims.
Atlanta is also implicated in the formation and format of the groups in a broader, more
structural way through the way its size and location create a draw for certain demographics and
communities in the Southeastern United States. Atlanta is the second-largest city in the South,
3
following Miami. For Southerners attracted to certain characteristics of urban life, like
anonymity, the ability to find substantial populations of subcultural or minority groups, or even
3 City size here is defined by population of the Metropolitan Statistical Area, regions
defined by the U.S. Office of Management and Budget.
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Tal Peretz
just having diverse restaurant options, Atlanta may feel like the only option. This makes Atlanta
a magnet for progressives and radicals throughout the South, as well as for religious minorities
that might feel marginalized or at-risk elsewhere, or might just require a critical mass to support
a center of worship. Compared to much of the South, Atlanta is a safer and more welcoming
place, where one is more likely to find friends, community, nurturing social environments, and
safety. The city is therefore home to a small, close-knit progressive community that sees itself as
being engulfed and besieged by a vast and dominant conservative region. The conservatism of
the South makes this progressive community feel embattled, but also has the effect of making
them pull together as a community, as friends as well as allies, and encourages them somewhat to
learn each other's issues and to support each other. According to Mark, a 32-year-old member of
Sweet Tea and professional social justice organizer,
There’s such a lack of infrastructure in the south for most [progressive] things, there's a
lack of infrastructure for all types of movement-building work. . . .There’s a lot of
resistance to progressive thought, there's a lot of old conservative, um, everything! And
there's a lot of deep-rooted history, everything from chattel slavery to burnings to―it's
just such a checkered history and such a conservative place, but at the same time, my
experience has been people work beyond a narrow framework. . . because if we don't
combine efforts, we won't get anywhere.
Mark believes that against the conservative majority of the surrounding area and the weight of
the area’s “deep rooted history” of racism and oppression, progressives “won’t get anywhere”
without building alliances and cooperating across difference. The intersectional organization of
Sweet Tea, then, is a direct result of structural and historical factors in Atlanta.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
The institutional, historical, geographic, and demographic characteristics of Atlanta—the
history of effective community mobilization and the presence of enduring institutions within
these communities, the way Atlanta’s location attracts and sustains a close-knit progressive
community that feels beset by the conservatism of the surrounding region, the existence of
substantial Black, Muslim, and gay/queer populations, etc.—were all important factors in the
creation and direction of MMADV and Sweet Tea.
Background Literature
History of Men’s Engagements With Gender Justice
Since the beginning of women’s rights work in the United States, there have been some
men present, involved, and supporting women (Kimmel & Mosmiller 1992; Tarrant 2009). With
the feminist revolution of the late 1960s and 1970s, men in the United States saw that changes in
the gender order were effecting their lives, and while many reacted negatively, with antifeminist
backlash or masculinist protectionism, some embraced feminism (Messner 1997). This
involvement became complicated as some strands of feminism (e.g., cultural, radical) began to
locate the problem of gender inequality within men themselves, making the very existence of
supportive men a contradiction and leading to difficulties in men’s involvement (Echols 1989;
hooks 2000; Stansell 2011). Many feminist women, sick of the sexism in the Civil Rights and
New Left movements and convinced that any contact with men would inevitably reproduce
inequality, chose separatism (Echols 1989; hooks 2000).
The problems with this are clear. If men are the cause of gender inequality and are
inherently sexist, than how do they become effective allies? Even those feminists who were
willing to consider male allies were likely to advise men to work on themselves or to go work
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Tal Peretz
within their own group, teaching other men about sexism and admonishing them to be less sexist
(Messner et al. forthcoming). Groups like Rape And Violence End Now, Men Against Sexist
Violence, and MSV were formed from this advice, but often struggled in the gulf between the
women’s movement and the men they were trying to reach (Lichterman 1989; Messner et al.
forthcoming).
The 1980s brought further complications in the relationship between men and the
women’s movement, as some groups of men began to find gender politics of their own. The
National Organization for Changing Men (later re-named the National Organization for Men
Against Sexism [NOMAS]) fractured as the members who were focusing on promoting men’s
place as supportive allies to the women’s movement clashed with the budding men’s liberation
movement (Brannon 1981-1982, cited in Messner 1997). The latter included men who wanted to
attend to the ways masculine socialization limits and harms men, often using sex role theory to
claim that sexism harms men and women equally, or even that men have it worse because
masculinity constrains them more narrowly than femininity constrains women (Farrell 1974;
Goldberg 1976; Nichols 1975). The continuation of this trajectory created the men’s rights
movement, which has since become so anti-feminist as to argue that men are the real victims of
sexism, misogynistically portraying women as conniving parasites oppressing men through the
use of sexuality and state power (Coston & Kimmel 2013; Farrell 1993).
Other groups and social movements also started being referred to as “the men’s
movement,” most of which had little or nothing to do with supporting women’s strivings for
egalitarian social change: the mythopoetic movement (Bly 1990; Flood et al 2007; Messner
1997; Williams 2001), father’s rights (Flood 2012; Flood et al 2007), Christian Promise Keepers
(Claussen 2000; Flood et al 2007; Messner 1997), etc. None of these “men’s movement” groups
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
are the focus of this dissertation, and with the possible exception of NOMAS, many would be
rejected by the members of the groups I studied. My research focuses on men’s engagement in
what can, with relatively little hesitation, be termed feminist projects. They are clear attempts to
create a more egalitarian gender order, which if successful would improve the state of women’s
rights and standing in society, and which would be unquestionably considered feminist or
feminist-inspired if done by women. There have been ongoing and contentious debates about the
appropriate terminology for describing men who engage in such projects; I take up this issue
later in this chapter.
Current Styles of Men’s Feminist Engagement
Men’s gender justice projects have blossomed in the last 20 years, diversifying and
increasing in breadth and depth. Engaging men for gender equality has become a major trend in
international non-governmental (NGO) and development work since the mid-1990’s (Bojin
2012, 2013; Esplen 2006; Barker et al. 2007). Internationally, NGOs such as Promundo in Brazil,
Men’s Action for Stopping Violence Against Women in India, and Sonke Gender Justice in
South Africa do creative public education work to change the gender norms in their countries, to
foster more gender-equitable relationship norms, reduce relationship violence, and slow the
spread of HIV/AIDS (Dworkin et al. 2012; Ravindra et al. 2007; Verma et al. 2006, 2008).
Increasingly networked and global, these groups are also increasingly becoming the subjects of
scholarly research.
In the United States, this educational work has been mostly taken up by men’s groups on
college campuses, many affiliated with national organizations like One in Four, Men Can Stop
Rape, or Men Against Violence. While some address pornography, plan public protests and
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Tal Peretz
marches, or support anti-sexist projects more broadly, many focus specifically on issues of
gender-based violence (e.g., rape, sexual assault, domestic violence) and work on a peer-
education, primary prevention model. In these groups, members give educational presentations
about consent, sexual assault, and related topics to groups of (often exclusively male) peers, in
hopes of changing the sexual culture in a specific community and thus preventing future assaults.
As research on the nature of sexual assault has improved, the focus of anti-violence organizing
has also shifted from viewing and treating male audience members as potential perpetrators to
engaging them as possible allies in preventing sexual violence (Deeds 2009; Messner et al.
forthcoming).
Bystander intervention trainings, a subset of primary prevention educational
programming, attempt to turn male audience members from passive onlookers into active
sentries prepared to avert or interrupt sexual assaults (Banyard 2011; Coker et al. 2011;
Langhinrichsen-Rohling & Foubert 2011; Peretz, unpublished paper). These presentations train
audience members to look for “red flags,” such as repeatedly or insistently providing someone
alcohol or isolating someone from their friends, and teach audience members nonconfrontational
strategies for intervening, such as distracting the perpetrator or joining their conversation. Other
forms of educational programming instead focus on challenging or changing masculinity norms,
especially those that permit or support sexual and relationship violence (McGann 2009; Murphy
2009). These sorts of educational curricula are also used outside of university settings by
prevention educators, many of whom are men working through women’s movement
organizations (e.g., battered women’s shelters, sexual assault resource centers, rape crisis lines).
While educational programming, especially all-male peer educational programming, is
probably the most common and most well-researched form of engagement for men, there are
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
many other ways men support anti-sexist activism. Men provide batterer intervention
programming, teach in women’s and gender studies departments, and increasingly are involved
in fundraising efforts for women’s movement organizations. Women’s movement organizations
now have men employed or volunteering at non-education positions as well, as counselors,
shelter attendants, hotline respondents, and board members (Messner et al., forthcoming). Men
are also increasingly contributing to feminist thought online, through blogs such as What About
Teh Menz, the Good Men Project, and Masculinities 101
4
—though it should be noted that men’s
online engagements have a chequered history (Messner et al. Forthcoming).
Tensions in Men’s Engagements
Aside from the ordinary organizational problems of any grassroots or activist groups,
men’s anti-sexist groups face additional tensions specific to their social location and objectives
(Blee 2012; Bojin 2012). Despite the lack of uniformity in dispersal of privilege, the primary
thing men have in common as a group is benefitting from the subordination of women (Connell
2002, 2005; Kahane, 1998; Lichterman, 1989). Gender justice work itself, in the American
context at least, is gendered as feminine (Berkowitz 2004; Bridges 2010). The core tension in
men’s engagements, then, is organizing from a position of privilege in an attempt to change the
structure that provides that privilege. Anti-sexist men are working against their own structural
advantages, and in doing so are concerning themselves with issues that men have no social
authorization to address. While individual men may conceive of their interests and ideologies as
consistent with gender justice activism (Messner 2004; Messner & Solomon 2007; Pease 2002),
4 Full disclosure: the author of this dissertation is a regular contributor to the blog
Masculinities 101.
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Tal Peretz
they still do so within a structure that treats them as men, beneficiaries of sexism and male
privilege.
This core tension in men’s work gives rise to numerous others. Because the issues as seen
as belonging to women, men’s anti-sexist groups often have difficulty building membership and
maintaining interest, and members frequently have their motivations, masculinity, or sexuality
questioned (Christian 1995; Peretz, unpublished paper). In some cases, men may find that the
more they learn about sexism and gendered oppression, the more they struggle with their own
gendered identities and self-worth as men. When men’s groups lose focus on male privilege and
systems of oppression, they can easily slide into self-pity or even anti-feminist backlash
(Messner 1997, 1998).
Interactions with feminist women can also be fraught. Aside from the cold reception men
may face from some branches of feminism, as previously discussed, there are also difficulties
even when feminist women welcome men. There is a steep and sometimes treacherous learning
curve as men try to interact with women in ways that do not reproduce the sexist interactional
norms they may be used to. Because of the privilege of the male voice (Henley 1977; Spurling
1992), men attempting to express their own perspectives may find that they are inadvertently
silencing the voices of women. Men supporting women’s struggles for equality and endeavoring
to maintain accountability to women must also decide which women to be accountable to; the
many branches of feminism, and the sometimes contentious relationships between them, can
make this both difficult and daunting (Messner et al. forthcoming). Moreover, many men and
men’s groups struggle to maintain accountability to women without burdening women with the
responsibility of educating and supervising them (Bojin 2012). On the other side of the
accountability issue is the pedestal effect: because they continue to receive male privilege while
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
doing anti-sexist work, and because there is such a low “going rate” for men’s participation in
gender justice projects, men receive disproportionate praise for supporting gender justice
(Hochschild & Machung 1989). Often men are praised simply for showing up, despite being
surrounded by women at an event that women worked to organize (Bridges 2010; Messner et al,
forthcoming). This is insulting and unfair to women, and also creates uncomfortable social
interactions for the men, which they often struggle to navigate (Peretz, forthcoming; all of the
above challenges are discussed further in Chapter 4).
In my previous research with one campus-based men’s group, I found that troubling
contradictions arose in their activities and interactions with their all-male audiences. The first
was that they were against sexism but, as an all-male group, were excluding women. Whereas
sexism relies on binary categories to function, leading some feminist and queer theorists to
advocate “degendering” as a way to end sexism (Borenstein 1994; Lorber 2005), men’s groups
and their presentations to all-male audiences are homosocial spaces which tend to facilitate “the
protection of men’s privilege” (Kimmel 1996, p. 315). In their presentations to all-male
audiences, two more difficulties arose that the group members were unable to completely
overcome. The first was that presenters felt the had to stay more-or-less within the bounds of
accepted normative masculinity and avoid saying anything that sounded confrontational or
accusatory, in order to maintain audience receptivity. Besides having the effect of confining
group members themselves into more restrictive forms of masculinity, this meant that presenters
working to reduce sexist attitudes and behaviors were incapable of effectively addressing
audience sexism (Peretz, unpublished paper). The second was that, in attempting to encourage
male audience members to intervene in potential assaults, the group frequently found
conversations sliding down a slippery slope to male policing of female sexuality. Because there
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Tal Peretz
was little effective difference between stopping male perpetrators and rescuing female victims,
women were portrayed as passive, helpless victims. Male audience members, framed as agents in
order to encourage their intervention in other men’s sexual aggression, also ended up the arbiters
and mediators of women’s sexuality (Peretz, unpublished paper). At the time, I believed these
contradictions to stem directly from gendered social structures, but this understanding did not
account for any other axes of inequality; it did not attend to men’s multiple intersecting identities
or the differences between men.
Intersectionality
The concept of intersectionality
5
—the idea that various social differentiation categories
like race, class, gender, sexuality, etc. are co-constitutive, inseparable forces that work
simultaneously to shape human experience—has been one of the primary paradigm shifts in
feminist theory and research in the last 30 years, and one of the primary contributions of feminist
theory to sociology (Andersen 2005; Baca Zinn & Dill 1996; Combahee River Collective 1982;
Collins 1986, 1990; Glenn 1999; McCall 2005; Ray 2006). Intersectionality theorists were
concerned with troubling identity politics and the use of unitary categories, asserting that “the
term 'women' actually functions as a powerful false generic” (West and Fenstermaker 1995, p.
11). Women of color, working-class women, and non-western women pointed out that what was
5 I use the term intersectionality primarily as a broad umbrella term for a range of
theories, concepts, and approaches. While “no satisfactory umbrella term yet exists to describe
the spirit behind the race-class-gender theory without reifying these three structures” and no
scholarly consensus exists on how these concepts relate to each other, the term intersectionality
seems to be the most widespread in terms of use, and the most encompassing in terms of
conceptual breadth (Kennelly 2004, p. 12). Although the term was first used by Crenshaw in
1989, the critique of research and politics based on undifferentiated identity categories like
women and African Americans began previously (Combahee River Collective, 1977; Crenshaw
1991; McCall 2005; Moraga and Anzaldua 1981; Truth 1851).
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being used as a “normatively universal category” was “in fact a U.S. and England-based white
middle class specificity. . . a particular category” (Ray 2006, italics in original).
This conceptualization of difference not only means that one cannot speak of categories
like women, gays, or the working class as unified groups with similar experiences, it also means
that each axis of difference is experienced differently based on one's status among the other axes
(Collins 1990). Black women, for example, experience gender (and gendered oppression)
differently than white women, and race (and racial oppression) differently than Black men;
women of color have been marginalized both in feminist and antiracist movements, and
strategies deployed by either movement are unlikely to adequately address concerns that are
central to them (Crenshaw 1991).
In critiquing the racism that occurs when only gender is used to analyze violence against
women, intersectionality also lays a foundation that calls into question any claims about men as a
unitary category (Connell & Messerschmidt, 2005). If it is harmful and inaccurate to make
universalizing claims about women’s experiences without regard to race, class, or sexuality, then
it follows that making universalizing claims about men would be similarly inaccurate and
detrimental. Just as Black women found it difficult to get their voices, perspectives, and concerns
seriously considered in the mainstream (White, middle-class) feminist movement, men from
marginalized communities find it difficult to fully address their particular gendered concerns
using the existing groups, spaces, methods, and discourses. Men's investments in gender politics
may therefore look different as a result of being drawn from different social locations, and these
differences are important for an understanding of men's gender justice projects and men's
gendered selves. Intersectional analysis has only recently begun to be applied to men’s lives, but
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has already proved to be a useful lens for analyzing the different ways men experience gender
(Cole & Guy-Sheftall 2003; White 2006a, 2006b, 2008; Wingfield, 2007, 2009, 2010).
Intersectionality and Men’s Antiviolence Engagements
The literature on men’s anti-sexist involvement, from very early on, noted an
overrepresentation of Jewish and gay men among white male anti-sexist activists (Brod, 1988;
Christian, 1994; Shiffman, 1987). Foundational authors on the topic of men’s profeminist
engagements suggested that other intersecting identities factor into how men understand and
identify with women and gender justice issues (Brod 1988; Kaufman 1994; Messner 1997). In
surveying attendants of a national conference for men organizing in support of women's equality,
Shiffman found that “gay men constituted nearly half of the respondents and bisexual men
accounted for nearly 20%” (1987, p. 301). The very existence of specifically African American
anti-sexist groups, like A Call To Men, suggests distinct and separate viewpoints and priorities
around gender justice, as does the publication of texts like “A Mensch Among Men,” a collection
of Jewish men's (pro-)feminist writings (Brod, 1988).
There have been some commendable empirical studies about male activists, but the bulk
of them tend to overlook intersecting identities as possible factors in the experiences and
activities of the men in these groups (Casey 2010; Casey & Smith 2010; Holmgren & Hearn
2010; Lichterman 1989; for exceptions, see Deeds 2009; Messner 1997; Messner et al.
forthcoming; White 2006a, 2006b, 2008; White & Peretz 2010). Bridges' study of men's
involvement in marches protesting against violence against women found that these men use
drag to “symbolically reproduc[e] gender and sexual inequality despite good intentions,” but
“almost every marcher. . . observed was white” and heterosexuality was assumed (2010, p. 5,
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12). Holmgren and Hearn's (2009) investigation of men's relationship to feminism gave so little
attention to intersectional difference that the races of participants were not even mentioned. In
her study of young men doing gender equity work, Coulter (2003) spoke with ten boys, all of
whom identified as heterosexual and nine of whom were white. Casey and Smith (2010)
interviewed 27 men in their study of men’s pathways to engagement, 26 of whom identified as
white (the one exception identified as Latino), and sexuality never entered the analysis. Casey
and Smith note that their results “largely reflect White men’s antiviolence ally development” and
assert that a “glaring gap in both the findings presented here and research about male
antiviolence allies more generally is the experiences of men of color” (Casey & Smith, 2010, p.
970). The few studies that have included race as an important part of the analysis have been
interested in specifically and exclusively one group, such as the Black male feminists White and
I studied (White, 2006a, 2006b, 2008; White & Peretz 2010). The present study, therefore, is
explicitly designed to attend to multiple axes of difference and investigate how they interact and
are experienced simultaneously in socially marginalized men’s gender justice projects.
Methodology
Research Design
Following Institutional Review Board approval, four groups of men’s gender justice
activists were contacted for inclusion in the study. Groups were found via previously-existing
contacts within a network of men’s anti-violence organizations or through their Internet presence,
and selected based on their specific focus on men of a particular marginalized social location.
This theoretically informed sampling is appropriate for qualitative research that seeks analytical,
rather than statistical, generalizability (Glaser & Strauss 1967). Two of the groups could not be
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included because of their location on college campuses, which created insurmountable human
subjects challenges. The remaining groups were Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence
(MMADV) and Sweet Tea,
6
a group of gay and queer-identified men.
Group leaders were initially contacted over the Internet. They gave permission for the
researcher to attend group meetings and events, and thereafter to request permission to interview
group members individually (see Appendices A, B, C). No one was financially compensated for
participating in this study, though I did offer my time and knowledge to help the groups with
their work.
Qualitative methods were chosen because of the focused and exploratory nature of this
study. Using multiple methods allowed me to investigate different types of questions, triangulate
data sources to improve reliability and validity, and get a clearer, more direct engagement with
the field (Emerson 2001; Goffman 1989). As previously mentioned, this method was successful
in a previous study of a primarily white, campus-based men's group, where I engaged in
participant-observation for two academic years and conducted in-depth interviews to explore the
ways members understood their relation to gender justice issues. In the present study, beginning
with participant-observation gave me a sense of the salient concerns present in the field as
understood by the group members themselves, and helped me to craft the interview protocols to
be responsive to them. Participant-observation also provided me with background knowledge
6 While I use pseudonyms throughout for the individuals I interviewed, I use the actual
names of the groups, because a) I believe they are important in understanding the work the
groups do and the ways they understand themselves, and b) given that Atlanta is small, Muslim
and gay/queer men’s groups are rare, and both groups maintain a significant internet presence,
keeping the specifics of the groups confidential would eliminate the possibility of effective
analysis. Indeed, because the groups do publish their members’ names online, keeping
confidentiality for individuals was a difficult task; when I discussed confidentiality with the
interviewees, a few of them laughed and said things like “there aren’t that many of us, you
know!” In places where individual’s identities or their words may be especially sensitive,
therefore, I include a quote without attributing it to a specific interviewee.
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about the participants’ communities and subcultural vocabularies, so I could conduct interviews
in language that felt appropriate and comfortable to them; by the time I began interviews, most
participants had met me multiple times and were comfortable speaking with me.
The participant-observation portion of the research allowed me to directly view the daily
work of the group, including the actions taken, the discourse used, the relationships between
group members, and the group's relationships to the outside world. This daily work is where the
groups’ interfaces with social structure come into view. During eight months of participant-
observation with MMADV and Sweet Tea, I attended all group meetings, conference calls, and
public events, as well as regularly reviewing the groups’ online presences and speaking with
group members outside of group meeting times (e.g., over the phone or lunch). I was welcomed
into participants’ homes, shared food with them, and met their families and friends. My
participation in the groups included assisting with organizing and preparing events, planning
group meetings, and speaking publicly as a member of each group. Jottings were taken during
field visits to capture general reminders and specific details and quotes, and detailed fieldnotes
were written soon afterwards. In both groups, I acted as secretary during meetings in order to be
able to take notes less conspicuously.
Twelve theorized life-history interviews (Connell 1995, 2005) were conducted, covering
all current members of Sweet Tea, all current members of MMADV save one, and some previous
members of each group. Four additional interviews were conducted with community members
who were related to the study groups in some way; one was with Umm Kulthum, the woman
who initiated the formation of MMADV, and three more were with employees of Men Stopping
Violence. This modest sample size and in-depth qualitative observation is appropriate for an
explorative study; that is, because this study is not intended to yield generalizable data, it is more
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important that the sample be theoretically suitable than that it be big or representative. Theorized
life history is useful for exploring both social structure and personal experience, as well as the
interplay between them, making it ideal for understanding the ways structured inequality (by
race, sexuality, etc.) shapes personal experiences of antiviolence engagement (Connell 2005).
Ten interviews were conducted in person, one was begun in person but concluded by
phone, and one was conducted via video call because the interviewee had moved out-of-state.
They ranged from 1.5 to 4 hours in length, with an average time of about 2.5 hours, and were
recorded by permission of each group member. Interviews covered a broad range of topics,
including personal life history with social justice organizing and issues of sexism and gender-
based violence, engagement with and experiences within the group, motivations, intersectional
identity, and masculinity. They were semistructured, allowing interviewees to direct the
interview to the concerns they found most salient, and enabling follow-up questions and
exploration through in-depth discussions (see Appendix D). In the interviews, each member was
able to describe their own entry into the group and the intersectionality concerns that they see as
salient to their engagement with gender-justice activism, and I could hear the words they chose
to describe their understandings of the intersectional social world. Following each interview,
participants completed an open-ended demographics questionnaire (see Appendix E)
Sample
Both MMADV and Sweet Tea were small grassroots groups which met and organized
primarily in private residences and over the phone or the Internet. Both occasionally produced
larger public events, open to the public and held in public places. Both have received some
training and guidance, through two or more of their members, from Men Stopping Violence
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(MSV), a national men’s anti-violence organization. MMADV had an official coordinator and an
organizational affiliation with Baitul Salaam, a local Muslim domestic violence awareness
organization run by women. Sweet Tea was a more loosely organized collective with no
hierarchical leadership structure and no official affiliations with women’s anti-violence groups,
or any other organizations.
Group membership for each groups fluctuated between three and eight members for each
group. This small sample size both reflects the relatively small size of most men’s anti-sexist
groups (and many fledgeling grassroots groups more generally), and the intersectional nature of
the groups. The population of men invested in working for gender justice is limited, and African-
Americans, Muslim, and gay/queer men are all minorities in the United States; by organizing at
the intersections of these identities, therefore, MMADV and Sweet Tea constrain their
membership levels. Similar constraints and thus similar membership numbers would be expected
in any locally-based group organizing at these intersections.
Of the twelve primary interviewees, ten were African American, one was white, and one
was of South Asian descent, all born in the United States. Ages ranged from 25 to 62. Though
four had been born elsewhere in the United States, all had lived in the South when involved in
the research groups; four had since moved to other locations around the country. Full
demographics are provided in Appendix F.
The MMADV interviewees were mostly working class, middle-aged Muslim men (mean
age of 47.5), with some college education. All were married and identify as heterosexual; with
the exception of one childless man, all had three or more children. Most MMADV members had
been involved with the group for a relatively short time, a few months to a few years; a few had
previous organizing experience, but usually not in areas related to gender or sexuality.
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Sweet Tea members tended to be younger (mean age 37.5) professionals with higher
education (all completed bachelor-level education, some also had post-baccalaureate education),
and professed no religious affiliation. All identify as gay or queer, most were single, and one had
an adopted daughter. Sweet Tea members had all been involved with the group since its inception
several years before, though one had left the group relatively early for personal reasons, and four
left at different times due to geographic relocation. All had been involved previously and
intensively in social justice organizing, sometimes professionally, and often in fields related to
gender or sexuality (e.g., HIV/AIDS services, reproductive justice, gay/queer community
groups).
Data Analysis
The research design was informed by an intersectional feminist approach (Collins, 1986),
and data analysis was conducted using grounded theory techniques (Strauss & Corbin, 1998).
Constant comparative analysis of fieldnotes and transcribed interview data were used to derive
conceptual categories inductively. Coding was done iteratively, beginning with coding for
general themes, then close inductive coding and comparison of trends between the two research
groups, and finally, once saturation of concepts was reached, checking for confirming and
disconfirming cases. Analysis continued through writing of the dissertation, and some of the
resulting themes, concepts, and results were discussed with selected participants.
Because of the methods used, this study is not suited to evaluation of the groups’ results.
Evaluation of men’s anti-sexist work is exceedingly difficult, both methodologically and
theoretically, leading this area of the literature to be underdeveloped (Flood 2006). Because this
study already covers substantial new territory in investigating marginalized groups of men,
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multiple intersections of identity, and especially the locus of privilege and marginalization, I
chose to focus on description rather than evaluation.
As Blee (2012) notes, comparative analysis of activist groups is methodologically
dubious. Because such groups are neither unitary nor bounded—that is, both the characteristics
and the membership of an activist group can change over time—it is difficult to define what a
specific group is a case of, let alone ensure that two such groups are cases of the same thing and
thus comparable. Blee sidesteps this concern by analyzing sequences of events that occur within
activist groups rather than the groups themselves, but or the present project, analyzing the groups
themselves is necessary. While I concur with Blee that the messiness of activism makes it
difficult to draw perfect comparisons or construct causative arguments, I argue that the
importance of the knowledge gained by studying activist groups outweighs the methodological
concerns. Again, because this study seeks analytical generalizability rather than statistical
generalizability, these methodological limitations are also less pressing. Moreover, the messiness
of social life is oftentimes the best data, and the locations where social life is messiest are often
the most important for social scientists to unravel (O’Brein 2009).
Reflexivity
My own experiences as a male in feminist spaces inform my analysis, affect the data
collected in interviews, and inform the ways I interpreted the data (Haraway, 1988; Harding,
1991; Smith, 1987). Because of our shared commitments to men’s anti-sexist activism,
interviewees may have been more likely to identify with me or may have felt more comfortable
telling me about their experiences. While I did not discuss my own sexuality with interviewees,
my race and religious background (Middle-eastern, Jewish) could have affected the comfort level
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of the Black and Muslim interviewees in sharing information with me. I attempted to mitigate
this by displaying comfort discussing racial, sexual, and religious difference, and by emphasizing
our similarities (e.g., linguistic similarities between Hebrew and Arabic, shared experiences as
members of racialized groups in the United States).
While I was rarely inconspicuous and was sometimes the only person of my race, age, or
class background in the room, I also never felt unwelcome or excluded, and group members
would sometimes comment that I was a valuable member whose presence had become expected.
I believe my background in anti-sexist work and my eagerness to assist their efforts made me
more welcome, and I tried to be seen more as a resource than as a researcher. When I suggested
during the planning of a particular event that the group may benefit from me stepping back,
because of my own social location, the organizer told me “the fact that you’re not a Muslim,
that’s not an issue right now, with your experience.” While it is true that my own social location,
and the social distance between my participants and myself, may have impacted the results, this
would most likely be true of any researcher attempting this project, because it compares multiple,
differently-located groups. Like other scholars of men’s engagements in anti-sexist work, I found
my respondents quite eager to share their ideas and experiences, because this work is important
to them and they rarely get a chance to discuss it (Coulter, 2003). I have little reason to believe,
therefore, that they would withhold or distort information.
Terminology
There is some debate in the literature over what to call men who do this work. Some
argue that men can be feminist, others argue that they cannot, and yet others that they can be
allies but should call themselves “pro-feminists”; there’s even debate over whether the term pro-
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feminist should be hyphenated or not (Digby 1998; Porter 1992; Schact & Ewing 1998). Some
see the hypen in “pro-feminist” as backing a step away from feminist commitments and has been
argued against as letting men off the hook, or offensively keeping them out; others argue that this
is the case whenever pro is used at all. Some feminist women consider women’s lived experience
necessary for the label feminist to apply, but many third-wave feminists argue that this falsely
assumes that all women share a unitary set of experiences that allow them access to feminist
knowledge, thus erasing the experiences of marginalized women and transgendered communities
(Digby 1998; Tarrant 2008, 2009). To them, calling men by a special term other than feminist
amounts to gender essentialism and thus “falls into a trap set up by patriarchy itself” (Schacht &
Ewing 1998, p. 168). Terms like womens’ rights movement and women’s issues seem to imply
that men would not benefit from gender equality and can only enter into these issues through the
experiences of women, a stance that would be particularly troubling to the gay and queer men of
Sweet Tea (as seen in Chapter 2). At this juncture, no term is unproblematic or universally
accepted, leaving scholars to make and defend their own decisions about terminology.
In this dissertation, following the emphases in both qualitative and feminist research on
understanding and respecting research subject’s own perspectives, I refer to the people I studied
in ways that reflect the ways they spoke of themselves. The men I interviewed variously refereed
to themselves as feminist, pro-feminist, womanist
7
, or allied with feminism or womanism; some
of them did not self-identify as feminist or specifically rejected feminist identification, for
various complex reasons. It is worth noting that women, even those who are involved in feminist
7 Womanist, a term coined by Alice Walker in her 1979 short story “Coming Apart,” is
used to direct attention to the experiences of women of color, and particularly Black women
(Phillips 2006). Its necessity stems from the second-wave feminist tendency to focus on the
experiences of middle-class white women and ignore or erase women of color. Womanist
identification, therefore, tends to mark someone as particularly involved and informed in
feminist theory, and especially Black feminism.
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activism, have similarly complex identifications or dis-identifications with the term (Ang 2003;
Buschman & Lenart 1996; Zucker 2004). As one example, when I asked Mark (32, Black, Sweet
Tea member) whether he identifies as a feminist, he said:
I don't know. Maybe not, I don't know, it's hard to say. I feel like feminist is a privileged
term, too, quite honestly, and I'm a Black man who grew up in the South. . . . it's a loaded
term that comes with all this history that I don't have. I wasn't a white wealthy woman in
the sixties, just to be quite frank, so I can't necessarily say - I guess I could say, but I just
never have. I've never said that I'm a feminist because I don't look like what I know as a
feminist.
At the same time, he did clearly state that he understood his world and his life experiences
through “feminist theory, feminist thought.” Some of the men, therefore, I call feminists, while
others I call anti-sexist activists or anti-gender-violence activists.
When I discuss the groups or their activities, I try to be as specific as possible: if an event
was specifically about domestic violence I use “anti-violence,” if it was about sexism more
broadly I call it “anti-sexist.” I use gender justice or gender justice projects as the broadest
category, encompassing anti-violence and anti-sexist, but also at times addressing other feminist
concerns like media representation, public representation, and workplace inequalities. Using
gender justice, similar to the term gender-based violence that is increasingly common in
development and human rights work, also recognizes that gender is a major factor in men’s
violence towards other men (Kaufman 1987; Messner 2002). The term gender justice, then, also
includes projects attempting to dismantle homophobia and effeminaphobia, thus linking
sexuality-based oppression with gender-based oppression. This linking of sexual and gendered
oppressions reflects the experiences and understandings of Sweet Tea members, but MMADV
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members did not associate them in this way; using gender justice to refer to both groups, then, is
my own choice as scholar and expresses both my decision to use the term as a broad umbrella,
and my own understanding of both of these groups as linked in some way.
I use two other terms in this dissertation that require some explanation. The first is
disjointed social location, an extension of Harry Brod’s term “conjoint identities,” which he uses
to reference two identities experienced simultaneously (1988, p. 6). Disjointed social locations,
then, are combinations of identities, some of which are privileged while others are marginalized
or oppressed.
8
A straight white woman, for example, might benefit from social systems that give
her advantages over lesbians and people of color, but at the same time experience
marginalization or violence because of her gender. The men featured in this dissertation have
access to male privilege, but were also marginalized because of their race, sexuality, and/or
religion. Studies of these social locations have the potential to illuminate new facets of how
structured inequalities function (Coston & Kimmel 2013; Wingfield 2013).
As I use it, a disjointed social location does not necessarily mean that individuals feel a
sense of discord within themselves, nor does it require that the individuals have an awareness of
their experiences as shaped by structural oppression or privilege. Some of my participants were
very aware of male privilege, but many were not. Most were aware of some ways that racism,
homophobia, or religious intolerance negatively affected them, which is unsurprising given that
most people are more consciously aware of the ways they may suffer from unfair circumstances
than the ways inequality is to their benefit. As I wrote above, my own experiences receiving
8 Wingfield’s (2013) concept of “partial tokenization,” which she uses to describe Black
men experiencing both privilege and marginalization in professional workplaces, similarly
focuses on the ways that certain combinations of identities produce contrasting experiences of
structured inequality. While partial tokenization is specific to the effects of being in group or
organization where one is in the extreme minority along one axis of difference, though,
disjointed social location refers more broadly to all life experiences where these contrasting
effects are felt, and to the ways they shape individuals.
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multiple forms of privilege gave me few opportunities to see the effects of structural inequality in
my life, although I was (and still am) consistently benefitting from those structures.
By this definition, nearly every individual’s social location is disjointed in some way,
especially if sufficient axes of inequality (ageism, ableism, sizeism, looksism) are included.
Everyone experiences structured oppression along some axes of difference at some points in their
lives, and simultaneously experiences privilege along other axes (Collins 1990). I do not believe
this makes the term so broad as to be useless; instead, I use it only in places where there is a
marked tension between privilege and marginalization, and use it specifically to emphasize the
simultaneity of these conflicting forces.
The other term I use is unmarked, in reference to “unmarked men's groups;” these are the
men’s anti-sexist groups that see themselves as directed towards men as a unitary category, and
make no reference to an identity other than gender. They are the ones already represented in the
literature, which tend to be majority-white and presume heterosexuality, Christianity, cisgender
identity, etc. among both their members and their audiences. I borrow this use of the word
unmarked from Salzinger (2004), whose studies of globalizing industries found that those
factories that employed primarily women were overly gender-marked as feminine labor, but that
the one with 50 percent male employees was rarely ever marked as gendered at all: “masculinity
is taken for granted, and hence not spoken, whereas femininity is the always-articulated
modification of that assumed norm” (p. 14). A study of sexual violence in India similarly finds
that masculinity is “unmarked precisely as a factor of its privilege” (Puri 2006). While
marginalized or non-normative identities constantly are marked to emphasize their otherness
(e.g., woman doctor, gay hairdresser, or Black professor), privileged identities are assumed and
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unspoken.
9
Like these privileged identities, unmarked men’s groups clearly also have intersecting
racial, sexual, religion identities, etc., but tend to see these identities as outside the scope of what
the group does
10
; referencing them as unmarked brings those other identities back into the
conversation.
Some other words may be unfamiliar to readers because they are specific to Islam,
borrowed from Arabic, or used as slang in queer communities. These words are important
because of the specific meaning they carry within the communities at particular social locations.
They are defined in Appendix G, and italicized the first time they appear in the text.
Organization of the Dissertation
This chapter has discussed the overarching themes and purpose of the dissertation as well
as it’s place in the literature on men’s engagements in feminist activism. It laid out the research
questions and methods, discussed important terminology, and began introducing the two groups
examined. It also included some analysis of why these groups formed in Atlanta, and how the
history, demographics, and geography of Atlanta enabled the formation of such intersectionally
organized men’s groups.
9 Michael Kimmel tells a useful story about recognizing his own unmarked identities
while sitting in on a feminist consciousness-raising group. The women were debating ideas of
sisterhood and feminist solidarity, and an African American woman asked a white woman who
she sees when she looks in a mirror. When the white woman responded that she sees a woman,
her questioner reposted “Exactly. I see a Black woman.” By drawing out this difference, the
Black woman was pointing out not only that the white woman did not share her experiences of
racialized oppression, but also that she received unquestioned white privilege, including the
privilege of never having to consider or examine her racial positioning in society. Kimmel,
sitting quietly to the side, realized that when he had been looking in the mirror, he had thought he
was just seeing a person.
10 Not all unmarked men’s groups are oblivious to their other intersecting identities, and I
do not intend by this statement to disparage the work they do around gender. Men Stopping
Violence is admirably aware of the importance of race and class (Douglas et al. 2008), as are
some other nation wide groups.
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Chapter 2, Beginnings, describes the formation of both groups, the impact of Men
Stopping Violence on each, and the pathways that led the members of each to become involved.
The stories of group formation shed light on how the members related to the issues and to
women in their communities. Understanding the reasons each group formed also helps us
understand the ways that unmarked men’s groups fail to attend to the concerns of marginalized
communities. A short discussion of the relationship between Men Stopping Violence and the two
research groups adds to the discussion of the shortcomings of unmarked men’s groups, while
also highlighting the centrality of such groups in the emergence of their intersectionally
organized counterparts. My discussion of the men’s pathways to involvement highlights the
differences between these men’s experiences and those represented in the literature, showing
how intersectional awareness is necessary in both grassroots efforts to engage diverse men and
scholarship about men’s engagements.
Chapter 3 describes the organizational routines of the two groups, including the activities
and public events they organized, the beliefs and discourse that made up their group-level culture
and undergirded their work, and the benefits that members believed they gained from being
involved. Contrasting the two groups with each other and with the unmarked men’s groups in the
literature shows how social location shapes the real and perceived possibilities for group activity,
and sheds light on some of the deeper cognitive structures that provide a framework for group
organizing. The data analyzed in this chapter not only come from the middle of each group’s
lifespan, they also illuminate themes that are central to the groups’ identity: accordingly, the
chapter is called Middles.
The final empirical chapter, Endings, deals with the struggles each group faced and their
eventual dissolution. Both MMADV and Sweet Tea ceased meeting and producing events during
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my time in the field, and in this chapter I argue that each group’s specific disjointed social
location played a major part in its cessation. I discuss how social location shapes the struggles
each group faced, through both factors within their own communities and the ways those
communities are perceived and treated by external agents. I illustrate each group’s intersectional
organizing style, the way the group navigated their social location in their organizational work,
and draw links between each group’s organizing style and its collapse.
Chapter 5 concludes the dissertation by summarizing the previous chapters, outlining the
theoretical and practical contributions of the research, noting limitations, and suggesting avenues
for future research.
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CHAPTER TWO
BEGINNINGS: GROUP FORMATION AND INDIVIDUAL PATHWAYS TO ENGAGEMENT
When I first met Sayeed, the coordinator of Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence, at a
conference for men’s gender equality groups, he handed me a copy of a book about responding
to domestic violence in Muslim communities and gave me his phone number. When I called him
a few months later, he excitedly told me about all the work he was doing with MMADV and
invited me to come work with the group. When I arrived in Atlanta, however, I had trouble
getting in touch with him. I wasn’t until I checked the group’s facebook page that I learned that
he was no longer involved with the group, which was now run by a man named Abdullah.
Abdullah gave me his number, and when I called him he was as ebullient about the
group’s work as Sayeed had been. He asked how I knew Sayeed, and whether I was “by any
chance” a Muslim. I told him about my research, and he invited me to be a part of upcoming
group meetings in preparation for an event being planned for February. It is their annual Purple
Hijab Day, a domestic violence awareness and education event, and they’re currently looking for
a local mosque to host it and trying to spread the word about it already. He also invited me to
join him for a training with the Georgia Commission Against Domestic Violence in November,
specifically for religious leaders and communities. MMADV co-sponsored it, but Abdullah
didn’t seem to know a lot about the event details. He said he would put me in touch with the
GCADV contact person. He also promised to connect me with the head of Baitul Salaam, an
organization that focuses on helping Muslim women through domestic violence. Abdullah called
them MMADV’s “mother organization,” saying “they’re our creator, so to speak.”
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
I asked him to tell me more about his group and how it works. He said that MMADV
assists Muslim women who are victims of domestic violence, offering assistance, counseling,
and “escort services for Muslim women who need to go to court. . . we offer a protective escort.
If women want to get away, we offer help.” He tells me about the facebook page, where he tries
to post daily, because “like any other community, we’re battling with this.” The group struggled
with reaching Atlanta’s large immigrant Muslim community, where he said family violence “is
the norm in some cases.” He then went on a tangent about hijab and his own occasional work as
a motivational speaker, where he tried to “incorporate domestic violence into every talk.”
Abdullah’s speech was relaxed and social, but not accented; there was no Southern drawl,
but there is a comfortable, friendly, homey sense about him. His sentences were occasionally
peppered with “Insha’ Allah,” which he immediately translated for me as “God willing;” at one
point he even called me “achi,” brother. We chatted for a while about his children and his
unpredictable life as a trucker, and when I offered to make myself available to him on his
schedule and at his convenience, he told me “I’m going to start callin’ you plastic, ‘cause you can
bend and twist any which way. You like Reed Richards, from the Fantastic Four!” We ended the
conversation with a commitment to talk again soon about the logistics of me meeting the other
group members and beginning my research in earnest.
A week later Abdullah called to tell me about a group meeting on October 19th, a month
away, at a local Middle Eastern restaurant, and to remind me about the GCADV event a month
later. MMADV’s plans often fall through, though, and I didn’t end up meeting Abdullah or any
of the other members in person until after the new year.
***
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Harry was the first member of Sweet Tea to respond to my initial online contact, and
before arriving in Atlanta in July of 2011, I spoke with him on the phone. He was very gracious
and kind, speaking in soft, slow, gentle tones with only a trace of Southern accent but a
abundance of the mellowness that is associated with the South. I was trying to get a sense of
whether the group would be a good fit for my research, and by the end of the call I decided it
would. Harry was excited to tell me about an event the group was planning to host in November;
he explained that they are a “project-based group” that meets “intermittently”, depending on
what is going on. The event being planned would mean more meetings, and he offered to include
me in the meetings and the event itself. He also told me about his work with the Atlanta Queer
Literary Festival and suggested I should get involved with the Atlanta Radical Faeries, calling
them young and exciting. I could not help wondering if he was trying to set me up with someone
in that group, or just being welcoming and hospitable in a way that seemed disproportionate to
me. I had messaged him out of the blue with a relatively formal research request, and he was
already offering to help me with anything I might need in moving to Atlanta and introducing me
to friends there!
When I arrived in Atlanta, Harry invited me to meet him at his office to talk about the
group’s recent activities. After getting lost on Atlanta’s winding roads, I arrived at the large red
brick building a bit flustered, but Harry welcomed me understandingly and invited me to sit on a
large plush couch. He was a doughy older white man with thinning white hair, gentle eyes, and a
close-trimmed beard; he gave me the impression of a sweet older uncle who takes care of
everyone’s pets when they go on vacation. I asked him about Sweet Tea, and he told me that the
group was at a tenuous place, organizationally, and that he was not sure it would recover. Having
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just moved across the country to work with this group, I was not happy about this bit of
foreshadowing. I tried to hide my upset by asking him to for more information about the group
and his involvement.
Harry had joined the group when asked by Ita, a charismatic young Black queer man that
he met through the literary festival, because he had been “very involved in the profeminist men’s
movement for about a decade.” He had been heavily involved with the National Organization for
Men Against Sexism, attending national conferences and editing the poetry section of their
magazine, but hadn’t been formally engaged in a while. As the only white member and the only
one “with any age to speak of,” he had tried to graciously withdraw from Sweet Tea a few times,
but had been asked to stay on; awareness of his difference led him to contribute very carefully
and spend most of his time listening. This was my first hint that the group was very aware and
intentional about within-group difference, and intersectional identity more generally.
Harry could not remember the “long, Indian-sounding name” when he told me that Sweet
Tea used to meet few times a month, usually over dinner at someone’s home, to craft a
collaborative document modeled on the Combahee River Collective Statement. He said that
during the writing of the Sweet Tea Proclamation, there were about five core members and three
or four others who would join when they could; as a collective, they had no formal organization
or membership structure. Since then, however, Ita and another core member left Atlanta for work
and one member started a graduate program in women’s and gender studies that now kept him
very busy. Another member was overwhelmingly involved in the movement to stop the
execution of Troy Davis, a Black man convicted of killing a police officer; the conviction was
considered questionable by many, with no material evidence and a number of witnesses
apparently changing or recanting their testimony later, but no appeal or clemency was granted
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despite public protests. Sweet Tea’s momentum, Harry told me, is waning. Harry said he wasn’t
sure if the November event would happen or what it would look like, but he was not ready to put
Sweet Tea to rest. He promised to make another attempt that week to get the members together to
organize the event. Then he asked me if there is anything I needed help with while I was settling
in and making a home in Atlanta before showing me to the door.
***
This chapter begins with the story of how MMADV and Sweet Tea were formed,
including a discussion of the involvement of Men Stopping Violence (MSV) in the creation of
each group. The particular ways the groups formed tells us about the relationships of their
members to issues of gender inequality, each other, and their communities. An understanding of
MSV’s place in the process helps us see how unmarked groups are implicated in the existence
and work of activist groups that are specifically intersectional.
The latter half of the chapter focuses on the pathways that individual members took in
becoming involved in anti-sexist work, to contribute to conversations about engaging more men,
and more diverse men, in anti-sexist activism. It discusses the ways that the entry pathways of
marginalized men conform to existing models of men’s anti-violence engagement, but also
highlights the differences between these men’s experiences and those represented in the
literature. Some of these differences require a revision of the existing models of men’s
engagements, while others add nuance or useful detail.
Many important themes that arise later in the chapter are highlighted in the “first contact”
vignettes above, such as the close relationship between MMADV and Baitul Salaam, the way
that Southern culture is taken up by both groups, and Sweet Tea members’ long history of gender
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justice awareness and involvement. Some of these themes continue into later chapters as well,
such as the sense that MMADV is “helping” women in an issue that is not their own, whereas
Sweet Tea is aware of and intentionally allied with feminism and many other social justice
causes (discussed further in Chapter 3). The tenuousness that is apparent at the end of both
vignettes, with MMADV’s meeting getting cancelled and Sweet Tea struggling to maintain
coherence, also presages the groups’ struggles (see Chapter 4).
Group Formation
“I Really Appreciate Having the Road Smoothed Out”: The Formation of Muslim Men
Against Domestic Violence
Umm Kulthum, a stately and portly Black woman who chooses her words carefully, has
been the coordinator of the Baitul Salaam network since it formed in the late 1990s. Baitul
Salaam is a nonprofit Muslim community organization that works on issues surrounding
domestic abuse, from shelter housing for survivors and referral services for medical and legal
services to employment assistance and toy drives for Muslim holidays. Umm Kulthum wears a
long black abaya and a head-scarf that covers her hair, but not her face, when we meet for an
interview at a McDonalds near her home. Because Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence is
“an initiative of the Baitul Salaam network,” and because the coordinator is fairly new and
cannot tell me much about the formation of the group, I asked her to speak with me about this
and related issues.
Early in her organizing efforts, Umm Kulthum had difficulty finding a positive reception
for her work around domestic violence in the Muslim community. “From 1997-2000,” she told
me, “there were times I felt, in our community, I couldn't say or do anything right.” Some of the
trouble was “just be[ing] ignored, for many years. Not unlike other communities, it's [seen as] a
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woman whining.” Being disregarded or not taken seriously is detrimental enough for an
organization that must emphasize awareness and education, but there was also substantial
backlash from some community members: “There was a time we could not even hand out fliers
in communities, that would cause a problem.” This backlash hurt her emotionally, made her
work difficult more difficult, and impinged on her personal life, because it “was not unusual for
many years for my husband to receive numerous complaints about what I was doing.”
Umm Kulthum felt that she was not being listened to within her community largely
because of her gender, and told me so in no uncertain terms. She used the metaphor of traditional
family life, explaining that “Mom can say something, it can be right, the children know it's right,
but because it's Mom saying it, they're probably more willing to try Mom. Then if Dad comes in
and says the same thing, ‘this is what we're doing, this is it,’ the children get quiet and fall in line.
It's the same thing.” Recognizing that she was not being listened to specifically because of her
gender, she decided to find a group to play “father” to Baitul Salaam's “mother.” So, although “a
handful of men” had been doing support work in the background of Baitul Salaam's efforts since
it's inception, the Baitul Salaam network made the decision to recruit and train men to become
public voices within the Muslim community. Without this decision and substantial, continuous
follow-up and support over the years, MMADV would not exist.
Umm Kulthum had met Halim, who works for Men Stopping Violence, long before
forming MMADV. He told her “just have your people come through and do our internship and
see what works for you,” so she planned to send MMADV members to be trained at MSV and to
emulate their programs. Beginning with a core group of her husbands friends and other long-
standing male supporters and branching out from there, MMADV began in 2008, though in the
beginning “the organization was on paper only, with the core group of men still doing what they
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did, on a very informal basis.” Because no one could be found to take a leadership role, Umm
Kulthum still had to do all of the logistical and organizational labor for the group until 2009.
That was when she recruited Sayeed, after hearing about him from some volunteers. He was the
first official facilitator of MMADV, went through the MSV training program, and was “the one
who really helped us organize,” according to Umm Kulthum.
Recruiting men to support and assist her reduced backlash and eased her work, because
“the fact that there's this male presence, it completely wipes out [the idea] that this is an all-
women's thing, this is possibly some women trying to bring something anti-Islamic into Islam. It
helps.” In Umm Kulthum's view, MMADV's existence has helped turn the tide, such that now
backlash is rare and the people who used to criticize her for being outspoken about this issue,
“some of those same people now have made almost a [complete] turn. . . MMADV can ask them
to do anything and they will hop and do it, where for fifteen years I've asked for the same thing
and they're not going to do it, or they didn't perceive the urgency to.” While some resentment is
understandably evident when she says that people will assist MMADV when “for fifteen years
I've asked the same thing,” Umm Kulthum clearly believes the group is valuable, and
furthermore, that it makes her own work easier (“the road smoothed out ahead of me”). Making
what Kandiyoti (1988) calls a “patriarchal bargain,” she does more work for less recognition
while MMADV members take center stage, but her efforts against violence make more progress
overall and she experiences less backlash for her involvement. While both Baitul Salaam and
MMADV sometimes still struggle to be heard and taken seriously, no one could remember an
incident of active backlash in years, and many people “are easier, in our community, to approach
now and talk with, since there are some men who are actually identified as working with us. . .
and I really appreciate having the road smoothed out ahead of me sometimes.”
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When I spoke to Sayeed about his time as the facilitator of MMADV, he spoke proudly
and excitedly about the work he did with the group. He remembers his first meeting with the
group as small—“there were only four people there,” two men, two women—“and half an hour
later I'm the new coordinator for MMADV .” Though there were some tensions and
disagreements, Sayeed saw himself as taking on and furthering Umm Kulthum's project “to get
men in the Muslim community involved in the conversation, to talk about domestic violence, to
not be afraid to confront other men.” During his tenure as facilitator, the group became more
active and organized, but not substantially larger or more formal:
There wasn't like a formal membership, people didn't have to pay money, if you came to
the meeting, you were a member, that's it. I had these big excel sheets with people's
names on them, imams and different people who were interested, some men, a few
women as well, but it wasn't a lot of people. I had a Facebook group for a while, that's
basically what it was. . . . like any organization, oftentimes if you're very passionate about
it, sometimes it's an organization of one. . . . I had to organize a lot of the events and I had
to take on that responsibility.
Under MMADV's auspices and in the group's name, Sayeed gave “probably. . . 20 or 30 talks
across the United States,” at masjid, mosques, and universities. He keeps the fliers from many of
these talks, and gave me copies of a few of them. They describe the presentation as confirming
the existence of domestic violence in Muslim communities, arguing for men's “important role” in
prevention, interpreting the Qur'an and Sunnah's messages about domestic violence, and
proposing “community solutions.” While coordinating MMADV, Sayeed went through MSV's
internship, using MMADV as his community project, and also did some work towards a
Doctorate in criminology with a certificate in domestic violence prevention.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
This dedication also led to busyness, however, and “because of my schedule, because I
was working and in graduate school and all this stuff, it became more of, we would have events
every few months.” When I spoke to him over the phone in September of 2011, Sayeed told me
that “in unceremonious fashion, I was removed from the coordinator” position. I asked him for
the details during an interview, and the story from his perspective is that
I got an e-mail from a brother I'd met before, and he signed his e-mail director of
MMADV—or, coordinator—so I immediately called Sister Umm Kulthum, I was like
'whats going on?' and she's like 'you're getting married and you're really busy, so I got
another man to do what you're doing.' And I felt so cheated. . . so, that was my exit from
MMADV.
While this illustrates some of the problems MMADV faces in terms of organizational efficacy,
individual busyness, and lack of material and social resources, it also shows the central role that
Umm Kulthum still plays, despite no longer officially leading the group.
11
When she decided the
coordinator was insufficiently dedicated or the group was heading in a direction she did not agree
with, she was able to simply replace him without his knowledge.
The man who replaced Sayeed was Abdullah, the coordinator during most of my time in
Atlanta. During his first phone meeting as coordinator, he asked us all to do introductions, and
told us “I have no previous domestic violence work, other than working with MMADV. Umm
Kulthum asked me to be a part and be the organizer of the organization.” Of his predecessor, he
said that “due to the pressures of Grad school, he wasn't able to dedicate his time as he wanted
11 After completing my time in Atlanta, I called Abdullah just to see how things with the
group were going, and he said he had become too busy and resigned leadership of the group and
did not know anything about their current activities. He suggested I get in touch with Umm
Kulthum, who then told me the name of the new coordinator and promised to get me in touch
with him. This again illustrates the trouble the group has with keeping a busy membership
engaged and committed, and confirms the central role Umm Kulthum still plays in the group.
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to.” It is entirely possible that he did not even know that Sayeed had not left the position
voluntarily.
MMADV was formed because a Muslim women’s group needed help convincing the men
in the Muslim community to pay attention to and help with addressing gender violence. Sister
Umm Kulthum of the Baitul Salaam network originally gathered the group together, and while it
became more effective, organized, and recognized under the leadership of Sayeed, she maintains
substantial control over the group’s direction. They received formative training from MSV, but
found the group to be too egalitarian and not Muslim enough. One of their early and ongoing
challenges was their lack of organizational knowledge and resources, in large part because the
class standing of the members meant that few of them had leadership experience or could
dedicate the necessary time.
“I Remember There Was This Spark”: The Formation of Sweet Tea
Sweet Tea formed in the Spring of 2008 because queer and gay men wanted a space to
discuss the problems of sexism within their community in a way that would honor and directly
address their specific community concerns. Ita, a young Black queer college student who was
interning at MSV , found the discourse there to be “very heterosexual-centric,” and felt that it did
not allow him to critique the ways sexism manifested in his life as a Black queer man, or in
Black queer communities more generally. For the required internship project, Ita wanted to do
more to analyze the particular ways that he saw “cisgendered queer men embodying sexism” and
reinforcing gender inequality. He reached out to Eddie, a gay Black student “who was really well
known in the community and also a really recognizable Black feminist in the community,” and
together they brainstormed about what the group might look like, what it could do, and who
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should be invited to form it. Ita recalls that his idea of what he wanted Sweet Tea to look like
was heavily influenced by what he knew “about women's consciousness-raising circles in the
early days of feminism. . . . We got together, we talked about issues, we addressed those issues,
supported each other—I think that's one way in which I really see [women’s influence] reflected,
[in the] models of organizing of women of color particularly.” With this in mind, they sent out
invitations to an initial meeting at Ita’s home. Most of the members remember Ita as the person
who specifically invited them, though a few mention Eddie as important in chartering the group.
The first meeting was framed as a roundtable, with no specific outcome goals and no
agenda beyond getting to know each other, beginning a conversation about sexism in gay men’s
communities, and seeing what would come of it; as Ita said, “initially we weren't sure what we
wanted to do.” When they first arrived, everyone knew Ita, and while some people knew one or
two other people and may’ve recognized others from social and activist circles, they “all knew
[Ita] better than we knew each other, early on,” according to Mark. The way Mark described that
first meeting, the members found a shared sense of purpose in collective experience, and it felt
“amazing! It started as this really exciting, beautiful—I remember the first meeting lasted
probably five, six hours. . . it just felt so good. I remember there was this spark, this energy.”
Chris was similarly effusive his excitement at first meeting: “it was the first discussion, it was
the honesty and the openness and the commitment. Those men there were just real authentic. . . .
People at times disagreeing, or adding different shadings to the arguments—and I mean
argument like, you know, a logical argument—but no shade, and no bruised ego!” By the end of
this energetic and extended meeting, the members had become a group and decided the group’s
project would be to write a proclamation (see Appendix H).
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The name of the group was the result of considerable discussion and thought. The full
moniker chosen was “Sweet Tea: A Southern Queer Men’s Collective,” and each word was
carefully selected to represent an important facet of the group. It is interesting that, in a group as
intersectionally aware as Sweet Tea, and one where almost all of the men were Black, race was
not marked in the group name in any way. Lamont explained to me that “we were looking just at
trying to hold queer men's communities accountable for various privileges or for perpetuating
sexism, so not necessarily Black queer men's community or the Latino queer men's community,
but queer men's communities in general. We never really talked about that [race] in the process
of naming.”
“Sweet Tea” is a reference to the traditional Southern drink, but moreover to E. Patrick
Johnson’s book “Sweet Tea: Black Gay Men of the South - An Oral History”
12
and the
monologue performances he does from the same source material (Johnson, 2008). Johnson, a
performance studies scholar, collected narratives from seventy-two Black, Gay-identified
Southerners and then edited and organized them into themes such as childhood, coming out, and
church life. In doing so, he manages to both bring these people’s voices and lives to light in a
genuine and personal way, and also speak to the shared experiences and larger structures that
effect their lives, such as the impact of the Black church, racial segregation, and Southern
cultural norms about propriety and communication.
The “Southern” in the name was a tricky idea for the members to describe. During my
first few months in Atlanta, I asked everyone I spoke to—research participants or not—to get a
sense of what Southernness meant to them and how to explain it. The effort was mostly fruitless.
Apparently Southernness, to Southerners, is to some extent an indescribable essence that you
12 At least one member of Sweet Tea actually was interviewed for and appeared in
Johnson’s book, so their participation in his interviews may have influenced their choice of
names as well.
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cannot define, you just know. It was important to Sweet Tea members like Jeune, however, to
state that they were “connected to movements that happened in the South. And I think that when
we think of, for example, queer movements, they're immediately situated in New York, or the
Northeast, or they're situated on the West coast, mainly San Francisco. And so we wanted to
maintain our connection to the South.” Ita agreed, but took this idea one step further to link the
region to both the material and theoretical ways that the group functioned:
I think that was a big part of our identity, was how we saw ourselves in the world. . . a
part of our work with each other was building community with each other in a very
Southern way, so we did potlucks, we did dinners, that was integral to our identity. But
also I think it was important to name ourselves as Southern because often the South is
dismissed from those conversations, a lot of activism tends to be very north-focused, or
out west, etc. and you don't see the south as necessarily a place where that kind of
knowledge-production is happening. . . . I think the Southernness means it's actually
grounded in everyday-ness, everyday experience. It's not grounded in some kind of lofty
intellectualism, but a connectedness in terms of community, being supportive of each
other, being there for each other, building with each other in an emotional, social way.
By including “Southern” in the name, the members point to a history of Southern social
movements that are the groups progenitors and make a point that queer life and queer activism
does not only occur in the gay centers of New York and California. They also indicate regional
sensibility about politeness and hospitality, coded speech and subtle social cues, and making the
most of limited resources by maintaining strong family and community ties. Lastly, they aim to
maintain a groundedness, working with ideas and issues that occur in their everyday lives and the
lives of their friends and community. They proclaim more of an interest in issues like gay men
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groping women in nightclubs, talking over women in their groups, shaming or rejecting
effeminacy in each other with phrases like “No Fats No Femmes” and “Straight Acting, Straight
Appearing Only,” and using language that degrades women, as opposed to theorizing about
representation and subjectification, liminality or temporality, affect, memory, or any of the other
concepts central to how “queer” is understood in academia.
Queer is a contested term, sometimes used as an umbrella term for non-normative gender
and sexual identities (similar to but broader than LGBT), sometimes as a radical anti-normative
or anti-categorical politics, and sometimes (especially in academia) as a way of theorizing and
interrogating that resists dominant or oppressive ways of thinking. It is a difficult identity to
organize around, because its anti-categorical stance means a queer group should hypothetically
include anyone, but in practice “queer” still becomes a category because an activist group must
be bounded in order to be identifiable. In their Proclamation, Sweet Tea address this definition
problem by including a footnote saying that “Queer is a complex term, identity, and
consciousness that each of us defines differently. In this document it serves as an umbrella term
for gay, bisexual, queer gendered, same gender loving, faggot, faerie, etc.” For the individual
members, Harry told me, “how we identified ourselves was a long topic of conversation. Some
guys identified themselves as bi, and some as gay, and finally we decided queer was a good
inclusive term.” This focus on inclusivity is evident throughout the group’s work. At least some
members of the group also considered queer to be a statement of the group’s political stance,
“because you have men challenging men on patriarchy. To me that's still queer, it's a queer
politic” (Mark). While the anti-categorical nature of queer politics makes it impossible to
objectively define whether a particular stance is or is not queer, it is clear that for Sweet Tea,
“queer” was a reference to both their sexual identity and their political views.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
When I asked how being “men” was important to the group, I received a wide variety of
answers, but all revolving around the theme of men’s responsibilities to ending the sexist
oppression from which they benefit. When I asked Ita why it was important to create an all-male
group, he told me it was “because we were investigating our own privilege. . . . There's
something really important about us as queer men being able to be in a space alone and being
able to address our privilege. . . . There’s a commonality and nourishment [we] can give each
other, and also a challenge [we] can give each other.” Ita immediately brought sexuality back
into the conversation, showing how intersectionality is implicated in the name and purpose of the
group. Deshawn did not reference sexuality, but, like Ita, linked being an all-male group to an
anti-oppression political praxis:
It's not that women aren't invited, it's more so that this is our job as feminists. . . as men
who profess to fight against patriarchy and oppression, it's our job to educate other men
about how we can do that. . . . If you call yourself an ally and it's still incumbent upon
women to explain to every man how they're sexist, than you're not an ally, you're just a
stand-by.
DeShawn also mentions the important point that Sweet Tea was not a “men’s collective” in a
way that excluded women. In fact, there was a woman present at some of the Queer Run Amok
planning meetings I attended, and Dwayne told me they “quite often would have meetings or
socials that were open to both men and women and where we had conversations across gender
lines.” This clear and unambiguous identification as men is especially interesting given that two
members gave their gender identifications, on demographic questionnaires, as “queer” and
“queer man” (and at least two others occasionally perform contextual non-normatively-
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masculine gender presentations).
13
It seems that the use of “men” in the name was not so much a
personal gender-identification that was individually important to the members—we want people
to know that we are real men, despite being queer and despite working to end sexism—but was
another political statement about men as a group, men as a category with a particular, unfairly
privileged location in a sexist social structure.
Finally, calling the group a collective was, if perhaps somewhat wishful and often fraught
with difficulty, a statement of commitment to a flat organizational structure, where decisions are
made cooperatively and no one has more power than others. While there were no official
positions, or perhaps because there was no formal leadership structure, the group struggled with
working efficiently, keeping momentum, and organizing the quotidian logistics of meetings and
minutes. Mark told me the group struggled with this from the beginning:
Who takes lead in a collective, who holds us together? I mean, really, a collective means
all of us should be holding us together, and that's a struggle. . . early on [Ita] held a lot of
it, because he called us together. He was the assumed leadership, [so] he had to hold us
together, and I think that was hard on him. It was a lot of work to pull people together. . . .
We're all busy people, involved in stuff and travel and work and all over the place, so yea,
it was a struggle to keep us together, get us back together.
This struggle became more significant when Ita left Atlanta, leaving an organizational vacuum
that nearly led to the group’s dissolution. After a haitus of nearly a year, Harry stepped in and
took on more of the logistical work of contacting members, finding times and places to meet,
etc., but eventually he tired of being the point person and, in a phone conversation about
planning the next meeting, told me “I’m able to summon forth energy, I can generally mobilize a
13 I use the term “men” to describe all the members of Sweet tea, despite some self-
identifying their gender as “queer” on the demographic questionnaires, because they use the term
in their group moniker. Some of their other materials also use the phrase “the men of Sweet Tea.”
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few people, but. . . unless there was just this burst of leadership energy that came from
somewhere, I'm not sure that there's anywhere to go with this, at least right now. I could push it,
but I would feel like I'd push it, and I'd have to push it again.” While the collective structure
helped the group to do a lot of the interpersonal and community-building work and may have
created a more complete and critical final product for the Sweet Tea Proclamation, it also made it
difficult to remain focused and cohesive (a problem discussed further in Chapter 4).
“MSV Is Not For Everyone”: The Involvement of Men Stopping Violence in Group
Formation
Both MMADV and Sweet Tea received early training from MSV. Though this was
discussed in each group’s formation story above, an analysis that focuses specifically on the
ways MSV shaped these formation stories provides a different perspective. Centering the
unmarked MSV , rather than either intersectionally-organized group, contributes to scholarly
understandings of how unmarked groups influence the formation of other groups and how some
men experience marginalization in unmarked groups.
Formed in the early 1980s as a batterer intervention program in Decatur GA, a nearby
suburb within the Atlanta metro area, MSV is a nationally known men’s anti-gender-violence
group that now focuses on a community accountability model of violence prevention (Douglas,
Nurridan, & Perry 2009). Though they do monthly one-shot programs for court-mandated
audiences and a “Because We Have Daughters” educational series, their central program is a 24
week educational program during which an all-male group investigates their own masculine
socialization and how they use violent or aggressive behavior in their relationships with women.
Participants include interns, self-referring men who may be struggling with their own violent
behaviors or may simply be interested in learning more about anti-violence work, and men
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referred by the legal system as partial or total fulfillment of their sentence for a gender-violence-
related criminal charge. Once a week they have a group meeting that is specifically for African-
American men (Douglas, Nurridan, & Perry 2009; Williams 1995).
I interviewed four members of MSV’s past or present staff, who generally believe they
have developed “a high degree of competency when we work with African American men,”
because “several of us on staff are African-American, we live in those communities, we've
engaged for a long time.” At one point in it’s history there was a proposal to create a similarly
focused project to work with gay men, but “the conclusion was, we're not equipped.” The staff
member who told me about this proposal initially presented it as a simple pragmatic issue of
resources and organizational strengths, but when I asked for more detail about the decision-
making process, he acknowledged that “the analysis was not an intersectional one. . . . I don't
think the knowledge was really there.” Though they are working on it, MSV still struggles with
more intersectional identities—one staff member told me that intersectional work is “really
complex. . . it gets really maddening!” Neither their political analysis nor the programming they
create is able to address the differences between men or the life experiences that stem from some
men’s other intersecting identitities. This leaves some men, like MMADV facilitator Sayeed,
feeling that they are “getting the mixed signals, what it means to be a Muslim man verses a [Men
Stopping Violence] man.”
The fact that Men Stopping Violence struggles to include their constituents complete
intersectional identities and experiences is part of what led to the creation of both Muslim Men
Against Domestic Violence and Sweet Tea. In both cases, MSV’s internship and other
programming provided significant training and knowledge to key members of the groups
(Sayeed and Waleed from MMADV, Ita and Chris from Sweet Tea), but simultaneously alienated
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them and made them feel that a separate project was needed to better address the needs and
characteristics of their communities. In the case of ST, this was a very direct process, as Ita
explained: "One of the things that I experienced as a queer person in that [MSV] internship is
that I recognized that the work they did, while wonderful, was often very heterosexual-centric,
and so as a part of my internship project I wanted to really delve into the unique ways in which I
saw queer, gay, cisgendered queer men embodying sexism and contributing to a culture of
violence against women." For Waleed, it was more that “with MSV, there are things in their
teachings that I can't incorporate into the Muslim community, but there are things I can modify to
take to the Muslim community." In order to “modify” MSV’s model and deliver it to his own
community, Waleed needed to work with an organization like MMADV. In this section, I show
that my interviewees appreciate MSV’s work and feel that it was important and beneficial in
their engagement process, but then detail the ways MSV’s model falls short and alienates some
men. I discuss three categories of difficulties; first, things that are present in MSV’s work that
push marginalized group members away; second, things that MSV’s programming lacks that
marginalized communities desire; and finally, the fundamental issue of comfort for marginalized,
hyper-visible minority group members.
All of my interviewees who discussed MSV spoke of it positively, and while often mixed
with criticism, their praise for MSV was always first, strong, and genuine. In some cases it
bordered on reverence. Sayeed, for example, said that he believed no “other experience has
changed me more than my involvement in MSV” and that his MSV internship “was probably
more educational than my bachelors degree or master's degree or any graduate work” he had
done. During a conference call meeting with MMADV, Waleed told us he had
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done some training with Men Stopping Violence. . . . They’re a pretty good organization.
I took the first training. . . what they do is they put you in a class with men who have
been abusive in the past, they're in the class because the court recommended, either you
take this class or you're in prison. It's a pretty eye-opening program, you hear some pretty
awful things these men did, but you also realize. . . I've got some of my own demons, too.
During their MSV work, both Sayeed and Waleed engaged in deep and profound self-critique
that changed their worldview (“no other experience has changed me more,” “pretty eye-opening
program. . . . I’ve got some of my own demons”), and also learned skills and information that
formed the foundation of how they later engaged and understood gender violence and did gender
justice work. When I asked Waleed why men commit so much more violence than women, he
drew on his MSV training to explain his view: “We have to feel like we’re in control, so if you’re
not giving me what I want, when I want it, I’m gonna take it. That’s just that control factor.
That’s what I learned in Men Stopping Violence.” Clearly, MSV is a beneficial and influential
part of how these men engage with anti-sexist work, and an important piece of the national
landscape of men’s gender justice activism.
However, “MSV is not for everyone,” as Sayeed told me in a private phone call: “they,
obviously, do a lot of good, but they also do some things we disagree with as Muslims.” He told
me mostly about ways that MSV’s model contained elements that conflicted with Islamic
traditions. He struggled to resolve MSV’s worldview with Islam’s, because according to MSV:
if I go to a restaurant with my wife and I chose what we're having for dinner, that's a
controlling behavior. If my wife doesn't drive and I do all the driving, that's a controlling
behavior. If I work and my wife doesn't work, that's a controlling behavior. If I am the
only earner and my wife doesn't earn, then that's a controlling behavior. And yet in Islam,
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the emphasis is on the man taking responsibility and doing those things. So in Islam, it's
not that women can't work—there are plenty of women who work—but Islamically, my
income is supposed to provide for myself and for my wife, and anything my wife earns is
just for her. . . [and] my wife wants me to order at a restaurant. My wife doesn't want to
learn how to drive. . . so am I exhibiting controlling behaviors, or are they controlling
behaviors as defined by MSV? Because from an Islamic perspective they're not
controlling at all.
The appropriate norms for romantic relationships, in terms of division of labor, financial and
parental responsibilities, and acceptable relationship models (in terms of dating/cohabitation vs.
marriage and also sexuality), are different between MSV and Islam.
14
Because of these
differences, Sayeed felt that Muslim men’s experiences could not be adequately addressed using
MSV’s framework: “To presume that all violence and all relationship and all men fall under their
model doesn't work, and they don't like it when people question their model. It really pisses them
off.” The tensions created by this distance between MSV’s model and Muslim community norms
led to the perceived need for a separate group for Muslim men, and MSV’s inability to address
these differences further alienated Sayeed.
Waleed tried to modify MSV’s model for use with the Muslim community, but struggled
with issues of sexuality. In the ended he decided that whereas “MSV touches on. . . gay and
lesbian issues,” he could not “bring that kind of thing to the Muslim community, it just doesn’t
apply [for religious reasons, it is considered haraam, sinful] and people won’t want to hear about
14 It bears mentioning that the relationship norms Sayeed labels as “Islamic” do not
represent all Muslims, but are actually those propounded by some Muslim men interpreting
scripture in specific ways. Neither Sayeed nor the other members of MMADV showed much
awareness of the internal debates about these gendered interpretations or of the Muslim women
reinterpreting Qur’an, ahadith, and sunnah in more affirming and progressive ways (i.e. Wadud
1999, 2006).
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it.” Sayeed struggled with this tension between Islamic perspective on sexuality and MSV’s
credo as well, though he seemed to arrive at a different conclusion: “I agree with the MSV model
about sexuality, but I'm supposed to disagree with it as a Muslim man. . . . I’m pro-gay, but I'm
Muslim, so I'm not supposed to be pro-gay.” According to Abdullah, the set of relationship types
that MMADV should discuss is even smaller. He told me he thinks MSV is a “decent
organization, but they also have a component where they go into more of a partnership, like
boyfriend and girlfriend living together and what have you. Since we don’t believe in that. . . .
We try to stay within the frameworks of marriage. . . that’s one key thing.” The discussion of
cohabiting and non-heterosexual relationships in MSV programming make Abdullah and Waleed
uncomfortable, and in their opinions make the material inappropriate and ineffective for
Muslims.
Sweet Tea founder Ita also found that MSV’s programming contained elements that made
it unwelcoming for the queer community:
The political framework that they operate with is a framework that oftentimes invisible-
izes sexual orientation. It's very ‘men’s violence against women,’ with the assumption of
heterosexuality built in. . . . Like for instance, ‘as a man, you don't have to worry about
what you wear being connected to you being potentially assaulted sexually or being a
victim of rape,’ which I thought was so bizarre to me. I'm like, ‘are you serious? I'm a
queer person, yes, that does make a difference to me!’ That kind of discourse, which is
very blanket heterosexual. . . was just kind of commonplace in the space.
MSV’s understanding of men tends to disregard the possibility of their own sexual victimization,
and while this may make sense for the ways they interact with abusive heterosexual men,
15
it
15 It is worth noting that even for abusive heterosexual men, disregarding the possibility
that these men had been victims of sexual violence at some point is not unproblematic. There is
anecdotal evidence and some research that suggests that being on the receiving end of gender
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
clearly ignores queer men’s experiences of relationship and sexual abuse at the hands of other
queer men and of being targeted for violence due to their sexuality or gender presentation. Queer
men like Ita are likely to feel “kind of alienated in the space" that seems to deny or be ignorant of
these realities in their lives.
Men from marginalized communities may also not want to rely on MSV or similar
groups to serve their community’s needs if they believe there are key discussions or strategies
that their community would benefit from, which MSV cannot address or offer. For MMADV, the
obvious one was an ability to draw Islamic scripture into the conversation. Abdullah told me one
of the primary strengths that makes MMADV unique is that they
try to use Islamic guidelines and an Islamic perspective to address certain key issues. For
example, Prophet Muhammed, may Allah’s peace be upon him, he stated that the best
among you is he who is best to his wives. . . . As Muslims, we try to use Muhammed as
our role model or our example, and he was never known to abuse his wives. . . . These
other groups, they might not address it like that, they come from a secular view. . . and
some Muslims may feel that they’re not speaking to us from our perspective.
In the key issue of domestic violence, then, non-Muslim groups may not be equipped or
informed to speak to Muslims “from our perspective;” MSV would not have scripture or
examples from Muhammed’s life on hand, would not be able to credibly counter claims of
religious sanction for marital violence, and would not be able to have conversations in a way that
reaches larger Muslim audiences.
Ita also found MSV unable to address the issues that were central to him “because there
are particularly unique ways in which I interact with women that are different than the ways in
violence increases men’s likelihood of perpetrating violence against women (Messerschmidt
2000).
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which heterosexual-identified men do. I'm not in romantic relationships [with them].” Ita not
only said this misrecognition alienated him from the organization, but also pointed out that
“there were a number of ways in which as a queer person, I was embodying sexism in ways that
that space wasn't able to hold me accountable to, because it invisible-izes it. . . and MSV is very
representative of a lot of the profeminist men's organizations.” Chris also spoke to this lack of
accountability for gay men at MSV when I asked why he was interested in joining Sweet Tea. He
saw Sweet Tea as “an opportunity for me to be with peers around this, and learn some things and
get naked around my male privilege in a different way. I had served as an intern, and before that I
had been a supporter and a fan of Men Stopping Violence,” he told me, showing his appreciation
for the group before adding that MSV “didn’t provide much of a queer analysis. . . . I’m not the
usual suspect, right? As a gay man among heterosexual men, who’s not in a sexual or romantic
relationship with a woman, there’s a way in which they were not necessarily looking to challenge
me around my sexism they way they were challenging each other.” Whereas Abdullah believed
MSV would not be able to talk about sexism in a way that connected with Muslim audiences, Ita
and Chris found MSV’s analysis entirely blind to the ways sexism occurs in their lives and
community. They wanted an organization that could hold them accountable to the particular
ways that they reproduce sexism “as a queer person” and “as a gay man,” but found MSV unable
to do so.
Finally, there is an issue of personal comfort, a sense of being able to open up and be
one’s whole self, that MSV cannot provide for all men. Halim, a long-time educator at MSV , told
me that a major part of his work involves “creating safe space for men, a place where men can
feel safe to speak their truth, to take the risk of bein' vulnerable and not worry about being
labeled or degraded or disrespected or humiliated. [It is] an opportunity for them to open up and
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drop the shackles of patriarchy.” This level of comfort and ability to open up and honestly
discuss and interrogate one’s own life experiences is foundational to the ways MSV engages
men. However, it is not equally available to all men. A different staff member told me about gay
men who have come into the classroom and, when discussing their romantic relationships, had to
“say Kesha instead of Kevin. . . [playing] the pronoun game very carefully, and there’s
something about [it, for their]. . . self-worth and self-esteem, it’s a terrible thing.” A member of
Sweet Tea who had some experience with MSV chose not to do an internship with them because
he found them too “wedded to second-wave feminism.” He told me “I love them with all my
heart,”—a coded, Southern way of simultaneously expressing appreciation, frustration, and
sometimes a low opinion of the objects’ intelligence or good judgement—before saying he had
not felt comfortable with the ways MSV focused on “this very victim-centered notion of women.
You only see them as victims. What about agency? and I just didn't hear that enough.” Waleed
told me one of his primary reasons for wanting to modify MSV’s programming for the Muslim
community is that “a lot of Muslims wouldn’t feel comfortable in that kind of setting. . . they’re
already feeling uncomfortable talking about it, so I want them to at least be around people that
look like them, sound like them, have some commonalities.” Given the hyper-visibility and high
level of scrutiny that Muslims face around gender inequality and violence, this concern for
comfort and commonality is especially salient.
MSV was formed before intersectional analysis was common, and they still struggle to
see men in ways that do not suggest a unified group; this is exactly what defines them as an
unmarked group. Clearly, however, none of this means that Men Stopping Violence is an
ineffectual, or worse, inimical, organization. Indeed, both MMADV and Sweet Tea relied on the
MSV analysis and programming in their own formation; it is entirely possible that these two
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would not exist were it not for MSV’s internship program and position as a hub of resources and
training. However, MSV’s model is limited and works best with a specific subset of American
men, and that it must be modified by outside sources for use in engaging men outside of this
scope. Waleed, for example, told me that he was planning on “continuing my training with MSV,
and I’ll be doing some training with Project Sakinah as well. . . because they were dealing
specifically with the Muslim community, where MSV, they’re dealing with everyone, it’s not a
specific religious organization.” He finds enough value in working with MSV that he wants to
continue learning from them, but feels that he also needs more training from a specifically
Muslim organization.
To their credit, MSV is clearly self-critical and attempting to learn from the experiences
and critiques of intersectionality. The staff I spoke to said that they had “seen the model grow
over the years” and they have been working on details such as not assuming heterosexuality
during intake interviews, and the staff itself has become more diverse along the axes of race,
sexuality, and gender.
16
When hiring a new Executive Director recently, they “searched
particularly for a young woman of color to lead the organization and to bring that voice in.” Ita
told me that as he was concluding his internship, during the time Sweet Tea was writing their
proclamation, “we presented to MSV the work that we did. I think that impacted their analysis,
how they saw sexuality and gender operating." Even the harshest critic among the men I
interviewed, after spending a good deal of time telling me about how much of a struggle it was
for him to be involved with MSV and to try to make them engage more with marginalized
community’s concerns, told me “I have nothing but respect for the work that they do. And
16 Clearly, however, simply hiring employees from more identities will not solve the
problem, since MSV has had a long-time employee, currently associate director, who identifies
as a Black gay man. If representation, or even representation in positions of leadership, were
sufficient, than MSV would have a more intersectional analysis already.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
they've begun in more recent years to really work actively on homophobia and heterosexism, in a
very profound way. And race, they do great work around that.”
MSV, then, is best understood as a dynamic hub of men’s gender justice activism in
Atlanta. They provide resources, trainings, and a space for interested men to become more
involved in anti-sexist work. By requiring their more committed participants to create a
“Community Empowerment Project” that brings MSV’s cause and analysis out of the internship
and into their communities, they encourage the creation and success of anti-sexist men’s projects
around Atlanta, including groups MMADV and Sweet Tea. These projects are shaped by both
MSV’s successes and their shortcomings, like their limited engagement with intersectionality,
but their networked connections as a hub allow them to also learn about these shortcomings and
respond. In some cases they respond by revising their own analysis or efforts, and so MSV itself
has been changing over time to become more responsive to the needs of the people and
organizations they work with.
These revisions are not necessarily smooth or uncomplicated, however. MSV must
decide, then, which concerns brought to them as a network hub are things they desire and are
able to address, and justify their decisions not address the other ones or face continued criticism.
While MSV is clearly doing some work to include intersectionality in their operations more
thoroughly, some members of the staff feel that the group cannot and should not become
competent with all communities of men. “The idea that any one organization can adequately
speak to, address the nuances, realities of all racial, ethnic, sexual groups,” MSV employee
Michael told me, “I think anybody who thinks that is irresponsible, frankly speaking. I just think
that the resources that are required, the organizational structure that's required, I just don't think
it's possible.” Michael told me that MSV supports and encourages the creation of other groups
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that recognize and focus on specific community concerns, and indeed seemed surprised that there
are not more such groups around the country.
This is central contradiction, then, in the relationship between MSV and the Atlanta-area
groups that focus on the sexism in marginalized communities. On one hand, both MMADV and
Sweet Tea formed in part because they did not see MSV as capable of or willing to address their
particular community concerns, and indeed because some of their formative members felt
alienated or marginalized at MSV . On the other, however, MSV was central in the formation of
both groups. MSV’s internship program led Ita to form Sweet Tea. It helped Sayeed feel
comfortable taking on a leadership role and becoming MMADV’s first male coordinator, and
Umm Kulthum’s first concept for the group was “just literally wanted to copy their program.”
MSV’s framework for understanding gender violence contributed substantially to how both
groups view the work the do, contributing concepts like patriarchy, male privilege, and violence
as a tactic used to gain power and control (Douglas, Bathrick, & Perry 2008; Douglas, Nurridan,
& Perry 2009; Pence & Paymar 1993). Both the resources and abilities and the limitations of the
unmarked groups MSV contributed to the formation and functioning of the groups created by
and for marginalized men.
Individual Members' Pathways to Anti-Sexist Work
The fact that social justice allies, defined here as people who are working to end systems
of oppression that are not typically understood as targeting their own identities (e.g., white anti-
racist activists, heterosexuals who work for gay rights, etc.), are seen as working on issues that
are not “theirs” makes their pathways to involvement a question of interest to researchers and
activists alike (Bridges, 2010). While questioning men’s entry into this work carries some
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dangerous assumptions―namely, that gender-based violence and related issues are inherently
women’s concern, which men need have no genuine interest in―it also provides useful
information on ways to involve men. Previous research on this topic has suggested that men’s
engagement in antiviolence work parallels ally development in other social justice causes, such
as white anti-racists, where substantial model-building work has described the process of ally
engagement (Broido, 2000; Casey & Smith, 2010).
Developmental models of social justice ally formation trace the pathway, or course of
events through time, that leads individuals to become effective allies. The existing literature on
anti-racist allies suggests that these pathways tend to include: learning about and reflecting on
racial inequality; some personal experiences of being in the minority or being marginalized; a
specific invitation to participate, often through existing social networks; and the development of
self-awareness about one’s own location and participation in a social structure of privilege and
oppression (Bishop, 2002; Broido, 2000; Reason, Millar, & Scales, 2005). The different types of
factors―intrapersonal, interpersonal, and environmental― in models of anti-racist allies are also
applicable to men’s engagements as antiviolence allies (Casey & Smith, 2010, Coulter 2003).
Coulter (2003) found that young men’s involvements were influenced by relationships
with teachers, parents, authority figures, and peers, although in some cases these influences were
positive encouragements to involvement, in some they were ambivalent about these
relationships, and in others the boys became involved in part to define themselves in contrast to
these people. She also found that seeing or hearing about violence against women was an
important part of the entry pathway of many of these boys.
In 2010, Casey & Smith published a more detailed model of men's involvement pathways
from interviews with a sample of 27 men (26 white, 1 Latino). They found that men's
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engagement is a long-term process which usually begins with a sensitizing experience, most
often the “disclosure of domestic or sexual violence from a close female friend, family member,
or girlfriend or witnessing violence in childhood,” less commonly a “pre-existing social justice
consciousness,” “a specific learning opportunity related to violence against women,” or “a close
relationship with influential women (Casey & Smith 2010, p.959-960). The next two steps on
this path are an opportunity to become engaged and a shift in the meaning of gendered
experiences in their lives, in either order. The engagement opportunities included being formally
invited, being encouraged by friends of looking for a job or volunteer opportunity. Changes in
gendered meanings were evidenced by “a deep shift in their thinking about their own experiences
or behavior or in the level of comprehension of the ongoing vulnerability of women,” and
sometimes included changing views about one's own masculinity, feeling that inaction was no
longer possible, or believing that engaging in these issues would connect them to a community of
like-minded and supportive comrades (Casey & Smith 2010, p. 962).
This section explores the extent to which Casey & Smith’s (2010) model maps onto the
experiences of the mostly Black Muslim and gay/queer men I studied. While there are clear
similarities, the types and importance of sensitizing experiences are different in important ways,
and initial involvement experience show some variance as well. Whereas Casey & Smith’s
sensitizing experiences tended to be about the disclosure of violence, social justice
consciousness, or education, I find evidence that for men over about 40 years of age, sensitizing
experiences may have more to do with experiences of parenting (Crooks et al. 2006). Older men
also have a longer time during which to have opportunities for engagement, which suggest that
age is a factor that should be taken into account more closely in future investigations. MMADV’s
experiences roughly mirror those represented in the existing literature, suggesting that a
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marginalized identity is not in itself sufficient to alter pathways to engagement; the particular
type of marginalization matters. Most notably, whereas men of MMADV and those described in
the literature experience a deep change in how they understand gender, masculinity, violence,
etc., for gay and queer men, a shift in gendered meanings may not be the best description of how
their involvement changes their perception and understanding of the world.
“I Actually Got Into This Work Because of Her”: The Pathways of Muslim Men Against
Domestic Violence Members
The involvement pathways of the members of Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence
roughly follow the pathway described in the previous research, with one or more sensitizing
experiences followed by an opportunity to become engaged and a shifting of gendered meanings.
The results below add some consequential detail to this framework that illustrate the
particularities of the group’s members, draw attention to intersectionality as an important part of
the story, and set up later contrasts with Sweet Tea. Themes that surfaced include the central role
of women in MMADV’s sensitizing and opportunity experiences, the use of technology to
connect with a small and dispersed population, the formalized forms of education through which
MMADV members experience a shift in gendered meanings, and the importance of age and
especially parenting as a factor in these men’s entry stories.
For the members of MMADV, entry to the group and to the work is almost entirely
through women in their lives. Both their sensitizing experiences and their opportunities for
engagement come almost exclusively in the form of seeing or hearing about a woman’s
experience of violence or being asked by a woman to help. If they wish to deepen their
engagement and understanding, they do so through intentional and formalized education, such as
being trained over the phone or taking classes; this structured educational experience is
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necessary for them to understand women’s perspectives. They do not tend to see their
involvement as directly linked to their own experiences of oppression, which is an important
difference between them and the members of Sweet Tea, discussed later.
Because so many of MMADV members’ involvements follow a similar pattern, they are
described here by first closely detailing the generally typical entry experience of one member,
Waleed, a 55-year-old African-American who had been with MMADV for a few months, then
noting where others' experiences differ significantly. “How I really got started with this,” Waleed
says,
There’s a website called ‘Islamic Answers,’ and years ago, I used to just go to the
website to see what kinds of questions people would ask. It had nothing to do with
domestic violence, just about Islam. It was an open forum. But I noticed that there were a
lot of women writing in about domestic violence, and I don’t know why I was drawn to
it, but I started responding to them and letting them know that this was not acceptable,
you don’t have to put up with this type of behavior. And maybe it was because I have all
daughters, that it was quick with me. So I started responding to them, and one day I
received an e-mail from the editor, the owner of the website and some of the editors,
asking me if I would become an editor of the website, because so many women were
responding to me about domestic violence. So, I did it until I got to the point where I was
saying ‘am I giving them the right information? Maybe I need some training.’ And that’s
when I found Men Stopping Violence. . . . I did a six month course with them. . . and it
was a big eye-opener for me, it also helped me in dealing with my wife and watching
how I spoke to her and how I treated her.
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In this story, Waleed shows how his religion was a direct cause of his involvement, but
importantly, doesn’t credit it with motivating his engagement, only with providing the
opportunity. The sensitizing experiences he mentions are related to parenting (“because I have all
daughters”) and the communicating online with women who were experiencing domestic
violence. He also mentions the ways his training with MSV shifted his understanding of the
meanings of gender in his life (“it was a big eye-opener for me”) and his behaviors around
masculinity (“helped me in dealing with my wife ”).
Mahmood, a 63-year-old African-American who retired as a print shop production
manager, tells a similar story: “Well, I’m a father and a grandfather, I have four daughters,
they’re all married to men that I respect, but I know that there are a lot of women out here who
are involved with men who mistreat them, and so I was interested in helping. Just reading, I think
Sister Umm Kulthum, she does a lot of stuff on Facebook. . . so just reading some of the stories
she had posted on Facebook of some of the women and children who needed help, it just seemed
like something I would like to do.” Umm Kulthum is the founder of the women’s domestic
violence awareness group that initiated MMADV, and maintains an active presence on the
MMADV facebook page. Mahmood describes her posts about domestic violence (“women and
children who needed help”) and his own parenting experiences as sensitizing him to the issue.
The fact that many of these men’s sensitizing and opportunity experiences occur online
should be understood in reference to two characteristics of their group identity as Muslims. The
first is that the Muslim community in the United States is very small - less than 1% of the U.S.
Population - and dispersed among a much larger non-Muslim population (Pew Research Center,
n.d.). Online communication therefore becomes a significantly more central part of within-group
communications, because it is one of the primary ways that American Muslims can communicate
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with substantial numbers of other Muslims. The second is that Islamic religious views discourage
social contact among unmarried men and women. Fewer and less intimate social interactions
make it less likely that Muslim men would have the opportunity to hear about women’s
experiences of violence in person or build close relationships with influential women, both
common sensitizing experiences. It also reduces the likelihood of close female friends or mentors
encouraging or inviting men to become engaged, thus shifting a greater proportion of both
sensitizing experiences and involvement opportunities to the digital world.
Waleed and Mahmood also draw our attention to the importance of age as a factor in the
ways men become involved. Waleed started editing for the website “about a year and a half ago,”
when he was already in his fifties, motivated by his daughters. Before then, he says, domestic
violence “was never anything that had ever crossed my mind. . . . I had never even thought about
working in or doing this kind of thing.” The older a man is, the more time he has had for
potential sensitizing and involvement opportunities, including forming friendships, romantic
partnerships, and families. The importance of parenting in the entry and motivations of older
men are largely absent in a literature that tends to focus on younger men’s involvements, despite
a number of movement groups (including Men Stopping Violence, Dads & Daughters, and
Founding Fathers) basing their praxis around them (Crooks et al. 2006).
As Waleed told me more about his increasing involvement, he mentioned more and more
ways that women had been important factors. When he became interested in becoming more
educated to improve his responses on the website, his ex-wife was the person who directed him
towards resources, first A Call to Men, and then Men Stopping Violence (MSV): “She’s the one
who kind of pointed me.” After the MSV training, he wanted to share some of what he had
learned with the Muslim community more widely, so “I wrote an article, sent it off to Jumuah
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magazine, my wife was really pushing me to do it, and they published it.” At this point Waleed
also contacted Project Sakinah, a nationwide Muslim community resource organization with a
domestic violence project, for assistance with a specifically Muslim focus. He then joined
MMADV when Sister Umm Kulthum asked him for help in connecting the group with Project
Sakinah. When asked what keeps him motivated in the work, Waleed says “there were some
people that we knew personally who were in a domestic violence situation, my wife was telling
me about it. . . and that motivated me to keep the ball rolling in myself.” Waleed’s current level
of involvement, then, was based on the direct input of his wife, his ex-wife, and Sister Umm
Kulthum, and the less direct motivation from his daughters, women online, women in his
community who he found out were experiencing domestic violence, as well as the editors of
Islamic Answers and the staff at MSV and Project Sakinah.
Although not all of the members of MMADV mentioned this many specific women in
their pathways, they all mentioned a few, and Sister Umm Kulthum was an important part of the
story for each of them. For Abdullah, a 39-year-old African-American truck driver, his first
sensitizing experiences came from listening to recordings of “the early teachings of Malcolm X”
as a teen, but he had been involved gender justice activism
17
until seeing the things Sister Umm
Kulthum posted online about domestic violence in the Atlanta Muslim community: “I was on
Facebook one day and I saw the page for it, and I was like ‘wow, that’s something I’d never
17 While Abdullah had never done gender justice activism before joining MMADV, he
did tell me about having helped a woman out of a domestic violence situation previously. ”There
was a sister that was married to a brother” who had recently converted to Islam, he told me, “and
he was beating on her. I heard about it. This was probably back in mid- to late-nineties. And he
was beating on her. . . . We went over there at night and we got her out of the house. We got her
stuff, put it in a U-Haul truck, and got her out of there.” Even in this case, though, Abdullah’s
involvement was through his wife, who told him about the situation and asked him to help. I do
not include it in this discussion because it was outside the context of organized activist groups,
but it does point to the importance of men’s gender justice work outside of organized activism
and movement contexts as a site where more research is needed.
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heard about before,’ and that’s when I contacted Sister Umm Kulthum through Facebook and
asked her ‘how can I get involved?’” Umm Kulthum asked Abdullah to coordinate the group.
When it became clear that he would need to deepen his understanding of the issues, she began
conducting formal weekly educational phone calls with him, using programming materials
provided by an outside organization. Again, we see that his opportunity experience was
moderated by a woman, and that his shift in gendered meanings was brought about by a
formalized education curriculum.
Though Sayeed, the Indian-American ex-coordinator of MMADV, was perhaps the most
motivated in his involvement, his sensitizing experiences and engagement opportunity were still
heavily influenced by women. He described having a close friend, a woman he later married,
who “had married another man from Iran and he had been very abusive towards her. I actually
got into this work because of her, I wanted to help people like her from an Islamic perspective."
He did not begin the work until an opportunity experience presented itself a few years later,
when his work on a Muslim suicide survivor’s organization introduced him to both Sister Umm
Kulthum and another woman named Anjali. When he contacted Sister Umm Kulthum about
presenting on depression and suicide for Baitul Salaam, she invited him to a MMADV meeting,
from which he left committed to the group. Anjali was the executive director of a South Asian
community support, education, and advocacy organization, and Sayeed had
done some work with them, but not with domestic violence, just raising money or
supplies. . . . Anjali calls me one day and she’s like ‘Sayeed, we need more Indian men,
more Desi men to do this work in the community. There’s a group called Men Stopping
Violence, have you heard of it?’ and I was like, ‘yea, I’ve heard of it, but I’ve never really
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contacted them.’ ‘Well, they have an internship program. I want you to do the internship
program, because we need more Indian men to speak out against domestic violence.’
Sayeed applied for and completed the internship program, which shifted his understanding of the
world so much that he told me "I don't think any other experience has changed me more than my
involvement in MSV .” His involvement in this internship gave him the tools to deepen his
involvement in MMADV to the point where he traveled nationally to give talks on domestic
violence in the Muslim community.
Clearly, all four MMADV interviewees’ involvement pathways relied on the active
involvement of women, both in terms of sensitization experiences (Waleed, Mahmood, and
Abdullah’s online experiences, Sayeed hearing about his friend’s abusive husband) and
opportunities for involvement (Umm Kulthum asking Waleed and Abdullah to join, Anjali
asking Sayeed to apply for the MSV internship). The thin dispersion of Muslim men and their
disinclination to socialize with unmarried women increases the likelihood that these experiences
occur online (as with Waleed, Mahmood, and Abdullah). The shift in their gendered
understandings of the world tend to occur through formalized educational programs like MSV’s
internship (for Waleed and Sayeed) and Umm Kulthum’s telephone-based trainings (for
Abdullah). Finally, age and parenting both seem to be important sensitizing experiences for
Waleed and Mahmood. While these findings clarify and specify the established model of men’s
engagement (Casey & Smith, 2010) as it applies to Black Muslim men, they do not substantially
alter or contradict it. In the next section, I argue that the differences found in gay and queer
men’s pathways do require a significant revision of the established model; taken together, these
two facts suggest that marginalization itself is not the key factor. The type of marginalization
matters.
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“It Starts With Being a Little Gay Black Boy”: The Pathways of Sweet Tea Members
Unlike the members of MMADV, Sweet Tea members tend to explain how they became
sensitized to issues of gender inequality, and how they became involved in the group, through
reference to their own intersectional identities and experiences as queers. As a consequence, their
opportunity experiences do not reference women, and the stories they tell of their pathways to
involvement begin when they were much younger, often in childhood. They have a much harder
time telling a story about their trajectory of coming into gender justice work, tending instead to
speak about how they had always had these understandings from their own life experience, and
perhaps at some point in their education they found a language and community for it. They do
not describe experiencing a shift in gendered meanings, as the literature would suggest, but
describe their feminist educational experiences as learning to describe things they already knew.
The members of Sweet Tea link the oppression experienced by women to their own
gender-based marginalization, often making the link very clear and direct. Some of the members
who have effeminate gender expressions understand the negative social repercussions as
stemming from the same sexism that women experience: “sexism and homophobia are flip sides
of the same coin,” as Harry said. To the extent that they discuss specific sensitizing experiences,
they do so without reference to specific women (with rare exception for their own mothers, in
cases when they were single parents or there was abuse in their families of origin), but with
reference to their own lives as Black gay men.
A notable difference in how Sweet Tea members discussed their entry was that their
stories tended to start much younger than those of MMADV or the men in the existent literature
on men’s engagement. Mark, a 32-year-old Black nonprofit worker, began describing the path
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that lead to his involvement with Sweet Tea by saying “it starts with being a little gay Black
boy.” This statement provides not only a temporal marker―the path to involvement began
during my childhood―but also an explicit link to the way that Mark’s intersecting gayness,
Blackness, and young masculinity set the foundation for his later anti-sexist work. This sense of
developing the moral foundations of their work in their youth was a common theme:
I remember being very young and thinking very clearly, 'hmm, this thing that these guys
and men around me are doing does not seem right to me.' . . . . I was like seven years old,
but I remember thinking 'how you are doing life, or how you are, just does not make
sense to me. (Ita, 31, Black, Nonprofit project manager)
In a way that is reminiscent of common coming out stories, they tell of having been aware of
inequality when they were very young, and eventually finding terminology for their experiences:
We develop a lexicon for being able to talk about feminist work and theory, but for a lot
of us, we already know the concept. I knew when I saw my father take precedence, in
terms of his voice, in terms of his physical prowess, over my mother, and sort of make
decisions, some of them which were not best for the family, that there was something
called patriarchy. I didn't have the word patriarchy, didn't have the word sexism, but I
knew and understood what that was, and I knew that it wasn't right, I felt that it wasn't
right. (Dwayne, 40, Black, artist and activist)
Dwayne describes understanding injustice in his family of origin, and tells of having later
“develop[ed] a lexicon” and community (“a lot of us, we already know the concept”) around this
ethical understanding. Deshawn, a 26-year-old Black political staffer, confirms this narrative of
having had an understanding of power and injustice from a very early age, but also links it
specifically to his own intersectional location and experiences of childhood marginalization:
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Being a Black gay man in America, I've been confronted with the intersections of racism,
homophobia, and sexism all my life. . . certainly from a very young age. It can be very
low level or it can be high level, right, you can have these conversations about systems of
oppression, patriarchy, compulsory heteronormativity, and all that is great, and it's also
about the young boy who wants to play with barbies being called a sissie-boy on the
playground. Those are all cut from the same cloth.
The early understanding most Sweet Tea members gained of social injustice also means
they were likely to have gotten involved in other sorts of social justice activism, often around
issues of gender or sexuality, earlier in their lives and before their work with Sweet Tea. Of
course, this also relates to their own experiences of gendered and sexual marginalization, which
make these issues salient to them personally, and to their generally higher class standing (as
compared to MMADV members), which allowed them access to the spaces and mentoring
necessary to take on activist and leadership roles. Unlike the MMADV membership, for whom
their work with MMADV was often their first and only gender-related social justice work, all of
the Sweet Tea members had been involved in other organizing efforts previously.
Most interviewees talk about their entry to Sweet Tea in a way similar to Jeune, a 25-
year-old Black graduate student who simply says “I was just invited to be a part of the collective
by Ita.” There were no stories of engagement opportunities that involved women asking them to
take a stand, asking them for help, or encouraging them to become trained in the issues. Indeed,
because of their own previous life experiences as people marginalized on the basis of their
gendered or sexual identities, Sweet Tea members never speak of having had to learn about the
issues, being surprised about the prevalence of sexism or gender-based violence, or having a
significant shift in gendered meaning because of their involvement. Because they see group
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membership as something that makes sense and follows from their own identities, there is no
narrative. Their stories of getting involved in the group are, in many ways, non-stories.
18

Among Sweet Tea members, feminist educational experiences were described not as
having shifted their worldview, but as having finally provided a lens or a language with which to
understand things they already knew and had experienced in their own lives. The collegiate
settings where they learn the scholarly names for their experiences also point to the ways class
intersects with race and sexuality for Sweet Tea; while some members were born in working-
class or poor households, all were college educated and solidly middle-class. Dwayne told me:
“in college, I was taking women's studies courses. . . that [experience] was like, 'wow, there are
these terms that really define stuff I already know.’”
Ita similarly explained that “there were a lot of things about race and gender that I had
seen happening in my family, in my community that a Black feminist analysis really gave me a
way to hold all of it. . . . Other political analyses just weren't robust enough for that." His own
experiences as a queer-identified African-American required an engagement with feminist
analyses because no other perspective was “robust enough.” Sweet Tea members’ pathways to
involvement, then, are directly influenced by their own personal experiences of oppression, and
although two members went through the MSV internship (and Ita formed the group as a part of
it), for the most part knowledge about feminism is added to their own life experiences in a much
more organic fashion than the formalized learning process of MMADV members. The ways that
men’s own experiences of oppression shape their understandings of violence and structured
18 This difference between Sweet Tea members’ engagement narratives and those of
MMADV members is not simply a difference of speech styles between the groups. That is, it is
not the case that Sweet Tea members simply do not tell stories or provide narratives as much as
MMADV members do. This is evidenced by the many stories that Sweet Tea members do tell
about other topics; indeed, my two longest interviews were with Sweet Tea members, because of
their proclivity to tell stories.
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oppression, leading them to see the oppression of women as linked to race, class, and sexual
oppression, is a facet of organic intersectionality (Messner et al. forthcoming).
Unlike MMADV members or the men represented in previous research, Sweet Tea
members link their own identities to their understanding of feminism, connection to the issues,
and camaraderie with women. This discourse also tends to start very young, although it also
continues into later educational and activist experiences, as Jeune illustrated:
I guess it's easy for me to think about the ways in which folks are marginalized due to
sexualities or marginalized in some sort of gendered way, because I grew up being
questioned all the time. As this very feminine boy, then my sexuality was in question,
[people were concerned that] I would grow up to be gay or something. Or because of the
way I spoke, I speak like a white person but I am so dark skinedded that you can't
question my Blackness. So there was always this question for me, as this very young
child, so it was very easy for me to connect to the issues that Sweet Tea brought up.
Jeune links his own marginalized identities (“very feminine boy,” “so dark skinedded that you
can’t question my Blackness”) and the social experiences they engendered (“being questioned all
the time”) to his understanding of and affinity for gender justice work (“very easy for me to
connect to the issues”). Dwayne takes this one step further and describes his understanding of
feminism as a necessary step he took to understand his own life:
In the early nineties, late eighties, women's studies and feminist studies was the only
place people were talking about queer work, so in order to develop an understanding for
what it means to be queer or LGBT, you pretty much had to go to the women's studies
departments. . . so it was kind of through my interest in developing some tools for
coming out as a gay, bisexual queer man that I actually came upon feminism.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
Because of the dearth of literature and discussion about the lives and experiences of queer
people, Wayne’s sexual and gender identity “as a gay, bisexual queer man” led him directly to
“women’s studies [and] feminism.” His understanding of gender, violence, and oppression is
informed by both his own and women’s experiences of gender-based violence and oppression,
and by the similarities between them. This bond between their own intersecting identities and
their antiviolence allyship explains why the stories of Sweet Tea members need not rely on the
direct input of women, and why they begin so early in the men’s lives, whereas other men’s
stories start with a much later sensitizing experience. This also explains the important difference
in the way queer and straight men’s feminist engagements change their gendered worldviews.
Unlike the men of MMADV or those in the existing literature, the members of Sweet Tea
have already been dealing with and thinking about gender and gender-based oppression on a
daily basis, so their experiences of a shifting worldview are more accurately described as
obtaining a better language to describe existing understandings than shifting their gendered
understanding of the world. For the same reasons, their sensitizing experiences are usually not
generated by women but emerge from their own life experiences and identities, their pathways to
allyship begin earlier, and their opportunities to get involved in the work seem more mundane, to
the point that many had trouble recounting them as “stories”. These results also suggest that men
whose marginalization stems from gender or sexual identity may be differently committed than
others, as Ita illustrated: “I create what I hope will heal me, and hope it helps heal others. That's
what keeps me motivated, my own healing, my own creativity. I create what I think I need to see
to feel nourished.”
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Conclusion
This chapter describes the beginnings of marginalized men’s anti-sexist engagements,
both the formation of each group and the initial involvement pathways of individual members. In
both cases, there are significant differences between the stories of these groups and those
represented in the literature, many directly attributable to the intersecting identities of the men
themselves. Their early histories also presage their later difficulties and eventual dissolution,
discussed in later chapters.
The formation of MMADV and the individual members’ pathways to engagement both
relied heavily on women’s input. Though it became more organized and active under later male
leadership, the group was called together by a woman, Sister Umm Kulthum, to assist her in
creating widespread discussion about gendered violence in the Muslim community. They
received inspiration and training from MSV, originally hoping to copy MSV’s model and apply it
to their own community, but they also organized in part in reaction to the inability of MSV to
reach their own community effectively or address their particular concerns. Early in the groups’
existence, though, they began to face organization problems because of the lack of leadership
knowledge, resources, and support, which would continue to haunt the group.
Sweet Tea’s formation also relied on the assistance of MSV , in the form of the internship
project for which Ita called the group together, but instead of hoping to emulate MSV for their
own community, they were specifically trying to have a conversation that they could not have at
MSV. Because MSV struggled to include the perspectives of “non-hetero” men, Ita felt they
could not hold him or his community accountable for the privilege they receive and the sexism
they perpetuate as gay and queer men. This complex, ambivalent relationship to the unmarked
men’s group is a central part of the story for both groups. Explicitly modeled after feminist
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consciousness-raising groups, Sweet Tea decided during their first gathering to create a
document similar to the Combahee River Collective’s, and later chose a name intended to convey
their intersecting identities and political commitments (Combahee River Collective 1982). This
awareness of intersectional organizing, along with the flat organizational structure, later
contributed to the groups disintegration.
Whereas the involvement pathways MMADV members were heavily dependent on the
input of women, the men of Sweet Tea described themselves as having been sensitized simply by
virtue of their own life experiences as people marginalized based on their race, sexuality, and/or
gender presentation. Similarly, the Muslim men reported that learning more about women’s lives
and about violence against women changed their understandings of gender, violence,
relationships, etc., and that this new knowledge made them feel compelled to work for social
change. The gay/queer men, however, described having an organic understanding of gender and
of injustice from their own experiences and beginning at a very young age. The changes in the
meanings men attached to gendered experiences were the most notable difference between the
men in this study and those represented in the previous literature. Casey & Smith (2010) found
that antiviolence engagement relied on a shift in men’s gendered meaning-making, where men
often felt compelled to action, experienced a deep shift in their understandings of gender and
violence, or saw antiviolence work as a chance to connect with others around an important social
issue. It is possible that the shift in gendered meanings that Casey & Smith (2010) find may best
describe the experiences of white, straight men learning about structured inequality and
beginning to question the privilege and entitlement that they had personally experienced.
It is notable that the gay/queer men showed the greatest deviations from the non-
intersectional model of men’s pathways to involvement. Their pathways are much more
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commonly and directly influenced by their own life experiences and by understanding their own
experiences of violence or marginalization as similar or analogous to women’s. This linking of
one’s own experiences of oppression to the oppression of women appears elsewhere in the
literature (e.g., Brod, 1988, Casey & Smith, 2010, Christian, 1994), often in reference to
sexuality (though also in reference to race, as in Cole & Guy-Sheftall, 2003; White, 2006a,
2006b, 2008). This pattern suggests that there may be a special salience to sexual and gender-
based oppression: a non-normative sexual or gender-identity not only invites investigation and
explanation, but encourages these in reference to gender. Whereas the data on Muslim men adds
nuance to and extends the previous pathway models, gay and queer men’s experiences require a
fundamental revision, because they show substantial, qualitative difference from those men
already represented. Both groups are formed around marginalized identities, but the specifics of
each identity shape their pathways to allyship.
This chapter shows that the ways that men’s other identities intersect with their
masculinity influence their understandings of gender, inequality, and violence, and the
possibilities for engaging them in working to end violence against women. They shape the types
of relationships men form with women and their likelihood of understanding and identifying
with women’s experiences of sexism and gender-based violence, the underlying understandings
about gender, oppression, and violence that men bring with them upon engagement, and their
opportunities for involvement. The next chapter will explore how these impact the “middle”
parts of their work: the activities, beliefs, and discourses through which they attempt to address
sexism in their communities.
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CHAPTER THREE
MIDDLES: ACTIVITIES, GROUP-LEVEL CULTURE, AND BENEFITS
The first MMADV meeting Abdullah told me about, originally scheduled for October 19
th
,
was later revised to the 9
th
. When I arrived at the Mediterranean restaurant in a hip, centrally
located neighborhood, though, no one was there. Twenty minutes later I called Abdullah, only to
hear that the meeting had been cancelled at the last minute because a member’s wife had given
birth. He apologized profusely and told me they would instead be meeting the next weekend. A
week later I awoke to a one-sentence text message: “We are going to have a phone meeting
round 5pm.” This began a pattern of meetings being rescheduled or commuted into
teleconferences.
As people joined the call, they would all say “As salamu alaykum.” When Waleed, Bilal,
and Shabazz had joined, bringing the total to four members and myself, Abdullah intoned a
prayer in Arabic, which he then translated into English. It praised Muhammed and asked for help
avoiding the influence of Satan. We made brief introductions and Abdullah said the meeting
“shouldn’t take longer than 35, 45 minutes and then you can go back to your family.”
Abdullah described the history of MMADV to the new members, saying the group is “an
endeavor of Baitul Salaam.” The group had formed four years previously because Sister Umm
Kulthum’s work around domestic violence was “falling on deaf ears, so she thought that if it
came from the brothers, they could get the word out” and people in the community would listen.
He then read a mission statement that he had been working on:
Domestic Violence is a scourge on human society. Families lives are affected for months,
years, and even generations. This blight must be eliminated. Islam encourages its
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adherents to become involved whenever and wherever evil prevails. Prophet Muhammad
(a.s.) said: "if you see a wrong. . . change it with your hand, if you can not do that then
speak out against it.If then you can not even do that then hate it in your heart and that is
the weakest form of faith.” We can no longer lend a blind eye to this tragedy. . . .
Who will stand up[?] The natural leader created by Allah to establish peace, justice,
righteousness, and fairness on the earth—the Muslim Man. Muslim Men Against
Domestic Violence is an Islamic based non-profit organization. . . . It is our intent to
stand and support the victim and treat the perpetrator while using the principles of Islam
as a framework for success. It is our ardent goal to fulfill our duties as Muslim men by
leading the charge against domestic violence here in Atlanta and abroad, by the grace of
Allah.
Abdullah asked for input, and everyone agreed that it is very good, if a bit long. Brother Waleed
wanted it to emphasize that “our main focus is on Muslims, but whoever comes forward and
needs help” would receive it, and this received widespread endorsement. Shabazz said he wanted
to “think about [the mission statement]. . . next time we meet again, see what we all collectively
can come up with,” and so it was tabled.
The next thing on Abdullah’s agenda was to name officers, but Shabazz suggested we all
write brief bios to include on the website and then select officers based on the strengths and skills
apparent in those bios. Waleed and Bilal agreed, and Abdullah concluded that “it’s settled,
everyone needs to have a bio at the next meeting, insha’Allah.” Abdullah initiated a discussion
about having formal contact information for the group—a phone number, e-mail address, and
physical address, because so far all contact had been through his personal phone or e-mail or the
Baitul Salaam address—but there was no discussion of why these might be needed. He had also
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decided that “eventually we're going to have an application for brothers who want to volunteer,
we'll keep that on file. . . so we can have records of everyone who participates.” This seemed odd
given that no such data was collected about the current membership, but again it did not get
discussed. Bilal confirmed that he can make the group a website, at Abdullah’s request, and
Abdullah responded “May Allah reward you." He mentioned including the mission statement
and contact information on the site, but was most enthusiastic about posting pictures of group
activities “because everything we are going to be doing, we need to document. . . so we can let
the people know that we are out here, in the community, insha’Allah.”
When Abdullah brought up Purple Hijab Day, he described it as “an annual event where we
remember those who are victims of domestic violence. . . we ask brothers and sisters to wear
purple, you can wear a purple kufi or something. . . . We are going to invite sisters who are
survivors of domestic violence to come forth, maybe give their story.” Very little of the
conversation was organizational, however. Instead he told us about a Muslim “sister in
Jonesboro” who was murdered by her husband, another in New York who was locked in a car
and set on fire, and a Muslim man who shot his daughter “for having a boyfriend or something
like that.” His voice roiled with outrage and bewilderment; the other members muttered in
disbelief and disapproval. Eventually Abdullah asked Waleed to help advertise the event, but
when Waleed asked for more information and a flier to post, Abdullah said he had yet to receive
it from Umm Kulthum. He then changed the subject to “the actual official logo—believe it or not
we do not have an official logo.” Asking the members not to laugh at his own drawing, he told
them to bring ideas or drafts of a logo to share and discuss “by the next meeting, which will be in
person, insha’Allah.” Finally, Abdullah said he wanted a face-to-face meeting on the 3rd
Sunday of every month. This got discussed, and someone suggested meeting immediately after
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Dhuhr, the noonday prayer. Locations were discussed, but nothing was decided when Abdullah
concluded the meeting. He reminding us all of what he wanted us to prepare for the next
meeting, and asking us to visit the Facebook page and “post as often as you can, and make sure
you mention you are an official member and you are doing the work as a Muslim man should
do.” He asked if anyone wanted to critique or add anything to the meeting. Waleed wanted to be
sure the group is aware that domestic violence is not just a physical act, but also includes verbal
abuse, psychological abuse, sexual abuse; he called it “torture.”
Waleed wanted to know “What exactly do we want to do? Because we need to tackle DV
on two parts,” he said; the first was prevention, the second was intervening or providing
counseling for men who “cross that line.” Shabazz advocated for educating “young men [because
they] aren't ready to take on women, and when they do take on women, sometimes the
responsibility and pressure gets to them and they handle it wrong.” The conversation took a turn
that began to essentialize and blame women when Shabazz said we need to “make sure that they
understand what it is to be a man. . . . A lot of them, their fathers are not around. . . women are
trying to raise men, and it's not a good look, because these women, mothers should be in the
nurturing roles.” There was more general agreement, but because the meeting was heading
towards a conclusion, the conversation petered out. Abdullah closed with a short prayer asking
that Allah make the work easy on us and that he hoped Allah “will look favorably on us” for the
meeting we just had, even though it was not in person. When I hung up, I saw that the call had
lasted just over an hour.
***
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It was just before 8pm as I drove into the parking lot of an eco-friendly building shared by
a gay-owned restaurant and a community hub used by LGBT organizations for meetings and
training. Some of the members of Sweet Tea were at a meeting for a different group, and we
were all meeting afterwards at the restaurant to finalize plans for the upcoming event at the
Auburn Avenue Research Library. The six of us squeezed genially into one wide booth. As he
reached for his laptop to take notes, I notice one members’ fingernails were painted alternating
red and pink. He exclaimed in frustration about something on Facebook. When another member
inquired, he explained that a local event promoter was having a Thanksgiving event called
“PocaHotAss.” Two other members commented that the promoter’s previous events were
problematic as well. There was a campaign being organized to convince the promoters to stop or
change the event, and some members of Sweet Tea seemed peripherally involved; all supported
it and criticized the event for both sexism and racist cultural appropriation.
After a few minutes of greetings and catching up in the comfortable atmosphere of the
restaurant, the conversation shifted to planning the event. Mark informed us that we now have a
3rd confirmation for the panel and that “we’ve had a good response [to the Facebook invite]. We
might be at 50, 60, and that's enough. And to that end, what are we going to do? That's a lot of
people to have no structure.” Harry mentioned that our hosts will want to welcome people and
talk for a few minutes about the library itself, but then the conversation jumped to food. I agreed
to retrieve bagels with Harry the morning of the event, and Harry suggested that someone else
just buy some juice and tea and we call the food done. Mark thought we should have more food
since the event would run so long, and someone asked “What about the queers who have
restaurants?” Other members agreed that it would be worth asking “our people” for donations,
and list of five queer-owned restaurants came together quickly as everyone called out their
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favorites. Mark had already e-mailed requests to some of them, and asked if anyone could be “a
point person to pick it up and front the money.” Someone offered, and it was agreed that if no
more donations were confirmed by Thursday, we would just order sandwich trays.
We now had food and three speakers confirmed; Jeune suggested a fourth, a friend of his
who worked for a reproductive justice organization. Harry said that a friend of his who was
already planning to attend would likely be happy to serve on a panel, though he had not asked
yet. Mark said he would contact a friend—he called her “my favorite butch dyke”—about joining
the panel and then went over the list once more, specifically checking for a diverse
representation of race, gender expression, etc. When he noticed no one on the panel was femme,
he suggested another name to add.
The discussion returned to structuring the event. Mark did not want the panel to be too
long, and someone suggested that the panel should be one hour followed by small group
discussions. Harry said that would take us until 3 pm, and suggested that we put the artists after
that. There was a small discussion of what artists were available and whether they had
confirmed. It turned out only one had been asked, a singer/songwriter who Mark had run into in
the hallway on the way into the current meeting and invited to perform at the event. Harry came
up with two more names of the top of his head and said he’d ask them to participate.
Mark suggested that, rather than doing the traditional Q&A, we encourage the audience to
take their questions and discuss them in the small groups. I suggested that we put one panelist
into each small group, to help facilitate and discuss. Harry liked both these ideas, but Jeune
thought “we should have a chance for Q&A.” There was some gentle push back—“that energy
can go into groups”—and we eventually compromised on taking one or two questions before
going to small groups. Harry restated the schedule we had so far, and asked “how do we end?”
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Mark remembered that at the previous meeting we had discussed having participants “report out
on what's happening in the community.” Harry agreed, but also opined that the event does not
need to have a big finale or a final product afterwards, because “we cannot accomplish, in the
four hours we've given ourselves, more than the beginnings of a conversation.”
Harry said that he would call the regional gay newspaper and website to clarify and
confirm the event advertising in their publications. Someone asked if the queer press will attend
the event itself, and mentioned that he has had problems with them taking photographs without
permission in the past. Harry did not think they would come “if there aren't naked people.” Mark
asked Harry to contact the library about letting us in an hour early to arrange the space; Harry
said he was sure there would be a list to get in early, but that he would confirm. He then asked
about having a moderator during the panel. Mark volunteered and asked for someone to co-lead
with him; Harry demurred, saying he had done enough of those already, but Jeune agreed. Mark
asked for someone to do an opening speech welcoming people to the event, and this time Harry
volunteered, saying he wanted to personally thank his contacts at the library for having us. Mark
re-confirmed that he would be moderating the panel and asked Jeune if he would handle the
report-back after the breakout groups, to which Jeune agreed. Harry asked if someone could
handle splitting the audience into small groups, and someone joked about just saying “tops over
here, bottoms over there!”
I noted that no one had volunteered for the final check-back, and volunteered myself. We
did a last check to make sure everything was covered, and Harry said “I’m sure we'll have
forgotten something, and I'm sure we'll do it.” Mark reminded himself to “get a femme-dyke for
the panel.” Having occupied the booth for just under two hours, we all paid our checks and got
up to leave. On our way to the parking lot there was a flurry of heartfelt hugs.
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***
The regular, ongoing, everyday details of MMADV and Sweet Tea's work for gender
justice are the focus of this chapter. The opening vignettes illustrated some specific differences
between the groups, in both how they functioned and how they spoke about and understood their
work. What follows covers what the groups actually did in endeavoring to create gender-
egalitarian social change, the discourse and understandings that formed their group-level
cultures, and how the members saw themselves benefitting from their work in the groups. It
contributes to the overall argument of the dissertation by showing how intersecting identities
shape the groups’ activities, understandings and discussions about gender justice issues, and what
the members get out of their involvement.
The majority of writing on the activities of anti-sexist men’s groups is either descriptive
(Banyard 2011; Barker et al. 2007; Coker et al. 2011; Berkowitz 2004; Casey 2010; Christian
2011; DeKeserdy et al. 2000; Douglas, Bathrick, & Perry 2008; Douglas, Nurridan, & Perry
2008; Esplen 2006; Kimmel & Mosmiller 1992; Shiffman 1987) or evaluative (Ahrens et al.
2011; Dworking et al. 2012; Earle 1996; Gondolf 2004; Langhinrichsen-Rohling et al. 2011;
Verma et al. 2006; Verma et al. 2008). This literature serves to familiarize readers with the work
various groups do, or to argue that a particular method of presenting to men is more or less
effective. This chapter, instead, more deeply investigates the activities of MMADV and Sweet
Tea, to unearth the understandings and meanings that underlie the work they do. It contributes to
the overall argument of the dissertation by illustrating how social location impacts the
possibilities for group activity, the external realities of their communities, and the deep cognitive
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structures that undergird their sense of the work, all of which impact how the groups themselves
function. In doing so, it endeavors to make a broader and more far-reaching contribution to
knowledge about gender, intersectionality, and activism.
At least in the U.S. context, men’s groups have struggled with issues of intersectionality,
and most unmarked men’s groups have little explicit discussion or understanding of the
differences between men. The kinds of problems that arise may include having few members of
color, not knowing how to address sexuality or relationships with women in a way that is not
heteronormative, or needing help connecting with audiences that are demographically different
from themselves. While they may acknowledge and even desire to address these concerns, most
unmarked groups lack concrete strategies to do so. In this chapter, I illustrate the ways social
location impacts the ways men understand and enact gender justice, giving clues as to how the
differences between men reduce diversity in unmarked men's groups and how activists may be
able to bridge these differences to create more inclusive and effective men’s anti-sexist
organizations.
I begin this chapter with a discussion of the commonalities I found among MMADV,
Sweet Tea, and Men CARE, the unmarked men’s group I studied previous to beginning my
research in Atlanta. I then discuss the specific activities of each group before delving into a
closer analysis of the group-level discourse and beliefs that undergird those activities, and finally
the ways that group members see themselves as benefitting from their work with these groups.
Similarities
Although they might not describe themselves in these terms, Muslim Men Against
Domestic Violence and Sweet Tea are both small, localized community groups, each built around
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the two distinct loci: a particular intersectional community identity, and a commitment to work
for more egalitarian gender order. Thus, both are working to create social change, impacting both
the social structure and the culture they are targeting, and both do so from a specific and
consciously acknowledged location within that social structure.
They are like many unmarked men’s gender justice groups in their commitment to
gender-egalitarian social change, though many national men’s groups and collegiate men’s
groups are substantially more institutionalized and can thus bring more resources to bear. The
self-consciousness about their location within a matrix of oppression is what sets MMADV and
Sweet Tea apart from these other groups. Both the specific social locations and the self-
consciousness about them create concrete differences in the activities and understandings of the
groups.
Though the many differences between MMADV and Sweet Tea are the focus of much of
this chapter, their awareness and self-consciousness about social location set these two groups
apart from the groups represented in the literature and make them similar cases of how social
location effects men's gender justice groups. There are other similarities between the two groups.
Both are located in Atlanta, both are made up of almost all African-American men (each has or
had one non-Black member, not including myself), and both have received some training and
guidance, through one or more of their members, from Men Stopping Violence (as discussed in
Chapter 1). Both are small grassroots groups that meet and organize primarily in private
residences and over the phone or the Internet, but occasionally produce larger events, open to the
public and held in public places. Both have relationships with feminist women’s groups,
although the nature of these relationships is different, as described later in this chapter.
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Unmarked men's groups are much more likely to be entirely white, or majority-white
with one or two members of marginalized racial groups; some are affiliated with or trained by
nationwide groups like Men Can Stop Rape or One in Four, but some are not. They are also more
likely to have some institutional location for their meetings (a classroom or non-profit office), as
well as institutional connections to women’s groups. My previous research with Men CARE
showed the often-unrecognized value of such resources, such as the ability to have meetings
much more easily and regularly, an increased institutional memory that relies less on any
individual member, and an expected and ongoing relationship with feminist women who can act
as guides or mentors. Men CARE met at a university space set aside for student's gender-related
concerns, they had a paid employee whose job included organizing meetings and presentations
for the group and building their materials, and their effectiveness had been measured by a
professor at the school. These institutional connections also have attendant limitations: Men
CARE would have never considered writing a manifesto, let alone publishing it as widely as
Sweet Tea did, and they could not have used religious language or parables to appeal to their
audiences at a public university.
Both MMADV and Sweet Tea make use of the specific material and cultural resources of
their community and their intersectional location in their gender justice work and discourse. For
MMADV, this includes using Atlanta-area masjids to hold events, giving khutbah at jum’ah and
various community events, getting t-shirts made for free from a Muslim screen printer, and using
ayat from the Qur’an and stories from the Sunnah to support their arguments, etc. The two most
common things I heard in interviews and public talks, were that “Prophet Muhammed, May
Allah’s peace be upon him, he stated that the best among you is he who is best to his wives. . .
[and that] we try to use Muhammed as our role model or our example, and he was never known
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to abuse his wives.” One or both of these ideas about how Islam rejects domestic violence were
mentioned by every interviewee, often multiple times. That is, the religious beliefs and texts of
their community became resources they could draw on to make arguments for their cause.
For Sweet Tea, this application of community resources was evident when they held
events at queer community spaces, requested food from queer restaurants for attendees, built an
audience by posting invitations on existing queer groups’ facebook pages, and drew on language
from queer art and literary culture. Even the formation of the group was possible because of the
density of resources and interpersonal connections already existent within Atlanta’s queer
community, which facilitated the formation of the group and the relationships within it, as
DeShawn says:
A lot of us came as friends. Everyone didn't know everyone, but we definitely came there
through relationships. . . . We all lived in the same city and kind of traveled in concentric
social circles, so while I didn't know these guys before, it wasn't like I didn't know of
them or know what they were about. So, for some of them, it was 'oh, nice to finally meet
you.’
The first event I attended with Sweet Tea was held at the Auburn Avenue Research Library on
African American Culture and History, just down the street from the Martin Luther King Jr.
National historic site. The space was able to be reserved because one of the Sweet Tea members
had built a relationship there when hosting events for the Atlanta Queer Literary Festival.
Both groups shared some similarities with Men CARE and with the groups in the
literature, including believing that men need a space to talk about these issues in their own way,
without worrying about women hearing them . While most men’s gender justice groups are,
implicitly or explicitly, built on the idea that men need their own space away from women to
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discuss gendered issues, these groups take it a step further, by also ensuring they’re talking about
the issues of men of their own social location, away from the eyes of men of other social
locations. “Men should be meeting as men to talk about sexisms without women around. I think
that conversation—which is something I learned from feminism—that the conversation can
change,” Dwayne told me, referencing the consciousness-raising and separatist spaces of the
early feminist movement to argue that “there should be spaces where men can come together and
talk about sexism. And similarly, I think sometimes because of the cultural differences, men of
color or Black men sometimes need to be able to come together to talk about sexism and some of
the ways that it emerges and manifests that are particularly cultural.” For MMADV there’s an
added dimension that centers this dynamic around religion and the separation of genders:
If there were women in the group, it could cause some of the brothers to lose focus. . . if
it’s just men then we can be free to talk with each other and not worry about, you know,
you might not want to say something because a female is there. . . . They got sisters who
do that too, they got their own groups, so we should do something like that too.
(Abdullah, MMADV coordinator)
Both groups were built on the premise that men need gender-segregated spaces to discuss
sexism, but the reasons they gave differed somewhat. For Abdullah and MMADV it is more
about maintaining gender segregation, avoiding the possibility of sexual temptation (“cause some
brothers to lose focus”), and being able to say things that they might not say in the presence of
women. For Sweet Tea, it is more about sharing culturally specific experiences around sexism, as
well as making a statement about men’s responsibility for ending sexism and not presenting a
burden for feminist women (discussed more in Chapter 4).
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MMADV and Sweet Tea also shared many of the struggles that I saw Men CARE face,
though in most cases they had a slightly different tint because of the other intersecting identities.
These included flagging membership and commitment levels, coming to terms with using male
privilege and homosocial spaces to advocate gender equality, receiving attention and gratitude
disproportionate to their work, and having their masculinity questioned (all detailed in Chapter
4). Given that their other intersecting identities created so many differences between MMADV
and Sweet Tea, and between them and unmarked men’s groups, it seems likely that
characteristics shared by all of them are relatively stable facets of men’s anti-sexist group
organizing in the United States.
I began this chapter with what the groups in this study have in common to discourage
readers from viewing these groups as opposites, or distant ends of a spectrum. The primary
similarity that runs through both groups and this entire dissertation, of course, is the need to
manage doing gender justice work from a social location that is gender-privileged but oppressed
or marginalized around other identities. The remainder of this chapter is organized to highlight
the differences between MMADV and Sweet Tea, because the contrasts show how powerfully
and deeply social location impacts men’s gender justice groups, and because these differences
contribute to the underrepresentation of marginalized men in unmarked men’s groups and the
research literature on engaging men. In Chapter 1, I discussed the differences in demographics
between the groups: whereas MMADV is primarily mid-life working-class heterosexual African-
American Muslim men, Sweet Tea is primarily younger professional-class African-American
queers who are male-bodied but with varying gender identifications. In the sections that follow, I
lay out differences in the groups’ activities, the group-level culture that is formed by their
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discourse and understandings, and the benefits that group members said they receive from their
involvement.
“We’re Definitely Going to Be There With Her”: Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence's
Activities
MMADV members see themselves doing very similar things to unmarked men’s anti-
domestic-violence groups, other than the specifically Islamic ways they go about their work.
When I asked what was different between MMADV and similar groups outside the Muslim
community, the answers I got tended to sound a lot like Abdullah’s: “It’s basically the same
thing, the only difference is [the] religious and spiritual dimensions.” There is the problem,
however, of being one small group, with few resources, to attempt to do for the Muslim
community what many varied groups do for the general population. MMADV attempted, with
limited deliberateness and moderate success, to fulfill the responsibilities of multiple forms of
public education campaigns, services to individual women who are victims of DV, and
fundraising and support for women’s organizations. Other than the planning meetings and
phonecalls, all of the events I attended and the actions I heard about in interviews fit into these
three categories.
The planning meetings for the group were supposed to occur about every month, but were
frequently postponed or commuted into conference calls. Often this happened at the last minute,
because too many people wouldn’t be able to make it, because a member’s wife gave birth the
night before, because the coordinator’s job gave extended his shift (he sent out a text saying
“looks like they put another stop on me. Will not be there by noon. Will be there via phone. Life
of a trucker!!!!”), or simply because it slipped people’s minds (the class implications of this are
discussed in Chapter 4). During my time in the field, only one full in-person meeting happened,
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though I heard about other impromptu meetings happening whenever two or more members
happened to be in the same place. The one in-person meeting I attended was at the house of the
coordinator, Abdullah. It was about two hours long, and was attended by four members.
The conference calls were similarly sporadic and last minute, such that I would often
receive a text from the coordinator in the morning telling me of a conference call that afternoon,
or later receive a text message telling me that the call would be postponed until the next day. The
calls tended to be about an hour long and have four or five members on the line. I got the
impression that before my time in the field, meetings were similarly rare, as the previous
coordinator, Sayeed, told me: “I had a Facebook group for a while, that's basically what it was. . .
like any organization, oftentimes if you're very passionate about it, sometimes it's an
organization of one. . . . I wouldn't say MMADV was a one-man organization. . . but I had to
organize a lot of the events and I had to take on that responsibility.”
The group’s Facebook page was well-trafficked, and had a smattering of posts in each
category. Some were organizational posts, drumming up attendance for a meeting or event or
asking for help with some task or with funding; some had educational or motivational messages
about gender-based violence, or updates on current news relating to domestic violence in the
Muslim community; some were requests by new people for more information about the group. A
sizable number of the posts, however, were messages about Islam that were unrelated to
domestic violence (one person spent two months posting an ayat of the Qur’an each day, and
another advertised online Islamic educational programming), or that related to community
concerns that were not specifically Islamic or domestic-violence-related, like the killing of
Trayvon Martin.
19
The most frequent commenters were Abdullah, the coordinator, Umm
19 Trayvon Martin was a 17-year-old Black boy who, during the time I was in the field,
was shot and killed by volunteer neighborhood watch coordinator George Zimmerman under
suspicious circumstances. Zimmerman was acquitted under Florida’s Stand Your Ground statue,
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Kulthum of the Baitul Salaam Network, and a handful of other men and women whose only
connection to the group was through Facebook.
Despite the sporadic meetings, busy and noisy Facebook page, and substantial
organizational difficulties, MMADV still succeeded in holding some public education events and
creative campaigns in their community. The biggest event they had during my time in the field
was Purple Hijab Day, the previously mentioned annual event that raises awareness about
domestic violence in the Muslim community and serves as a “time for us to remember all those
victims, around the world, who are victims of domestic violence” (Abdullah, in his introduction
at the event). It was held in a centrally located, majority-African-American Atlanta Masjid,
lasted for just over three hours, and included four speakers, two of whom were imams. The
audience fluctuated over the course of the event, from about 30 to 70, with just under half being
men (Purple Hijab Day is described more fully in the vignette that opens Chapter 4).
The group also sponsored talks at masjids and universities, where the coordinator would
give a khtubah or a presentation on domestic violence and Islam. During his time as coordinator,
Sayeed told me he “would have events every few months, we had events in mosques or other
places, or just workshops or lectures about domestic violence in the Muslim community. We’d
try to get some imams involved to talk about domestic violence, just to have public awareness on
the issue.” Abdullah gave similar talks, and though these varied in content depending on the
audience, they were geared towards raising awareness:
I did a lecture in Birmingham, and I talked about domestic abuse. . . . My son was there,
and he said he saw brothers start to cry inside the Masjid. . . . So, any chance I get, I try to
despite the police having explicitly told Zimmerman not to engage and despite Martin being an
unarmed minor. The racist overtones and the history of black men’s killers going unpunished
made this case a source of nation-wide tumult, especially in communities of color.
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bring up the concept of domestic abuse. If I’m asked to talk at a masjid or an Islamic
center, I try to incorporate it somehow in what I’m doing.
These talks also illustrate how MMADV used Islam as a resource, because their ability to reach
audiences is amplified by leveraging specifics of the Muslim community and culture. “I think the
main thing we need to do is get into the masjids. . . . that’s the best way to do it, because now you
have a captive audience,” Waleed told me when I asked his thoughts about the group’s future:
“meeting in the masjid on Saturday evening about domestic violence, you’re going to hear
crickets in there because no one’s going to show up. But if you do it for jum’ah. . . you’re not
going to miss anybody, because everybody’s going to show up. We’re obligated to be there.”
The other ways that MMADV tried to create public awareness were through t-shirts and
bumper stickers—that is, small public messages intended to get people thinking and maybe
asking questions about the group or the issue. Both projects were relatively small and short-lived.
The t-shirt printing was only about a dozen shirts, bright yellow with purple printing that bore a
purple ribbon, said the name of the group and the slogan “Take a stand!” on the front, and “Stop
abuse now” on the back. The bumper stickers, which said “Prophet Muhammed never beat his
wife, so why do you?” were a small enough batch that I never got to actually see any in my time
there. Still, the members believed them to be effective and subtle ways to get the message out: “I
would wear the t-shirt, and then people would ask me about it. And then I would tell them, it's an
organization made up of Muslim men who are fighting to counter domestic violence”
(Mahmood). It seemed that the conversations they started were more likely to be with curious
people outside of the Muslim community, not with other Muslim men.
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MMADV also attempted, when they were able to with their limited connections and
resources, to help individual women who were dealing with abusive situations. Often this was by
raising funds to help women in need; I regularly got text messages like this pair:
Asa….Brothers!!!! As you all know I am the coordinator for Muslim Men Against
Domestic Violence…we have a serious situation.We have a sister from East Africa who
is homeless.She has no children,no money.She has NO where to go.We must get her
temporary shelter this week until we can find her more stable residence.I need a total of
$135.00 by Isha tonight so we can get her some food also.Please text me if you can help
this sister so that she will not end up with the Kuffer and possibly mistreated.Let's Go!!!!
Ma Sallam
Asa…Takbir!!!! You brothers came through yesterday.Your donations were greatly
appreciated!!!! The sister has been housed temporarily at a hotel in the south Atlanta
area.you heard my place and you answered!!!! Here at Baitul Sallam and Muslim Men
Against Domestic Violence we experience situations like this on a regular
basis.Sometimes we assist sisters and or brothers who are abused, neglected,homeless,or
who just need a helping hand.We thank you for all your help!!!! May Allah bless all of
you!!!!! May Allah accept all your good deeds and May He turn your bad deeds into
good deeds.aaaammmmeeeen
This form of fundraising was surprisingly
20
effective, probably in part due to the Islamic focus on
taking care of the poor and needy. Zakat, one of the five pillars of the Muslim faith, requires
20 I have heard of no other men’s anti-violence group, or any anti-gender-violence group
at all, that attempts this form of fundraising. While this means that there is no possibility for
comparing efficacy, it seems likely that the other groups do not attempt it in part because they do
not see it as a viable way to raise money among their communities.
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Muslims who have the financial means to give a portion of their accumulated wealth to care for
Muslims in need (and further giving beyond the required amount is encouraged). Those who give
zakat are believed to be spiritually purified by the act, and those who do not are said to be
rejected as hypocrites by Allah, with their prayers going unheard. This culture of giving money
to take care of Muslims in need worked in MMADV’s favor, and allowed them to help women in
need through instantaneous fundraising for their needs.
Occasionally this help to individual women took the form of accompanying them to court
proceedings or physically helping them relocated out of abusive households. When I asked
Abdullah what he felt the biggest accomplishments of the group were, he told me “So far it’s the
Purple Hijab day and that day I escorted a sister to court. . . . She said ‘Brother Abdullah, I’m
afraid,’ and I went to court with her. . . and I was there the whole proceeding with her. . . and then
I escorted her back to her house.” This was rare enough that it never happened during my time in
the field, but the members who took part felt their involvement in this way was special and
important.
The group also attempted to help and support women’s organizations that worked against
DV. This typically took the form of assisting Sister Umm Kulthum with fundraising and event
support for Baitul Salaam. The coordinator told me that he had met with a representative from
Partners Against Violence, a long-standing anti-DV organization that provides a shelter and
hotline, various victim services including legal aid and counseling, and community outreach, and
offered the group’s assistance to them. There was never any follow-up, however, and MMADV
never provided any material support to them.
The supportive MMADV presence at women-run Baitul Salaam events also sometimes
faltered, as when Umm Kulthum secured an auditorium to do a talk at a university for DV
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awareness month. Abdullah told the group in advance that “she’s really excited, so we’re
definitely going to be there with her and make sure everything is, try to make a presence as best
we can.” That was the last we were informed of it. To the best of my knowledge, none of the
MMADV members were there, and no substantive support was given.
This was part of a larger pattern: the programs that were not spearheaded by women were
especially vulnerable to failure. The successful programs were those where the plan was clearly
laid out by women, as when Abdullah e-mailed the group about Purple Hijab Day and said “The
purple hijab day is coming up soon.I have been asked by Umm Kulthum to arrange for the
program to be hosted by the Atlanta Masjid.I am waiting to hear back from them.” The list of
programs and projects that were unsuccessful or abandoned is long, and discussed in more
details in Chapter 4.
“We Spent Most of the Time Community-Building”: Sweet Tea's Activities
Sweet Tea’s events were much more clearly centered around their community-building focus,
especially if one understands the Sweet Tea Proclamation in the same way the members do, as
physical evidence of their community and as a written record of their conversations to be shared
with the wider social justice movement, broadly conceived. Their events all fall broadly into
three categories: creating a community and a space to have conversations about gay/queer men
and sexism; creating a public voice for these issues; and later, contributing more broadly to
social change. Ita, the founder, gave me a sense of the priorities of these events when I inquired
about the group’s purpose: “It was definitely more about community-building, I think that was
our primary task. Besides writing the proclamation, we spent most of the time community-
building. And people did panels, there were different conversations that were had and led.”
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Because community is a key part of the self-conception and discourse of Sweet Tea, their
events were centered around building relationships and creating the kinds of spaces where Sweet
Tea members and others could have deep discussions about their experiences and understandings
around sexism. The early meetings, where the proclamation was drafted, were held at member’s
houses, often over shared meals, and were clearly understood by members as being as much for
the community and conversation as for the product. Writing the proclamation was considered by
most members to be the most important accomplishment of the group, with building
relationships and community a close second.
The particular way that community-building dovetailed with writing, theorizing, and public
education was integral to the way the group defined itself. When I asked why the group’s name
included the word “southern,” Ita told me “A part of our work with each other was building
community with each other in a very Southern way. So, we did potlucks, we did dinners.” On the
website, a blog post about a members’ experiences and thoughts about masculinity during a
group discussion began with “There’s something about the casual nature of a brunch that just
ripens the air for introspective conversation about patriarchy,” and concluded that “I’m still
engaged in this work is because of my investment in addressing my own inherent patriarchy and
male privilege. However, remembering how I came to my consciousness fortifies me in that
work and it’s virtue. And it’s always nice to do that work surrounded by friends and good food”
(Sweet Tea 2009). This close connection between external social change, internal self-work, and
communal support through fostering personal relationships was a key part of Sweet Tea’s
strategy and way of understanding both how social change happens and how men are implicated
in feminism; the Southern-ness of potlucks and brunches was it’s particular, local inflection.
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While this community-building was clearly intentional and strategic, and understood by
some members as a critical part of organizing men in working for a gender-egalitarian future, it
also inevitably drew comparisons to other, more visibly active forms of social change work. As
Messner (1997) shows, different strands of masculine political engagement prioritize different
parts of men’s experiences in an unequal gender order—the costs of masculinity, the benefits of
male privilege, or the differences between men—and these priorities pull against each other.
Similarly, Sweet Tea’s emphasis on community-building among men (often around the costs of
masculinity, or experiences of marginalization based on the differences between men) pulled
against their ability to more concretely and actively organize in other ways (i.e. those that might
emphasize male privilege, which the group was certainly critical of). When I asked Jeune what
the group does, he told me “We talk. We catch up with each other. . . all in an effort to build and
sustain community. . . . At times I felt like it was just chilling!” This is not a critique of Sweet
Tea for insufficiently attending to male privilege—clearly substantial parts of their work was
about understanding, critiquing, and attempting to curtail male privilege as it applies to
gay/queer men—but a recognition that the theoretical priorities also have concrete, on-the-
ground effects on group organizing, and that they were felt by group members.
After a year of communal discussions, deliberation, writing, and revision, the core
members of Sweet Tea completed the Sweet Tea Proclamation (see Appendix 7). They published
it online, and also planned a “Coming OUT Party” at the local feminist bookstore, Charis books.
The website includes the proclamation, bios of each of the members, pictures from the events, a
reading list of texts that informed the group’s view of the issues, and even a few blog-style
articles by the members (Sweet Tea 2009). Holding the Coming Out Party at Charis was an
intentional decision intended to introduce the group to more of Atlanta’s feminist activist
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community and show alliance and accountability to feminist women. With the exception of one
member who had already moved out of town, all of the original eight core members attended and
debuted the document
21
. It was well attended, with an audience approaching 50 people filling the
small bookstore’s event space and some people standing for a better view of the Sweet Tea
members, seated in a semi-circle on metal folding chairs. Though mostly young and middle-
class, the audience was diverse in terms of race and gender, and many of the audience members
kept in touch with Sweet Tea and attended later events as well.
After the Coming OUT Party, Sweet Tea’s focus on community-building and creating space
expanded beyond the core membership. The group began organizing “events that were just kind
of meet and greets, they were just opportunities for folks to come and gather, for all of us to be in
each others' space and talk about a lot of the same things that we talk about in the paper,”
according to Deshawn: “It was open to trans-men and different folks, anybody who wanted to
come, but it was very intentional about being for men and applying all these things in male
space, as opposed to intruding on women's space to have these conversations with them.” These
more public gatherings also served the purpose of creating a public voice on the issues, a second
category of Sweet Tea events. This included the online publication of the proclamation and the
“Coming OUT Party” that accompanied it, the many different and increasingly public
discussion-based events, and even some presentations and panels in which members took part.
The events Sweet Tea hosted after the completion of the proclamation included a breakfast
buffet and feminist discussion at a gay-owned restaurant, a brunch potluck with “fun
games/exercises [about] how our privilege has affected the women in our lives,” and a
21 This includes one member who had left the group previously on less-than-friendly
terms. He returned for the Charis event, in part to represent his contributions to the document and
in part to give voice to his disagreements.
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Stonewall
22
-anniversary panel on male privilege and queer history. These sorts of public events
and discussions helped create a public voice about Sweet Tea’s key concerns, spreading the
conversation beyond the confines of the core membership. They tended to last about three hours,
and were often held in public spaces that were already connected to the queer community, such
as the gay-owned restaurant where the group sometimes held organizational meetings (see this
chapter’s vignette), or a progressive church that regularly hosts queer-affirming programs. Some
were very well-populated, some were “intimate. . . . with seven of us total sprawled across [Ita’s]
living room furniture.” (Sweet Tea 2009).
During this time, Sweet Tea enjoyed some notoriety in Atlanta’s progressive community,
such that “sometimes we'd get an offer to come speak at a class, mostly speaking engagements,
be on a panel. . . folks saying ‘hey, I would love for somebody from Sweet Tea, or Sweet Tea to
be a part of this, or even for Sweet Tea to sponsor an event’
23
” (Mark). He specifically recalled
being asked to speak at Agnes Scott, a women’s liberal arts college. This shows the esteem in
which Sweet Tea members were held by the local feminist community, but also may owe
somewhat to the pedestal effect (Peretz, forthcoming; see also, Chapters 1 and 4). They certainly
point to the perceived exigency of Sweet Tea’s work in Atlanta at the time.
The last events the group organized before dissolving were a fundraiser for the victims of
the January 2010 earthquake in Haiti and the aforementioned Queers Run Amok event to support
local queer movement organizers. For the former, Harry told me, Sweet Tea asked friends to
donate their talents, “musicians and poets and spoken word artists, for us all to come together
22 Stonewall was a riot, sparked by a police raid at a gay bar, and often credited with
starting the gay liberation movement of the 1970’s and later LGBTQ activism.
23 Because these sorts of events were less formal and required less organizing on the part
of the group, they left no traces that I could access as data. Therefore, I have no specific
knowledge of them, such as number of such events, group members involved, topics of
conversation, locations or dates.
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and have an evening that raised awareness and built connections, raised a little bit of money to
send down.” The latter was well-attended and considered a success by the group, but while it
closed with a sense of motivation, it ended up being the final public event Sweet Tea organized.
After Queers Run Amok there were more meetings of the remaining core members,
which largely served as social gatherings. The last meeting was held around a small table beside
the pool at one member’s condominium, with a bottle of wine and candied pecans to sweeten the
conversation. Three core members and myself attended. Two arrived late and so the meeting
began 90 minutes after it was scheduled to; the third had plans to go out with after the meeting,
and the friend arrived about an hour before the meeting adjourned and sat a the table talking with
us. Much of the time was spent catching up on each others’ lives, and while some of the was
spent on brainstorming and planning future events, nothing ever coalesced.
A possible public event related to the election was discussed, as well as a potluck brunch
to build membership, but both ideas were discarded when one more member began planning to
leave Atlanta, cutting the active local membership down to two (plus myself). While neither the
last two events or the two unrealized ideas were directly tied to the anti-sexist focused that the
group first coalesced around, the members viewed them as contributing to social change more
broadly. They reflected the shared the foundational sensibilities of the group, including
intersectional awareness, queer identity, community-building, and social justice.
Group-Level Culture
The group-level characteristics of activist groups shape and constrain their actions and
ability to effect change, their sense of what is possible, and the ways they understand and
respond to events (Blee 2012). Blee understands group-level culture as not only “the process
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whereby meanings are generated for social life,” but also as “a consensus of values or norms that
molds and constrains action” (2012, p. 31). Understanding an activist group’s internal culture and
sense of self, therefore, is an important part of understanding how they function and why they are
or are not effective. A group that only understands physical acts as violence will not only
understand, strategize, and react differently towards domestic abuse, but will direct themselves
towards a much smaller set of victims than a group that also conceptualizes verbal and emotional
abuse as violent. A group that sees domestic violence as stemming from a lack of self-control
might decide to organize anger management classes, whereas a group that connects domestic
violence to larger systems of oppression would be more likely to focus on broader structural
changes.
Within groups, these kinds of understandings are “always contested and being
remade. . . . Activist groups push for shared definitions and meanings, but these are never finally
accomplished and always emergent” (Blee 2012, p. 31). The discourses and understandings
discussed in this section should be understood, then, not as fixed and agreed upon by all
members of each group—indeed, some of the most interesting internal struggles stemmed from
disagreements about group culture—but as general trends during my time in the field. Discourse,
as it is used here, includes both what is said in the groups and everything around the discussions:
all the things that affect how the conversation happens, including who is involved, the personal
and power relationships between speakers, where it occurs, and the history leading up to it
(Foucault 1972). It includes what is said but also what is not said and what cannot be said or
even thought; it includes all the social actions, relationships, and structures that constrain and
enable the conversation and channel it into the shape it takes. These discourses and the
understandings that underlie them shape the groups’ work by encouraging certain ideas or
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courses of action, making others unattractive or unthinkable, and even delineating what the
group does and does not view as successful progress. The discourses and understandings of each
group, therefore, are central to how they function, how they are shaped by social location, how
they succeed or fall short, and what can be learned from them.
“The Best Among You is He Who is Best to His Wives”: Muslim Men Against Domestic
Violence's Group Culture
MMADV does not see itself as a world-changing organization. They are not trying to
create gender equality, change the social structure, or end violence or oppression. Instead, the
language they use to describe their goals and activities is much more limited and pragmatic. At
the conclusion of a conference call, the group’s coordinator wrapped up by saying "even if it's
just giving out fliers at the Masjid, I want to do something. . . just get the word out, let people
know that we are here, and we are doing something, you understand?" They use language like
“curtail DV ,” “speaking out against it,” “creating a conversation. . . to talk about it from an
Islamic perspective,” “just to have public awareness on the issue,” and “to advocate on behalf of
the victim.” These pragmatic and manageable goals illustrate how they see themselves—as
limited community activists, not a world-changing force—and how they understand their work
as being specifically about violence within families, not necessarily linked to other forms of
sexism or larger systems of oppression.
When I asked MMADV members what sexism looks like in their community, I heard
answers that were almost exclusively about violence and abusive relationships. Occasionally
these included stories of women being told what to wear, locked into their homes, or verbally
harassed, but these were always in the context of a romantic relationship with a clearly abusive
man. Some members hadn’t thought about abuse being anything but physical until joining the
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group. Only one seemed to include a broader critique of sexism and gender inequality, and this
was the ex-coordinator, Sayeed, who had been trained at MSV , taken a master’s level women’s
studies class, and since left the group. When I asked him about sexism in his community, he told
me
I see a lot of it. I see it as the idea that there are differences between the sexes, and this
belief that god wants there to be differences between the sexes, which I don't necessarily
believe is the correct interpretation. The belief that men are in control and women should
follow, that men should make decisions and women should listen--I see it a lot--that men
have the opportunity to leave the house and work, but women, their obligations to get
pregnant, if they don't get pregnant it's their fault. . . . I also see it in dress codes. Men and
women, in Islam, are both supposed to not dress wearing tight clothes. In the Qur’an it
says women are supposed to dress modestly; it also says men are supposed to dress
modestly. But what you totally see is a lot of sexist ways in which men, for example, they
come to the mosque, they wear tight t-shirts and whatever, and women are expected to
wear loose clothing, not tight jeans, loose jeans or an abaya, or a hijab, or a niqab, cover
everything but their eyes. You actually see sometimes women are wearing niqab and the
man is wearing shorts. He's enjoying the freedom, the privilege he has to be a man, but
he's making his wife wear niqab. Now, there are some Muslim women who wear niqab
by choice, I want to make that clear.
The issue of whether Muslim women truly chose to be veiled, the constraints on their choice, and
the meaning of such choices have been thoroughly debated in Western feminist outlets, and some
empirical research has followed (Ahmed 1993; Charrad 2011; Read & Bartkowski; Mohanty
1988; Wadud 1999, 2006). Though he may not be aware of this work, Sayeed is engaging in
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scriptural interpretation very similar to other progressive voices within Islam. Most MMADV
members, however, are not concerned about the nuances of constrained choice and religious
meaning; they are focused on what they see as the clearcut issue of domestic violence.
Though often couched in the language of Islam, the motivations and discourse of
MMADV are relatively mainstream liberal values like fairness, equal rights, anti-violence, and
protecting the vulnerable, in this case, women in abusive relationships. Most of the members
spoke of understanding violence against women through a comparison with women in their
families, often their daughters. Waleed described his motivation as being “because I have
daughters, and when I see women being abused like that, that was the trigger that did it, because
I’m thinking suppose that was my daughter, how would I respond?. . . . So, we need to stop this,
because it could be a family member.” Mahmood gave a similar response, “I’m a father with four
daughters. . . and I would like for them to know that I'm there to protect them,” with a nod to
Islam added when he said he wanted “to be an example for my son as well as my grandsons, of
the kind of man who has the utmost respect for women, and just tries to live up to what the
prophet Muhammed said, that the best of you in character is the best to their spouse.”
Discussions of feminism were notably absent in their motivations and discourse.
MMADV did not tend to talk about feminism directly or address other traditionally feminist
concerns like abortion, media representations of women, or workplace inequality. When
feminism came up in interviews with current members, it was always because I brought it up in
interview questions, and the responses tended to deny feminist influence (“I don’t think it’s
influenced by feminism, to be honest with you”). In some cases, the link between their work and
feminism was something the members hadn’t even considered previously: “Y’know, I never even
thought about that? Whether it’s influence by—no, I don’t think it was ever influenced by
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[feminism],” Waleed responded when I asked the question directly, attesting instead that his
work with the group “was just influenced by what was right and what was wrong. I never
thought about, this is a feminist stance. It was just what’s right and what’s wrong. I’ve got
daughters, I’ve got a mother, sisters, everything - would I want that to happen to them?” It is
worth noting that MMADV would not exist were it not for the efforts and gains of the feminist
movement—they were trained by the second-wave feminist-inspired Men Stopping Violence,
formed by a feminist women, and work on a social issue that would not be acknowledged as
valid but for the feminist movement—so Waleed’s response should not be taken as a statement of
fact, but of MMADV members’ beliefs about their distance and independence from feminism.
The most telling response to my queries about the influence of feminism on MMADV’s work,
however, was when Mahmood told me:
I don’t know what a feminist is in the broader sense, but in the sense that women are
equal to men, should have equal opportunities to men, should be given equal respect and
should have rights equal to men, yeah. And one of the rights they have is not to be abused
by men. In Islam it says that another Muslim’s property is sacred, his person is sacred, so
if it’s sacred you don’t have any right to abuse it, to take it, destroy it.
He shows some discomfort and confusion regarding feminism (“I don’t know what a feminist
is”) before returning to a liberal, equal rights discourse (“women are equal to men, should have
equal opportunities”), and finally relying to Islamic discourse to back up and explain this stance
(“In Islam it says”). This encapsulates MMADV’s sense of self and purpose as a liberal, single-
issue group with an Islamic flavor and little sense of themselves as connected to a larger feminist
movement.
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Women, Gender, and Violence. The members of MMADV see their work as primarily
about helping women; that is, they tend not to have a sense of ownership or personal benefit
from the work, like the members of Sweet Tea (see Chapter 2; discussed further in the next
section). This is based on an understanding of a hard and essential difference between men and
women, which also impacts the ways members understand gender violence and sexism. There is
a sense of holding women at a distance when, for example, Abdullah says “Muhammed, peace
be upon him, spoke about caring for the women, being kind to women. You see that Allah says in
the Qu’ran about being kind and just to women.”
This sense of “helping” was clear in both how members spoke and how they acted.
Sayeed, for example, described the group’s purpose as in part being about helping to
communicate women’s needs and critiques of the community in spaces where women had not
been listened to, because “our voices are heard sometimes more than women, but we can use that
to help women.” This was especially telling when I asked Mahmood about his involvement and
he said, among other things, that he “helped out with the Purple Hijab Day.”
Purple Hijab Day is MMADV’s big annual event, with multiple speakers working to
increase awareness and education about domestic violence in the Muslim community, and
although the fliers said it was hosted by MMADV, the fliers themselves were made by Sister
Umm Kulthum. When I talked to the MMADV coordinator before the event to find out what my
role would be, he told me “a lot of stuff is already pretty much good to go, Umm Kulthum is
really behind it, she is really spearheading a lot of it, so a lot of it is already pretty much done!”
She was the one who put up the event invite page on Facebook and posted reminders to it on an
almost-daily basis, whereas the members of MMADV posted rarely, if at all. In the meetings
leading up to the event, many of the things one would expect from a planning meeting were
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missing, such as discussion of speakers, times, advertising, etc. suggesting that most of this work
was in fact done by Umm Kulthum. This pattern was mirrored in later events, to such an extent
that often if Umm Kulthum was not directly involved, the event would fail to occur.
The idea that gender-based violence is mostly a women’s concern and that MMADV’s
appropriate place is to “help” is based on an essentialist conception of gender. Part of the reason
why the group is gender segregated, then, is because the members believe that “Allah made us
differently, and women can better relate to women” and the men of MMADV may be able to
“express things in a way that men may understand more readily” (Abdullah). As implied by
“Allah made us differently,” they envision the differences in part as god-given and thus inherent
and unchanging.
This essential difference between men and women is not consciously understood as
requiring or creating hierarchy or inequality. “The prophet Muhammed himself, he worked for a
woman before he became a prophet,” Mahmood explained, “So it’s codified, in the Qur’an, in
the sunnah, that men and women are equal, they’re just different.” The way members understood
this difference, however, tended to situate men as stronger and more capable, and women as
weak, vulnerable, etc., so much so that when Abdullah texted the members to propose a march of
Muslims against domestic violence, he wanted to “get about 1,000 people. . . . Men with women
in the center for protection!!!” This understanding is sometimes also inflected with a sense of
men’s ownership of women, a sense of possessiveness that situates men as subjects and women
as object, as when a group member told an audience “we’re trying to take a stand, protect our
females, and be the men that Allah wants us to be
24
.”
24 This protectionist focus may also draw some influence from a broad category of
cultural touchstones that came up occasionally in my study of MMADV, which I do not include
in the following section on cultural resources because it never came up directly in their work.
During interviews, however, a few members made reference to what might be loosely termed
Black Consciousness cultural production. While this category is clearly very broad,
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Discourses that portray women as frail, weak, vulnerable, and in need of men’s help and
protection are not new or necessarily anti-feminist—indeed, much early feminist progress was
made by portraying women as pure and virtuous but in need of men’s assistance and protection
to keep them safe from other men (Stansell 2011). These protectionist strategies, however, have
since been roundly critiqued as limiting, strategically short-sighted, insulting to women
(Eisenstein 2002; Kaminer 1990; Woolf 2011). If women are in need of protection because of
their vulnerability and merit it because of their purity, than women may never be strong or
critical without risking rejection and violence.
This essentialist perspective on gender not only harms women, but also meant the men of
MMADV deprecated men in specific, stereotypical ways. The stereotypes that uphold women as
virtuous and vulnerable tend to simultaneously position men as violent, depraved, and
ungovernable: men are positioned as that which women must be protected from. This showed up
encompassing everything from “Roots” and “The Life and Narratives of Frederick Douglas” to
Public Enemy and Malcolm X, it is notable for a sense of shared history and culture among
African-Americans, a critique of and alternative to mainstream American discourses about
Blackness, and in the case of this study, because none of these references were circulated in
Sweet Tea (also a majority-Black group). The Nation of Islam came up in many interviews, and
although none of the members of MMADV currently identify with the movement themselves
and some critique its separatism and more esoteric religious divergences from ‘traditional’ Islam,
they spoke highly of the Nation’s work to “[bring] about a sense of self-respect” (Mahmood) for
dispossessed African-Americans. Waleed had been a member of the Nation of Islam in High
School, and Mahmood had been a member of the Pan-African Revolutionary Movement in his
youth. Abdullah drew the roots of his interest in MMADV’s work to Public Enemy and Malcolm
X, who he credits with bringing him to Islam as well. In his interview, Abdullah told me about
Malcolm X’s focus on “protecting Black women, he talked a lot about that, and I guess he was
the one that really helped me to get involved. If you listen to some of his earlier speeches, he
talked heavily about protecting the woman and not to let anyone abuse her.” This last quote gives
some insight into the belief structures underlying MMADV, the narrow demographic group focus
(“protecting Black women,”) and the discussion of women as a unitary group (“protecting the
woman,” “abuse her”) and revisits the protectionist discourse that is a major difference between
them and men’s groups that are more connected to and based in mainstream American feminism.
It is also notable that these Black consciousness ideas are unmistakeably American - that is, not
drawn from traditional Islamic sources, but blended with them by the members of MMADV in
their own understandings of the world and the work.
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when Mahmood told me “I don't know whether women think like men or not, I don't think that
they do. They're not as predatorial as we are." There was one member who struggled with "how
Islam views how men and women should interact versus how I'm used to it,” but when working
with the group he tended not to push the issue, perhaps for fear of alienating other, more
conservative Muslims (Sayeed). There are certainly Islamic perspectives that are less essentialist,
but the members of MMADV did not tend to reference them and may not have been aware of
them (Wadud 1999, 2006).
This essentialist understanding of gender difference also undergirds the ways most
MMADV members understand the violence they work to curtail. Their common explanations of
the roots of relationship violence relied on the ideas that “men naturally are physically stronger
than women” (Abdullah), and that “when they see [their] authority being challenged in some
way or another, one of the first responses is they exercise their superior physicality in using
violence” (Mahmood). The other explanation that circulated was that relationship violence was a
problem of anger management, i.e., that abusive men become uncontrollably angry and lash
out.
25

The idea that domestic violence stems from anger and physical superiority, and the
batterer intervention/anger management responses that follow from it, have been widely
criticized in the feminist literature on abuse (Babcock, Green, & Robie 2004; Fagan 1996;
25 There were a few times that MMADV members did discuss violence in a more critical
way, as when Waleed told me that men’s violence came from “that control factor. That’s what I
learned in Men Stopping Violence, and that just seems to be why a lot of men do what they do.
We’re taught at an early age, as boys, that, you know, be strong, be in charge, go get what you
want.” Waleed and Sayeed were the only MMADV members to discuss violence or masculinity
in a way that referenced socialization like this (“We’re taught at an early age”), and were also the
ones who had received more education and training on the issues. It seems that, on the one hand,
their training influences them to understand gender and violence through socialization when they
stop to think seriously about it, but on the other hand, that these ideas have not yet permeated
their worldviews deeply enough to become more thoroughly incorporated in the work they do.
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Gondolf 1988, 1997, 2004; Gandolf and Russell 1986; Hastings & Hamberger 1988; Hamberger
& Hastings 1991; Hamberger et al. 1996; Johnson 2008). These critiques point out that most men
who batter their intimate partners rarely become violent in their other relationships, that some
violent and controlling behavior is premeditated (and thus clearly not an in-the-moment loss of
control), and that much of it does not rely on physical strength. They tend to instead sees
violence as a tool that abusers use to establish dominance and maintain power over romantic
partners. Nevertheless, the members of MMADV mostly see violence as stemming from anger
and physical superiority, which allows members to say things like “Someone asked [the prophet
Muhammed, peace be upon him,] ‘what’s the best advice you can give me,’ he said ‘don’t get
angry.’ Control his anger. So, many of the things that would be primary issues in domestic
violence are things that were already addressed in Islam by the prophet Muhammed”
(Mahmood).
Cultural Resources: Fairness, Family, Following Muhammad’s Example. The cultural
touchstones that are ubiquitously alluded to in MMADV are fairness, family, and following the
teachings of the Muhammad. Fairness is largely a way of expressing the liberal, equal rights
frame of MMADV, mentioned above. The group mission statement that Abdullah proposed in
the meeting detailed above said that the group sought to “establish peace, justice, righteousness,
and fairness on the earth.” In describing immigrant Muslim communities, one member told me
that “unfortunately women in some of these communities do not get a fair shake, so to speak”
(Abdullah). This sense of fairness underlies the indignation many members feel at the injustices
they see in relationship abuse.
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Unlike the individualistic, woman-centered framework used by many feminist groups
that support survivors of domestic violence, or the individualistic, male-centered models of
bystander intervention or batterer intervention programs, the unit of analysis for MMADV’s
work and understanding of gender-based violence is the family. The Purple Hijab Day event was
introduced by the imam of the hosting masjid, who argued that Islam provides a way out of
domestic violence situations, saying that “the first human group is the family group,” and that
Islam provides “a start to help families in need, to help women in need, to help children in need.”
During the first conference call I participated in, we all introduced ourselves and said something
about our involvement in the group. Brother Waleed said he was excited to be a part of the group
because “I think we need this, as far as protecting the family.”
When I asked Mahmood about his work with the group, he told me “MMMADV is kind
of an adjunct organization to the Baitul Salaam Network, which is an organization that helps
families—women and children—who are victims of domestic violence.” In many ways, “family”
became a stand-in word for “women,” so much so that Mahmood describes a domestic violence
organization first as helping “families”, and then has to correct himself and specify that in this
case he means “women and children.” This conflation of women, mothers, and families was
common and speaks to the underlying understandings of the men. When I later asked Mahmood
if there was anything he would like the whole world to know about the group and it’s work, he
said he wanted it know
that Muslims are very family-oriented people. . . family is very important to Muslims,
and women are very important in Islam. Someone came to the prophet Muhammed,
peace be upon him, and said something to the effect of ‘who should I revere the most?’
and he said ‘your mother.’ And he said ‘After her, who?’ he said ‘your mother.’ And he
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said ‘After her, who?’ he said ‘your mother.’ And he said ‘then, your father.’ So, that’s the
esteem that Islam puts upon motherhood and women. One of the excuses for someone not
going to make Jihad or fight in the cause of Allah, is if they were to stay home and take
care of their mother. If that’s what they had to do, that’s more highly esteemed by Allah
than someone going out fighting to protect the society.
This quote shows how one member of MMADV sees Islam supporting women’s equality and
importance, and indeed this discourse within Islam of the importance of women may help bring
physical and symbolic resources to the work. However, it also has the effect of partially or
completely erasing the women themselves as individuals who have desires, needs, and abilities
outside of the assumed family nurturance role. There is nothing in the quote, for example, that
would suggest the importance or rights of childless wives, single women, etc. This comes across
clearly in a message one of the members posted to the Facebook page, saying “When you slap
and punch a woman. You are slapping and punching future generations!!!! Think about that!!!”
While it obviously doesn’t suggest that the member thinks the woman herself is unimportant or
doesn’t deserve bodily autonomy and safety, it does suggest that the reason she should be free
from violence is because of “future generations,” not because of her own humanity and inherent
rights.
The most common cultural resource used by the group, unsurprisingly, is the idea of
following the example of the prophet Muhammed, which is a tenet of the Islamic faith and is the
ideal to which Muslims are supposed to aspire. Every member I interviewed used some variation
of this message, and it also came up frequently in their meetings and public events. The
following are only some examples:
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If you say that you are following the way of the Prophet Mohammed, peace and blessings
be upon him, he’s never, never even whipped an animal, so he’s never committed
domestic violence. So if we say that we follow his guidance, then we have to follow what
he does. So we have to let people know that this is not part of the religion, because he
never did that. (Waleed)
Show me a hadith, show me a documentation that Prophet Mohammed ever hit any of his
wives. He did not. So if he is the best of creation, if he is the one that Muslims are
supposed to be aspiring to—we have beards and everything because we want to be like
him—how can we? (Sayeed)
Sayeed also told me proudly of the bumper stickers he had created and distributed, which said
“Prophet Mohammed never beat his wife, so why do you?”
This specific way of discussing domestic violence is important because it illustrates a
substantial part of the difference between MMADV and unmarked men’s groups, and one of the
reasons why the group members saw their work as important. Abdullah described the differences
between MMADV and other men’s gender justice groups as
we would try to use Islamic guidelines and Islamic perspective to address key issues, for
example Prophet Muhammed, May Allah’s peace be upon him, he stated that the best
among you is he who is best to his wives. . . and we would try to encourage brothers not
to abuse their wives because as Muslims, we try to use Muhammed as our role model or
our example, and he was never known to abuse his wives. . . . So, we try to use
theological viewpoints to get across to the brothers that that kind of behavior should not
be done.
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This particular hadith
26
came up in almost every interview—sometimes more than once in the
same interview—and frequently was brought up in meetings and public events. Some members
were also able to engage in complex discussions of scriptural interpretation around related issues,
such as referencing the multiple ways that the Arabic linguistic root “DaRaBa” can be translated
(to strike, to beat, to travel, to exit, to give examples, to take away, to ignore, to condemn, to
explain, etc.) to argue against interpretations that authorize spousal violence. Their religious
expertise is especially high when it relates directly to the group’s work, though they are not
similarly aware of other more progressive, gender-egalitarian scriptural interpretations that exist
(i.e. Wadud 1999, 2006). This discourse, especially as contrasted with the similarly progressive
Islamic interpretations that MMADV members are not aware of, draws links between the group’s
anti-domestic-violence work and their religious focus; it simultaneously defends the group from
any in the Muslim community who dismiss their work as un-Islamic and defends Islam from
those outside the Muslim community who view Islam as antithetical to gender justice. The
frequency of this kind of statement shows the importance MMADV attached to this link, and to
doing gender justice activism in a way that spoke to their own religious identities.
“None of Us Are Free Until We All Are”: Sweet Tea's Group Culture
Although under no illusions that they will accomplish it themselves, the members of
Sweet Tea are trying to change to world. They see themselves as part of a much bigger and
26 There are actually two ahadith with text to this effect. One describes the prophet as
saying “The best of you is the best to his wives, and I am the best of you to my wives, and when
your companion dies, leave him alone” (at-Tirmidhi, 2007, V ol. 6, p. 502, #3895). The
commentary on the last half suggests that it tells Muslims to abstain from saying negative things
about loved ones who have died. In the other, Muhammed says “The most complete of the
believers in faith, is the one with the best character among them. And the best of you are those
who are best to your women” (at-Tirmidhi, 2007, V ol. 2, p. 530-1, #1162). Because group
members were paraphrasing and often did not use the entire hadith, leaving off the parts that
clearly distinguish one from the other, it was sometimes unclear to which they were referring.
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broader worldwide movement to end all oppressions and bring about liberation for all. Mark
made this explicit during his interview, saying “I feel like Sweet Tea, the story will always be
told that it was a part of this larger push for liberation.” Over and over I would hear members say
things like “none of us are free until all of us are free” (Harry) or “oppression anywhere is
oppression everywhere” (Eddie). They are steeped in intersectionality through personal
connections, in feminist theory through academic background, and in privilege/oppression
movement organizational politics through their employment and personal history.
The members all considered the Proclamation to be their greatest group achievement, and
they tended to see this achievement as a modest but enduring contribution to the worldwide and
long-term project of ending oppression. While this may not have been the original intent of the
group, it became a clear part of their purpose and sense of self, as DeShawn described:
The group got together initially to have conversations, the conversations turned into the
will to produce a document. . . to put this on paper for posterity, for other folks to
understand that at one point in time a group of men gathered in Atlanta, Georgia. . . [and]
had conversations that are now recorded in a document, that are going to help others,
influence others towards this ideal of true liberation.
The members of Sweet Tea don’t only see themselves as part of this larger movement in
an abstract way; every one of the members is concretely situated in a larger anti-oppression
movement through membership, volunteering, or employment in other groups that do a wide
variety of anti-oppression activities. One member told me he first learned of the group through
his previous employment at “Project South. . . a leadership development organization. Their
focus is on movement-building and anti-oppression. So, everything from economic rights to
access to health care to education to gender to sexuality, like, liberation really, for everyone,
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rooted in social, economic stuff, really economic stuff, but actually dealing with oppression
overall.” Members worked for local, regional, and national human rights organizations, founded
social justice groups at their universities, ran cultural festivals, gave talks, performed art, and
published poetry in support of progressive causes. They spoke of attending national conferences
for progressive caucuses like Creating Change, the US Social Forum, and the National AIDS
Education and Services for Minorities convening. They are clearly deeply embedded in a thick
network of social change workers, and this shapes the way the group functioned as well.
The first event Sweet Tea organized while I was in the field, a day-long community
gathering called Queers Run Amok, was a celebration and support event for queers community
organizers working on a broad range of issues in Atlanta. The invitation that Sweet Tea sent to
potential speakers began:
When you first think of organizing efforts in Atlanta—Occupy Atlanta, Troy Davis,
immigration, reproductive justice, healthcare, housing, the people’s movement assemblies
—you may not realize just how LGBT folks are involved across all of these movements.
We are not relegated to only working on ‘gay’ issues. We want to create a space to
acknowledge our queer leadership across social movements, hear personal stories of how
we all came into this movement, and what we can all do to better support each other’s
work and strengthen our fabulously intelligent and engaged community.
This broad range of issues brings the group into contact with a tremendous diversity of people
who have some things in common with them and have some ideological similarities, but also
require the group to work intentionally across difference.
Queers Run Amok was attended by the most diverse group of people—across not just
race or sexuality but also ethnicity, gender identity/presentation, disability status, class, age,
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religion, immigration status, etc.—that I saw collected in one room during my entire time in
Atlanta. Perhaps more to the point, all of these forms of difference were touched upon
substantively, even if only briefly, during the course of this one event. During his interview, Ita
told me that intersectionality “was really an integral part of our analysis.” DeShawn said that
Sweet Tea does intersectionality “in a very organic way. When you are talking to people who live
at the intersections of all these things, I don't think you can divorce one from the other. It's not
like we have to bring it in to the conversation, it's already an innate part of the conversation.”
This claiming of an organically intersectional approach is a very similar claim to those made by
feminist women of color (Baca Zinn & Dill 1996; Combahee River Collective 1982; Collins
1990). What is notable here is that men are using this logic to understand and explain their own
experiences and understandings: the discourses that Sweet Tea members use to understand and
explain their own disjointed experiences of privilege and oppression mirror and rely on those
made by feminists of color.
The complexity and breadth of Sweet Tea’s thinking about intersectionality and
difference was mirrored in they broad and complex ways they understood sexism in their
community. They were clear that they were not only organizing against men’s relationship
violence against women, men’s sexist behavior more broadly, or even against sexist oppression
of women. Sweet Tea campaigned against all the myriad ways they saw patriarchal beliefs and
behavior harming people of all walks of life, including women, queer and trans people, gay men,
and even cisgendered straight-identified men.
Moreover, they did not see cisgendered straight-identified white men as the cause or
source of all sexism, as is often the case in grassroots progressive or radical groups. They were
clear and relatively consistent in also critiquing themselves and other queer men of color for their
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instantiations of sexism, and in understanding that some women also think and act in ways that
uphold inequality. When I asked what sexism looks like in their communities, the answers I
received ranged from gay men’s use of sexist language and sense of entitlement to touch
women’s bodies to their public visibility and greater access to institutions and space:
Even the agency we feel in grabbing women or being very intimate with women in an
aggressive way. I've seen gay men grab women's breasts, and the thought, the rationale is
'I'm not sexually attracted to you, so I can do this. That's my right, to touch your breasts,
because it's not invasive, because I'm not sexually attracted to you.' When in fact,
whether you're sexually attracted to her or not, those breasts belong to that woman and
she should still be allowed to invite you to touch them or not touch them. We don't think
about that, because we see patriarchy as exclusively related to sex. . . and it's not. You can
be asexual and still be a sexist pig. (DeShawn)
You go to Atlanta, there's like eighteen thousand spaces for gay men to be, that are very
anti-woman sometimes. . . . [During public discussions of LGBT issues,] women in the
space would be speaking, and queer men would just cut them off and take over the space
and just dominate. . . . The fashion industry is a great example of the ways. . . specifically
people who are gay or queer-identified are often privileged in certain spaces. . . . You get
to basically, as a gay men, define for women and contextualize what femininity looks
like. . . it's also going back to owning women's bodies, to having the rights to define
women's bodies, to say 'this is what's sexy, this is how you look attractive,' and women's
self-definition is stripped away from them. (Ita)
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I know one way would be the way in which queer men might call each other cunts, and
really working with the way in women are dehumanized on the basis of different ideas,
and so, when another queer man throws it at another man, it's used to say 'you're just like
her, you're just like those women,' so that's one way. There's a way in which we feminize
men to tear them down or condemn them. So, that's one way we do it. I think there's a
way that, also, queer men might condemn a woman if she's not presenting herself like an
ideal woman. . . the leadership in queer movements being very much male dominant. I
think we were being kind of broad, particularly because we were coming from different
spaces, different experiences. (Jeune)
The ways that gay and queer men contribute to oppression of women, through violations of
bodily autonomy, sexist language, and use of male privilege were a primary concern for Sweet
Tea, but they also saw sexism implicated in gay men’s relationships with each other. Jeune’s
quote above touches on this frequent concern (“we feminize men to tear them down”); Harry
confirmed the group’s critique of “femme-phobia or transphobia—how in the queer men's
community, men were judged based upon 'masculine characteristics are good, feminine
characteristics are bad.’” This deprecation of femininity among queer men takes many forms, but
the ones most commonly referenced appeared in the context of romantic/sexual relationships.
Eddie was incensed by the ubiquity of the phrases “No Fats No Femmes” and “Straight Acting,
Straight Appearing” on websites and apps for gay men to meet each other, “saying that only
masculine guys apply. Or you look at all the guys [they] date and they're all these muscly,
masculine kind of guys. . . . or only obsessed with dating white men, but you’re a Black guy, but
you think Black men are undesirable.” Feminist scholars have long critiqued gender policing and
linked the politics of desire with struggles for social justice, and Sweet Tea applied these
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critiques to relationships within gay men’s communities (Martin 1998; Messerschmidt 2000a,
2000b; Pascoe 2007; Snitow, Stansell, & Thompson 1983; Vance 1984; West & Zimmerman
1987).
There was also another concern about sexism in the gay men’s community which came
up frequently in interviews as a raison d’etre for the group, which was the sense that gay men
perceive themselves and are perceived by wider society as incapable of sexism. The members of
Sweet Tea were clear that even though sexism in their community is of “very different sort”
because “gay and bi and queer men have very different relationships to women,” there is still
sexism present, and they felt a need “to challenge that as well, and not just assume that 'oh,
because I'm gay, there's no way that I can be sexist’” (Dwayne).
This concern for the specificities of gay and queer men’s sexism illustrates not just a self-
critique, but also a complex understanding of both privilege and heteronormativity. This was
illustrated when Dwayne described having to defend the group’s purpose to some members of
the gay community who
felt like 'gay people aren't the ones being sexist, we don't even deal with women'. And I
was like 'well, that's kind of a problem', right, this idea of separatism being the way that
you don't have to engage feminist politics is dismissive, and that that in itself is a function
of sexism. That you don't have to deal with these issues, when in fact you do every day,
you still benefit from male privilege even as a gay man. . . . One of the heteronormative
assumptions is that so much of our talk about sexism and patriarchy is rooted in a
[romantic] relationship. . . which also makes it really hard to convince some gay men that
they are playing a part in sexism, because they're like 'well, I'm not ruling over my
woman, I'm not even interested in women, so therefore how can I be sexist?'
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DeShawn understands and critiques gay men’s gender privilege and argues that gay men
(and by extension, all men) have an obligation to “engage feminist politics.” At the same time,
he understanding that gay men’s particular social location, in relation to “the heteronormative
assumptions” made about sexism, makes it difficult for them to understand themselves as the
objects of feminist critique (this tricky balance is discussed further in Chapter 4). Ita similarly
told me "I think it's the job of the people who are the oppressors, people who are privileged, to
do the work of addressing their own privilege,” which sounds like a relatively routine social
justice movement trope. The twist is that in this case, the oppressors being referenced included
gay and queer African-Americans, and the speaker identified himself within that group.
Feminism, Gender, and Violence. Feminism, and intersectional and queer feminisms in
particular, are central to the self-understanding of Sweet Tea. The formation of the group “was
completely led by feminism,” according to Ita. “I wouldn't have put Sweet Tea together had it not
been for feminist praxis,” he explained, “I remember reading about women's consciousness-
raising circles in the early days of feminism. . . . Sweet Tea was modeled after that,
consciousness raising circles. We got together, we talked about issues, we addressed those issues,
supported each other, I think that's one way in which I really see it reflected, models of
organizing of women of color particularly.”
This close relationship to the feminist movement and it’s organizing strategies was
reflected in the activities of the group during my participation with them; even the meetings that
were specifically for planning an event had much of the time spent discussing each others’ lives
and supporting each other. Three different group members told me at different times that the
Proclamation was “modeled after the Combahee River Collective,” and they “debuted that paper
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at Charis books, in Atlanta GA, it's a feminist lesbian bookstore" (DeShawn). Unlike with
MMADV members, I never had to introduce the question of feminism with members of Sweet
Tea. Every member of the group brought feminism up themselves, showing that feminism as an
important part of their identity and worldview. Moreover, every member had a concrete, if
sometimes complex, understanding of and relationship to it, which they could elaborate to me
and connect to the work they did with Sweet Tea.
The members of Sweet Tea feel a sense of belonging in feminism, because it helps them
understand and explain their own lives and guides the praxis through which they organize for
their own concerns. Most members explicitly identify as feminists, and none had any questions
about what that might mean or how it might apply to them. They had different opinions about the
issue of whether men should call themselves feminist, pro-feminist, or some other term (see
Chapter 1 for a more thorough description of this debate). Ita’s side-stepped the issue of
identification by saying “To me, it's just about the work. I've been inspired by feminist work, I
would definitely identify as a feminist, but I also wouldn't argue with anyone who say I shouldn't
identify as a feminist, because it really isn't about the identity, it's about the work for me.” Ita
personally identifies as a feminist, but in saying he is fine with other people disagreeing with that
identification (“I wouldn’t argue,”) he shows both an awareness of the kinds of terminology
disagreements described above and a willingness to put the importance of his own identification
below the possibilities for working with others in the interests of gender justice (“it’s about the
work”).
Jeune, on the other hand, told me he feels uncomfortable with the label pro-feminist
because “when a man does it, it really kind of suggests that feminism is only an issue for women,
that women are the only people that struggle with gender oppression and sexism, and we neglect
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to really think about the ways in which men also struggle with those things.” This sense of
ownership and belonging in feminism stands in stark contrast to the “helping” that MMADV
does and sees as their proper relationship to feminism. Indeed, Jeune is dismissive of what he
calls “ally language. . . . sometimes I hate ally language, like ‘I’m pro-‘, or ‘I support Black
people,’ or ‘I support Latino communities.’ Yea, you support Black people, but are you against
racism is my question.” This dismissiveness of “ally language” illustrates the way most Sweet
Tea members would want men to relate to feminism, as direct constituents with a sense of
commitment borne of their own struggles with oppression and sexism. To them, the ways that
MMADV connects to issues of gender violence might seem remote and insufficient, perhaps
even disingenuous.
Because of this close and direct attachment to feminism, Sweet Tea members see
themselves as in alliance or coalition with feminist women and their organizations. They don’t
feel a need to maintain close and direct ties to women’s organizations, because they understand
themselves as moving in the same direction and as equally able to access feminist ideas and
make decisions about what qualifies as progress towards gender justice. They still desired
women’s input and “wanted to make sure that [feminist] women were not in conflict with what
we were doing,” Jeune told me, explaining that when they were working on the proclamation
they “would have friends that we knew, women, would go over our document or we would talk
to them about what we were doing or what we're talking about, to get their input” (Jeune). At the
same time, however, many members spoke of being careful to limit these requests and make sure
they were not asking women to do burdensome emotional or intellectual work for them (more
discussion in Chapter 4). This sense of ownership and belonging within feminism likely keeps
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Sweet Tea members motivated and involved in gender justice work, but can also cause
sometimes tension with women, as Dwayne told me:
I ran into some issues with women who felt like feminism was a women's thing. And that
there was something inherently about being a woman that made you more feminist than a
man who had some of those same sensibilities. I've always challenged that, sort of the
difference between identifying as pro-feminist versus feminist. For me, there are many
instances where women are very complicit to their own subjugation as women, and are
the ones who perpetuate and bolster sexism or patriarchy, just as some Blacks do with
racism. So, I didn't want to go to this biological determinism, that there's something
inherent in women that is able to make them more of a feminist than I can be as a man.
One unanticipated consequence of this way of understanding their relationship to women is that
the group felt fully competent to engage in anti-sexist efforts without maintaining a specific,
formal, or regular form of accountability or collaboration with women. As a result, their attempts
to maintain accountability to women foundered over time. When we spoke at the end of my time
in the field, Mark told me “I don't know if we were very intentional about staying engaged [with
women] or doing collaborative efforts. . . to me, we weren't as involved as we could've been. I
think we were involved as individuals, some more than others, but not as Sweet Tea. . . . I feel
embarrassed to say that.”
The ways that Sweet Tea members see their relationships to women, feminism, and the
feminist movement are based on an understanding of gender as a social construction (Connell
2000, 2002; Fausto-Sterling 2000; Lorber 1994; Pascoe 2007). Unlike MMADV’s religion-based
essentialism, Sweet Tea’s view of gender sees men and women as having many inherent
similarities, and sees their differences as largely a result of socialization. This not only allows a
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space for seeing themselves as having things in common with women and seeing feminism as
having something to contribute to their own lives and personal struggles, but also allows them to
recognize the trans community, critique their own cisgendered privilege, and in some cases
identify as genderqueer. It also allows them to see gender as fluid and to understand the gender
order as mutable, opening the possibility of imagining and working for radical shifts in how
gender is structured and functions. That is, MMADV would not be able to imagine a gender
order that was not structured around two diametrically opposed, complimentary genders, but
Sweet Tea’s constructionism allows members to envision and push for alternatives. Harry, for
example, believes “that ultimately, there need to be as many genders as there are people.”
This constructionist understanding of gender was largely implicit and I never saw an
instance where it needed to be stated directly among group members, but it came up in their
explanations of other things during interviews. When Mark was telling me about having mostly
female friends as an adolescent, for example, he told me “there’s some sort of affinity, it's
probably based on the social construct of gender and how you're expected to move through the
world.” This understanding of gender as socially constructed was woven deeply into the ways
Sweet Tea members thought about their work and place in feminism, as when Dwayne told me
about the one time he remembered being in conflict with feminist women:
I ran into some issues with women who felt like feminism was a women's thing, and that
there was something inherently about being a woman that made you more feminist than a
man who had some of those same sensibilities. I've always challenged that, sort of the
difference between identifying as profeminist versus feminist. For me, there are many
instances where women are very complicit to their own subjugation as women, and are
the ones who perpetuate and bolster sexism or patriarchy, just as some Blacks do with
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racism. So, I didn't want to go to this biological determinism, that there's something
inherent in women that is able to make them more of a feminist than I can be as a man.
The heart of Dwayne’s conflict with these women was his sense that, because gender is socially
constructed, feminism should be as available to men as to women. In explaining his perspective
on the issue, he specifically argues against essentialism’s extreme, “biological determinism.”
Seeing gender as a social construction is central to the community they build, the way they
address their work, and the way they understand gender-based violence.
Unlike the members of MMADV, who see violence as stemming from men’s presumed-
innate physical superiority and inability to control their anger, Sweet Tea members see it as
stemming from male socialization and the way masculinity is constructed in our society. “Men
are conditioned to hit,” DeShawn explained to me when I asked why men commit the majority of
violence: “Men are reared or conditioned to be propagators or perpetuators of violence. . . . There
is a covalent bond between the culture of masculinity and a culture of violence. They are just
inextricably linked. . . . Men, by nurture, are very violent motherfuckers.” The repurposing of the
phrase “by nature” shows how intentional DeShawn is in blaming men’s violence not on innate
traits, but on patriarchal socialization, on a “culture of masculinity and a culture of violence.”
Juene similarly placed the blame on socialization when he explained that “we’re told that we're
men when we are our most violent selves!”
This constructionist understanding of violence as socialized comes with a more structural,
sociological critique of men’s violence. Again, this understanding was implicit and went largely
unstated in all of Sweet Tea’s efforts, but it was made clear when I interviewed Harry:
We live in a world where men are overvalued and women are undervalued, and anytime
one group oppresses another group, there may not be a huge amount of violence but there
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is the possibility of violence, and the memory of violence that is used to keep the
oppressed group in line. A man doesn't have to beat his wife every day for her to know
that he's capable of violence and to be afraid of him. But periodically he may raise his
voice or raise his hand, and that is a tactic of intimidation. There's nothing innately
different about any human being in terms of their value or their basic human rights, and
so to live in a world where there's so many discrepancies, one group controls the other
group with violence.
Harry uses the example of a man abusing his wife as an analogy to illustrate how power and
control are maintained through “intimidation,” and how even though violence is not a constant
presence (“[he] doesn’t have to beat his wife every day”), the “possibility of violence” and “the
memory of violence” are what enable the power imbalance. In explaining men’s violence against
women by way of gender hierarchy (“men are overvalued and women are undervalued”), he
brings a broad, structural understanding to a problem that many would conceptualize in
individualistic or interpersonal terms.
This structural understanding of gender inequality and violence reflects Sweet Tea’s
weltanschauung, and leads to very different strategies of response. If violence is an interpersonal
or individual problem (or a family problem, as MMADV sees it), than individual-level
interventions like MMADV’s assistance for individual women feel most appropriate. When it is
understood as a social problem, however, Sweet Tea’s broader interventions—like the Sweet Tea
Proclamation—and attempts at shifting cultural values make more sense.
Cultural Resources: Community, Feminism, Black Gay Cultural Production. If the unit of
analysis for MMADV is the family, for Sweet Tea it is the community. The term community is
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an extraordinarily dense signifier for their members, including connotations of intersectional
identity, shared experiences, shared culture, friendship and trust, and obligation to protect each
other and work for each others’ benefit. It suggests not only who the members are connected to
and how they are connected, but also an impetus towards social change generated by these
connections. This density of meaning was evident in the unusually ungrammatical way some
members used the word, without an article (“a” or “the”), in phrases like “Sweet Tree brought
me to community,” (DeShawn) or “his auntie brought him in community” (Chris). I asked
DeShawn to clarify the special way he used the word:
Community is both a very tangible and metaphysical thing. When I say community, I
mean it in it's most literal and it's most existential sense. It brought me literally to a space
where there were other Black gay men, and it brought me to an understanding of my own
identity, how that identity was attached to a greater history and lineage of identities.
Because, when I say community, I'm not only talking about a literal space where people
commune. I'm talking about a certain history, a certain lineage, a certain dialect, I'm
talking about certain mores and norms, I'm talking about the way that when I talk to
Black gay people, I know I can say certain things that I wouldn't be able to say to
anybody else. Not because there's so much taboo, but just because no one else would
understand what I'm saying. We even have our own little language. . . things that are
damn near ubiquitous in Black gay culture—no one else understands! They come from a
history, right? When I say community, I'd talk about how my life and my story is
connected to the story of so many people who came before me and built this, and so
many people who will come after me and continue it on. So, the Chrises and Itas [two
other members of Sweet Tea] of the world, the James Baldwins and the Joseph Beams
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and the Essex Hemphills and the Asotto Saints and the Marlon Riggs, and not just those
kids, but how that's attached to the Audre Lordes, and some of our Black lesbian
sisters. . . . There's this shared understanding, this knowing. That's the only way I can
really describe it, community is a knowing of shared experience and shared purpose.
This sense of shared community was a large part of what Sweet Tea members say they got out of
the experience of being in the group. They spoke of having a “band of brothers” (DeShawn) who
they know they can still call on for support and understanding, of creating a space where they
could both critique and nurture each other, and of understanding their connection to feminist
issues that they don’t directly experience themselves through the lens of community. When Ita
critiqued the assumption that anti-sexism is the exclusive province of women, he did so through
the lens of community: “There's this ingrained assumption that as [a Black queer man] I wouldn't
care about sexism or women's well-being. . . . For me, it's innate. I care about my community. . .
and so for the health and well-being of my community, I'm going to investigate and deal with this
particular issue.” When he later spoke of his reasons for forming the group, he used the same
lens, arguing that “the creation of men's community, where we are encouraged to be emotionally
connected to each other and emotionally nurture each other, is to me such a big part of
addressing sexism as well.” Community is, in many ways, both the way Sweet Tea members
address sexism, and the reason they do so.
While community was the main cultural discourse that framed how Sweet Tea members
connected to each other and to the work their group does, they also shared a certain set of
cultural texts and resources that they could draw from and allude to. These were mostly drawn
from the Black gay creative movements of the 1980’s, but Chris was quick to point out that
“those gay men themselves learned from women. I think a lot of the Black gay men’s writing and
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organizing and identity-building was informed by, influenced by women. So, Joseph Beam and
Essex [Hemphill] and others talked about how they were influence by Audre [Lorde] and other
women, lesbian, queer, and straight” (e.g. Beam 1986; Hemphill 1992, 2007; Lorde 2000, 2006;
Lorde & Clarke, 2007; Riggs 2008, 2009; Saint 1989, 1996).
DeShawn mentioned many of the names involved in creating this cannon in the quote
about community, above. Dwayne mentions some of the same ones, and how they relate to Sweet
Tea’s feminist work, when describing the undergraduate courses that impacted him, including
“introduction to Audre Lorde, which was a huge influence in my theoretical development. That
was when I first started to read bell hooks, Carol Gilligan. . . but then also looking at men in the
Black gay creative movements. . . Melvin Dickson, Essex Hemphill, Marlon Riggs, who all
talked about women's rights.” Many of the same names appear on the Sweet Tea website’s
recommended reading list, next to academic feminist writings (Sweet Tea 2009). Nearly all
Sweet Tea members referenced Audre Lorde at some point, and one seemed almost chagrined
when he admitted “I can’t quote Audre Lorde like some of them [the other group members] can.”
This canon of cultural texts provided Sweet Tea members with a common language and set of
shared understandings and assumptions that helped them form a cohesive groups and build a
shared analysis.
Benefits
When I originally entered the field, I did not intend to collect data on what the members
of these groups got out of the work. I included a question about this on my interview docket
because I thought it might provide a different perspective on other questions about how they
understood their work and where they drew motivation. As often happens in research, though, I
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found that this data provided its own justification and importance. Chris, a Sweet Tea member
and longtime professional activist, spoke directly to the importance of this issue during his
interview:
I was intentional about talking about how this work serves me, because it does, and I
don’t think we talk about that enough. You can lapse into this model, this archetype
which gets a lot of play, it gets a lot of value around, you’re got to be this selfless
crusader. ‘I work tirelessly,’ Shit, I don’t work tirelessly! I get tired, and I want to stop,
and I want work that feeds me [emotionally]. . . . I’m not just doing this for the women in
my life and the women in the world, and making it a better world for other men and boys,
and people of all genders, and us working past all the gender traps and what have you,
but for me!
I found interesting and substantial differences in the ways MMADV and Sweet Tea
members said they benefit from their involvement. The ways men benefit from their involvement
in gender justice projects may impact how active they are and what activities they involve
themselves with, whether and how they interact with women in the movement, whether they can
be challenged on their own contributions to gender inequality, how committed they are, and how
long they stay involved. Whereas MMADV members spoke of increasing their awareness and
accountability around their own sexist behaviors, feeling good about helping people in need, and
deepening their knowledge and involvement in their religion, Sweet Tea members spoke more
about being part of a community and building relationships that nurtured and validated their
experiences and struggles. While Sweet Tea members also spoke of increased knowledge and
accountability around gendered oppressions, they did so in different ways, connected this
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personal development much more closely to the sense of supportive community, and less to their
relationships with individual women in their lives.
When Abdullah told me about the khtuba he gave on domestic violence and about how he
tries to include some discussion of non-violent relationships in all his public talks in the Muslim
community, he told me he enjoys it because “the best way to learn something is to teach it. It
puts me on point,” he said, because in order to speak publicly on the issue, he needs to educate
himself about it first. He also described it as a way of staying accountable and “not being a
hypocrite, because Allah says in the Qur’an, ‘why do you enjoin good on others and you don’t
do it yourself?’ So the more I talk the more I put myself on notice that ‘hey, [Abdullah,] you
can’t be a hypocrite. You told people not to do that!’” He describes these public talks as one way
he learns more about the creating healthy relationships, and links it directly to his own behavior
and marriage in discussing how his public statements to others, combined with Islam’s
interdiction against hypocrisy, creates a sense of accountability. When I asked Mahmood how he
benefitted from his involvement, he told me that being in the group
heightened my own self-awareness, my own thinking about it and my own behavior. I
tend to try to check myself more in conversations with the family, my wife, just to be
more aware. . . . Some of the things I may have been doing, I may not have thought of as
violence, but they may be perceived by the person being affected by it as violence. So,
just being aware of the way I talk to somebody, the way I look.
Mahmood never gave any public talks on behalf of MMADV, but just being a member of the
group and having the opportunity to think more critically about relationship violence made him
“more aware” of his own possibly intimidating behaviors (“the way I talk to somebody, the way I
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look”), and he credits it with concrete, positive changes in his behavior and in his relationship
with his wife (Mahmood again verbally conflates “family” and wife” in this quote).
The second way MMADV members spoke of benefitting from their involvement was the
positive feelings about helping people in need and promoting positive change in their
community. Often this was a very generalized statement like “just to be able to meet people and
talk about the issue feels good,” (Mahmood), but sometimes it was linked to a specific event or
context, such as helping people in need. Abdullah was excited to tell me about the time he helped
a woman through court proceedings and moving to a safehouse: “I feel good about that. I was
told she is married now, and she’s moved on. . . . I felt like I was helping somebody who was in
need.” The sense of personal emotional gain, for members of MMADV, is clearly tied to their
understanding of essential gender differences and of helping women, who are understood as
vulnerable and “in need.”
The final theme in how MMADV members benefitted from the work was in deepening
their knowledge of Islam and involvement in the Muslim community. When I asked Sayeed
whether he benefitted from his involvement, he said:
Absolutely. I'd say that I learned a lot about Islam through the work. I learned about
Qur’an, I learn a lot of hadith, a lot about the sunnah of prophet Muhammed. I learned
about Muslims, I met a lot of Muslims from different backgrounds. I learned that there
are a lot of men out there who are not violent, who are wonderful husbands and
wonderful partners, who their wives enthuse about them being great men, loving partners.
While in other parts of his interview Sayeed spoke about the ways that this work shifted his
understanding of gender in life-changing ways, when asked about benefits he first thinks of how
his involvement in the work made him learn more about his chosen faith and drew him into
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relationships with more Muslims, not of anything specifically about gender, violence, or his own
experiences.
Sweet Tea members, on the other hand, spoke almost unanimously about gaining a sense
of community. It’s simplest form was when I asked Chris how he benefitted from his
involvement, and he just said “I got to be with people that I love.”
Other members connected this sense of community to having a space that both validated
their experiences and nurtured them in their feminist development and personal growth, speaking
of Sweet Tea as allowing and encouraging personal development in unique ways. During a
meeting, Harry said his interest was largely about having a space to discuss issues of oppression
and intersectional identity, “because I'm not in academia right now and my guess is that's about
the only place it ever gets talked about on a regular basis. . . so I get support and an opportunity
to not think I'm crazy for a couple of hours. I didn't just make it up (laughs).” For others, it was
crucial that the space was specifically for queer men to support each other in grappling with
these issues: “Just the growth, and the emotional experience of being in a space with all queer
men and being able to share facets of your experience and understanding of the world,” Ita told
me, “there was something very nurturing and validating about that kind of experience. I think a
lot of people [in Sweet Tea] would say that experience was validating for a lot of us.” Like the
members of MMADV, at least one Sweet Tea member also saw their anti-sexist work with a
group as creating a form of accountability and “solidifying our commitment to those
principles. . . . I think even just going through the process of thinking about those issues with
other men was a really important part of my own personal theoretical development” (Dwayne).
While the specifics vary, each of these group members saw their involvement as benefitting them
by providing a supportive community that assisted their personal and political development.
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When Sweet Tea members spoke about the specific things they learned or skills they
developed in the group, they noticeably did not speak of intimate relationships with women in
the way that MMADV members did. It is tempting to assume that this is because, as gay men,
that are not in romantic relationships with women. I believe this is an incorrect interpretation,
because they did at other times speak of their intimate relationships with women in their families,
workplaces, friendship networks, and other activist groups, and sometimes of how their work
with Sweet Tea impacted those relationship. Instead, I argue that this difference stems from the
way they frame and apply their work, not within the context of the family, but in the larger
contexts of community, social change, and structural inequality. “The conversations that we had
in Sweet Tea, those are never far from my mind. . . . For me, Sweet Tea was very much a
classroom,” Deshawn told me when I asked about how he benefitted from his involvement: “I try
to be much more intentional around not objectifying women, and just try to be much more vocal
in calling out sexism when and where I see it. It's given me a new analysis around the work that I
do or the way that I navigate spaces as a gay man.”
Jeune gave a similar response, saying his involvement helped him “to not be afraid to
speak about some of the privileges that queer men have, in a real complicated, kind of weird
way, interesting way. Because it's difficult to articulate how a marginal or oppressed group has
privilege,” before tying this social change skill-building back to the community that “gave me
that language. And like I said before, it gave me a sense of community as well. When I see folks
who are part of the Sweet Tea collective, or have been around it, or come to events in people's
living rooms, I can still hug them.” In linking their increased knowledge to challenging members
of their own community on their privilege and sexism (“to not be afraid to speak about some of
the privileges that queer men have”, “to be much more vocal in calling out sexism”), Jeune and
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Deshawn clearly situate their personal gains from the work in the context of skill-building and
creating community change. In a notable difference from MMADV members, they bring up
structural inequality in referencing privilege, gender norms, and the ways group identities impact
people’s lives. They also, again, tie this personal development to the environment of the group
(“Sweet Tea was very much a classroom”) and the community it built in ways that are absent
among MMADV.
The different benefits discussed by the members of each group—MMADV’s focus on
awareness and accountability, assistance to individuals and the positive feelings engendered, and
a deepening of religious involvement and knowledge, and Sweet Tea’s focus on personal
development and community support—clearly connect
27
to both their intersecting identities and
the understandings and discourses discussed above. That is, religious identity comes up not only
in MMADV’s focus on religious knowledge and involvement, but also in the ways their
involvement builds accountability (recall Abdullah’s concern about being a hypocrite before
Allah) and awareness of women’s lives and experiences despite the gender segregation in their
community. The personal development work that Sweet Tea members did in their supportive
community, on the other hand, involved conversations they had been unable to have in other
spaces that were either too heteronormative, or were queer but not focused on sexism or gender
justice. The divergent ways that men understand themselves as benefitting from their
involvement in feminist or gender justice work are important because of their likely impacts on
the efficacy and duration of their involvement (Messner 2004; Messner and Solomon 2007;
27 I use the word “connect” here to specifically connote that the relationships between
intersecting identities and understandings about men and gender justice on the one hand, and the
benefits members receive from their involvement on the other are clear and specific, but not
deterministic. This is important because future suggestions or research about the ways that men’s
engagements are shaped by the ways the benefit from their involvement should not be
understood as prescriptive assessments of which communities of men are worth engaging and
which are not.
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Pease 2002). While no research has yet investigated this specific relationship, my research
suggests that awareness of the affects of intersectional identities would be necessary for any such
research.
Conclusion
The ongoing quotidian routines of men’s anti-sexist groups—their daily actions,
understandings and discourse, and the attendant outcomes—are shaped by social location, and
were the focus of this chapter. It opened with a discussion of the things MMADV and Sweet Tea
have in common, such as their small, grassroots natures and the use of the material and cultural
resources of their marginalized communities. Some of these similarities were shared with
unmarked men’s groups, such as their reasons for organizing homosocially, although the
specifics were also inflected by specifics of their intersecting identities. The rest of the chapter
contrasted the two groups in terms of activities, group-level cultures, and benefits to members.
By contrasting two different groups of socially marginalized men, the effects of social location
come into sharp relief.
MMADV’s activities were similar to other anti-domestic-violence men’s groups,
although altered to suit Muslim sensibilities. They struggled to organize meetings regularly (in
part because of their class positions), often delaying meetings or having them by phone, but still
managed some accomplishments. They maintained an active Facebook presence, even if it’s anti-
violence focus was sometimes diluted by other community or religious concerns. They held
public education events at masjids and universities, and made t-shirts and bumper stickers to
further build awareness. Thanks in part to the Islamic injunction of zakat, they were sometimes
able to directly assist domestic violence survivors by raising funds via text message, and they
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also endeavored to assist and support Baitul Salaam and other women’s anti-violence groups in
their projects. However, for reasons discussed in the next chapter, many of their ideas were
abandoned and many of their efforts fell short, especially if Umm Kulthum or other women were
not involved to help direct and focus their work.
The primary focus of Sweet Tea’s work, on the other hand, was around community-
building, conversation-starting, and contributing to broader social change projects. Their main
accomplishment was the publication of the Sweet Tea Proclamation, which was the result of a
year of dialogue and deliberation. After publicizing it at their Coming OUT party, they organized
potlucks and events to get queer people talking together about sexism and male privilege, and
gave talks to foster more public conversations. Later in their organizing, they began planning
events that were more broadly social justice oriented, such as the fundraiser for queer earthquake
victims in Haiti and Queers Run Amok.
The discourses and understandings that wove through these groups’ efforts also differed
fairly substantially. Where MMADV saw themselves as a relatively mainstream, liberal, single-
issue group that happens to focus on the Muslim community and strategize accordingly, Sweet
Tea saw themselves as part of a worldwide, history-making movement to end all oppressions and
bring about liberation for all of humanity. Where MMADV tended to construct sexism in fairly
limited and blatant ways—physically abusive relationships or the extremes of controlling
behavior—Sweet Tea saw sexism in men speaking over women, having more access to
resources, presuming the right to touch or pass judgement on women’s bodies, or using
feminizing terms in derogatory ways. Sweet Tea even questioned the ways that gay men interact
with each other as sexist, regardless of whether women are involved at all, and critiqued the
assumption that gay men cannot be sexist. Both groups used the cultural resources of their
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communities, but for MMADV these lead to a focus on fairness, family, and following
Muhammad’s example; for Sweet Tea, they were community (a word which they loaded with
multiple meanings and connotations), a canon of Black gay cultural texts, and feminism.
Previous writing has asked “what is men’s relationship to feminism?” or argued as to
what that relationship should be. The chapter suggests that this is the wrong question; men
clearly have multiple relationships to feminism, and even men who are actively working for
feminist causes and whose work grows out of feminist history may have different relationships to
feminism. Whereas Sweet Tea clearly organized and saw themselves as a feminist group, some
members of MMADV had trouble coming up with a clear sense of what feminism is or how it is
related to their work. Because of their essentialist views of gender, MMADV members tend to
see gender-based violence as primarily a women’s issue that they can help with, construct
women as vulnerable and in need of protection, and understand domestic violence as stemming
from anger problems and innate differences in physical ability. Social constructionism influenced
Sweet Tea members’ worldviews to such an extent that they see themselves as equal constituents
of feminism, imagine and endorse non-dichotomous gender orders, and blame gender-based
violence on masculine socialization and structures of oppression. Where MMADV had a
‘helping’ relationship with feminist women and organizations, Sweet Tea saw themselves as
belonging to feminism, as having an independent sense of attachment to the movement that need
not be moderated by women, and as therefore being in alliance with women. Moreover, it
suggests that the type of relationship one has to feminism is influenced by social location: a man
whose intersecting identities suggest social construction may be more inclined to see feminism
as available to him and women as his comrades. As Dwayne put it, “it's a very different approach
to talking about sexism.”
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These different approaches also provide different attendant benefits for the men involved.
While the members of both groups—and of Men CARE, the unmarked group I previously
researched—could all name specific ways they benefitted from being involved, the things they
named varied. The members of MMADV tended to name things about increasing their awareness
of their own sexism, positive feelings associated with helping others, and deepening their
religious involvement. Sweet Tea members, on the other hand, emphasized feelings of
community support that helped them with self-improvement and with processing their own lives
and experiences. While more research is needed on the specific ways that men’s engagements are
effected by these feelings, the impact of social location is evident.
At the beginning of this chapter, I suggested that unmarked men’s groups could use
information about marginalized men’s activities, beliefs, and discourses to more effectively
recruit or reach men from diverse communities. As an example, Sweet Tea’s focus on the
different ways queer men relate to women and how sexism surfaces differently in their lives can
be used to re-think unmarked groups’ strategies. Dwayne’s critique of how unmarked anti-sexist
men’s groups operate from a “heteronormative assumption that the reason that we need to do this
is that we need to have better relationships with ‘our’ women. And not looking at the range of
relationships we have to women, as brothers, as fathers—a lot of queer men are dads—as sons,
as friends,” illustrates this clearly. By organizing based around either all the many relationships
men have to women (i.e. mother, daughter, employee, teammate, friend—not only wife or
girlfriend), or only the most universal ones, unmarked groups could both avoid alienating or
ignoring some men—Dwayne’s concern was about “exclud[ing] queer men from a conversation
around sexism”—and appeal to all men in a more thorough fashion. This would be beneficial in
educational programming for young boys, who may not be able to realistically imagine romantic
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relationships, but also in appealing to men in settings where their identities as employer,
religious leader, or athlete may be more ascendant. Thinking through MMADV’s members’
happiness at learning and engaging more in their religious scriptures, unmarked groups might try
to engage men in religious communities by emphasizing this opportunity to gain religious
knowledge or discuss religious perspectives on the issues. By using these examples and thinking
through the other data in this chapter, or investigating and considering the particulars of other
identities and communities, unmarked groups should be more able to effectively reach groups of
men who are currently slipping through the cracks of their programming.
The next chapter similarly contrasts the experiences of MMADV and Sweet Tea to
illustrate the effects of social location. It focuses on the problems the two groups faced and their
eventual decline, arguing that both are shaped in particular ways by their intersecting identities
and position within structures of inequality. It introduces the concept of intersectional organizing
styles to analyze the different ways that groups can orient themselves with regards to the matrix
of domination when engaging in social justice work. While the two groups utilize different
intersectional organizing styles and thus highlight the differences between them, this data still
ultimately point to their mutual need to navigate contradictory social locations in their work.
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CHAPTER FOUR
ENDINGS: CHALLENGES AND DISSOLUTION
Just before 10 am, I got a text message from Abdullah, the coordinator of Muslim Men
Against Domestic Violence, saying “Asa [abbreviation for “as salamu alaykum”]…may Allah
reward all of you!!! Today is the day!!! I ask all of you to be at the masjid at or around 1:45 pm.
May Allah bless you.” Though I arrived fifteen minutes late because of a car accident on my
route, I was still the first person to arrive at the masjid. It was in a shopping center with very
worn, pothole-ridden parking lot, sandwiched between a Halal restaurant and a few little shops.
The masjid’s entry hall had scripture written on the walls and wrapping around the ceiling and
large free-standing posters exhorting the congregants to give money to the masjid. One hallway
had fliers for mammograms and pamphlets about breast exams, as well as large posters
describing the the five pillars of Islam. The prayer room was carpeted, with benches and cubbies
next to the entryway for people to take their shoes off as they enter. Two accent strips of carpet
ran the length of the room, patterned to evoke minarets.
Mahmood arrived in a car full of children and family, and asked me to help him carry
things in from the car. He brought shirts, yellow with purple writing, bearing the name of the
group, the slogan “Take a Stand!”, and a picture of a someone holding up a flag next to a purple
ribbon. Purple, both on the t-shirts and the on hijabs for which today’s domestic violence
awareness and education event is named, is the campaign color for the anti-domestic violence
movement. As Abdullah and Umm Kulthum arrived, Mahmood and I set up a table for the shirts
and water bottles. We entered the prayer room to find that someone, probably Umm Kulthum,
had laid event programs and fliers on each of the 70 chairs that were set up. The chairs were
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arranged in two blocks with an aisle down the middle, and faced two tables at the back of the
room.
The MMADV members each made a brief prayer upon entering the room, and then we
gathered to take a look at the program and flier. Abdullah looked down at the program in
confusion. It was apparently the first time he had seen it, and he thought something had been
changed from the order we had planned. Flustered and upset, he rushed to find Umm Kulthum
and ask if she changed the schedule. She told him nothing had been changed, she just hadn’t
included the introductions made by MMADV members on the printed schedule, and he calmed
down.
People were arriving and had started sitting down, so I looked around the room. It was
segregated by gender, with the women on the right side of the aisle and the men on the left. At
the beginning of the event there were about eight women in purple hijabs, some tending children,
and nine men, six with kulfis on, many wearing leather jackets, and a few wearing the yellow
MMADV t-shirts. One man was holding a baby. With the exception of myself, one woman, and
her teenage son, everyone was Black.
Bilal stepped up to the podium and opened the event, welcoming people and asking
Mahmood to lead a prayer. Then the masjid’s imam spoke for a few minutes, welcoming
everyone and declaring: “It is very important for our community to be clear about our stance to
such an issue.” Abdullah again took the podium to describe MMADV and say it is “very
important for us as Muslim men to be involved because we have a lot of sisters who are
victims. . . . We have to do what we have to do to protect the pearls of the ummah, and that is the
women.” He referenced a sunna that he favors, saying “if you see a wrong, change it with your
hand; if you are can't, speak against it with your tongue; if you can't, hate it with your heart.” He
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wanted the audience to be sure that “when we come before Allah, we can say ‘Allah, I tried to do
something.’” When speaking, Abdullah was facing and linguistically directing himself only to
the men's side of the room, even though more people had arrived and there were more women in
the room than men at the time.
The next speaker, an imam with a South American accent, explained that he's known
Sister Umm Kulthum for 20 years and that he was at this event at her behest. He seemed to
understand domestic violence as a way men behave when a relationship is not working, so he
emphasized marital counseling and said the Qur’an gives specific instructions that “when things
aren't working at home, and counseling doesn't work, don't take matters into your own hands. Let
them [the women] go, and don't just let them go, let them go in peace and harmony.” His
proposed solution for relationship instability/violence was that husband and wife should “make
salah together,” that is, pray together regularly throughout the day. This imam was also
addressing himself mostly to the men, as when he said “when you get angry, do wudu. Calm fire
with water.”
After a break for wudu and the afternoon prayer, I noticed attendance had increased as
people came for prayers and stayed for some of the event afterwards; I counted 24 men and
about 30 women, most in purple hijab but now some in black, brown, or even leopard-print. The
next speaker, another imam who was also a professional counselor, spoke more about Islam than
about domestic violence, and at one point turned to defending the place of Islam as a non-violent
religion: “Islam is part of the solution, not part of the problem.”
The time came for audience questions, but for a long time no questions were asked, and
with one exception, all the questions were from women. When she responded to the questions,
Umm Kulthum was the first person to speak primarily to the women. A woman asked what
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MMADV does, and with Abdullah absent from the room, no one else wanted to take the
question. The members passed the question around like a hot potato until finally a new member,
a younger Black man who joined only a month ago, gave a partial answer and directed her back
to Abdullah. Once the audience questions were all answered, another imam who arrived late
spoke briefly, there was a closing moment of silence, and then a member of MMADV advertised
the -shirts again. The event wrapped up, but people mostly milled around waiting, because the
next call to prayer was very soon. The next afternoon, another text arrived from Abdullah:
“Asa…I would like to thank all of you for all your hard work.Yesterday was great!!! Let's keep it
up!!!! Stay tuned for our next meeting time.”
***
On day of Queers Run Amok, an event that Sweet Tea had been planning and preparing
for the last four months, I drove over to Harry’s house to help him pick up the food that was
donated. During the drive we discussed the recent Pennsylvania State University football
scandal, and Harry brought up sports masculinity, saying football is a way that patriarchy is
reproduced and passed on and joking that he could run his entire therapy practice just on “coach
trauma.” As we drove, he described the areas we passed through, telling me about how “the
gayborhood: had shifted and gentrified, with the area that used to be notably lesbian now overrun
with young hipsters. He seemed very aware of class issues in geography.
After getting the food, we arrived at the Auburn Avenue Research Library, a big modern
building just a few blocks down the street from the Martin Luther King Jr. Center. On the third
floor, the other Sweet Tea members were already busy setting up. They had put a podium at the
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front of the room, along with a long table covered with a purple table cloths; the whole collection
was decorated with rainbow-flag-striped crepe paper. It clearly had taken some effort, and looked
really good. I carried the food past the rows of seats set up in four blocks facing the podium, past
the camera and laptop set up to stream live video, and set the food down at another table on the
far side of the room.
As more audience members arrived, a small group was gathering around a copy of the
NWSA program, and I sat with them and chatted with Jeune, who was planning on attending the
next day to see a talk on intersectionality and transnationalism. I overheard someone asking,
“have you met my partner?” which I saw as an illustratory twist on the usual ‘have you met my
husband/wife.’ A person with a mohawk, whose gender presentation was ambiguous, walked in
wearing a bright purple shirt on it that said "Feminist Outlaw," and bore a picture of a pistol with
a flower stuffed in the muzzle. There was a sizable contingent of radical faeries,
28
mostly middle-
class white men; they were easily recognizable because they all hugged and kissed each other in
greeting. I began noticing the impressive diversity in the room, along many axes of difference:
white, Black, Native American, Jewish, Asian, Latino, men, women, trans- and genderqueer,
young (one woman even brought her infant), old, and even a relatively wide class margin were
visible. When the panel began I counted about 40 people; this number increased to about 70
throughout the afternoon. Many were clearly friends with each other, with the presenters, or with
members of Sweet Tea.
Harry took the podium to welcome people and introduce an archivist from the research
library, who welcomed us in turn. When Mark asked the six speakers to come sit at the table and
28 The radical faeries are a loosely organized national network of social groups and
intentional communities that gather around gay liberation and neopagan themes (Hennen 2008).
Though their membership is diversifying (Stover 2008), they were formed in California by
primarily white, class-privileged gay men and their membership still skews very heavily in that
direction.
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introduce themselves, they each discussed both their intersectional identity and their primary
social movement engagement: I’m a queer femme Latina, I’m an old white fag, I’m a queer
Dominican woman, I’m an undocumented immigrant and a big homo; I’m the co-director of a
queer, cross-issue organization that works on issues of economic, social, and political justice, I
work on issues of racial and reproductive justice, I’m the executive director of a public interest
law firm that challenges the death penalty and human rights violations in the prison system. The
last speaker to introduce himself mentioned that he does not usually introduce himself as trans,
and said he wanted to begin by acknowledging “an inclusive god” and the many female
influences in his life.
The speakers discussed their activist work and the importance and future of the Atlanta
queer activist community. They referenced the particular importance of the South in various
ways, and brought up recent events like the execution of Troy Davis and the passing of HB 87.
29
Sweet Tea members and audience members asked questions of the panel, and soon there was a
lively discussion in the room and the distinction between panelists and audience members was
mostly forgotten. The conversation got emotional, with few audience members shedding tears for
each other and their shared experiences. Mark concluded the discussion by inviting a musician to
play a few songs as we formed into smaller discussion groups. The songs the young Black man
had written spoke to themes of social justice and revolution, dignity and self-esteem, and love
that must fight to be accepted.
My small discussion group included a Black queer mother, a Black lesbian who
volunteered with a regional queer liberation organization, an older white lesbian who reminisced
29 HB 87 was an immigration bill inspired by Arizona’s S.B. 1070, intended to crack
down on and dissuade unauthorized immigration. It empowers police to check for immigration
documentation, requires employers to verify the documentation of current and prospective
employees, and created criminal penalties for transporting, harboring, or concealing an
unauthorized immigrant.
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about the days of the Atlanta Lesbian Feminist Alliance, a young Black woman who was
graduating from Georgia State, and a young white gay man. Nearly everyone mentioned feeling
a sense of social responsibility to be out and advocate for their rights and the rights of others who
may not be able to, though someone pointed out that this only makes sense from a western,
liberal individualism standpoint which upholds a sense of the individual as separate from the
society.
Soon it was time for me to play the role I was given during our planning meetings: I
announced that the small discussion circles should start wrapping up so we can re-form and learn
from each others’ smaller discussions. As each group shared what they had been discussing, one
of the radical faeries mentioned that their group had thought about screening a film about the
aging gay community, many of whom have to return to the closet to receive services for the
elderly. A group of women of color specifically said they would not support it because it is not
inclusive of women of color. The man who brought it up apologized, saying that he is learning
from the critique and that they should have included others in the early planning. A few people in
the audience chimed in to say they appreciated seeing that exchange and that they had learned
from it as well, and gave the radical fairy some support for having taken the criticism well. This
sort of thing happened another time, when a young Black woman accidentally said something in
a way that was insulting to people with learning disabilities.
Like each other parts of the event did, the discussion circle ran long and concluded well
after the event was supposed to end. Folks started milling about and leaving, though many
helped to clear chairs and clean the room first. I headed over to the food table to see what needed
to be cleaned, and inquired with Franklin and Will how much was collected in donations. $89
was donated, and $150 was spent on the food, out of one of the Sweet Tea members’ pockets. I
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put in more money, as did Harry. A number of folks came to introduce themselves to me and
make friends, mostly were white gay men, many of whom invited me to join the radical faeries.
As we were all leaving, I noticed some of the leftover wraps sitting out. I asked if anyone wanted
them, and when no one spoke up, someone volunteered to bring them to the homeless.
That evening, Harry and Mark both posted to the QRA facebook page, thanking the
panelists and participants for “a moving experience,” for “sharing your stories, struggles, your
tears, and your triumphs,” and for the individuals and businesses that helped the event come
together.
***
Purple Hijab Day and Queers Run Amok were the biggest events I saw from each group,
and each was also the last public event the group organized during my time in the field. Both
events were considered a success by group members, and both groups had a sense of excitement
and potential after the event concluded, but the challenges that eventually lead to each group’s
decline were also evident at the events. Of course, only hindsight makes it clear how close to
collapse each group was at the time, or how their dissolutions were foreshadowed.
This chapter lays out the struggles each group faced in their work, using my previous
research with Men CARE as a comparison case to evaluate which challenges are linked to
specific intersectional locations and which are trends in organizing men’s anti-sexist groups more
generally. The struggles each group faced illustrate how social location and community concerns
can create specific challenges in organizing men, but they also illustrate a larger point about
organizing around intersecting identities. Each group had a different way of organizing in
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relation to their own social location, what I call intersectional organizing styles, and these
organizing styles shaped the effectiveness of the groups’ efforts and the different ways they
eventually collapsed.
It is important to clarify that I do not argue that particular intersectional organizing styles
doomed the groups to failure and collapse. While “scholars often favor parsimonious
explanations,” the real-world trajectories of activist groups are far too complex and multilayered
for such “simple models of cause and effect” (Blee 2012, p. 20). I argue instead that each group’s
intersectional organizing style, along with other factors like social location and demographics,
shaped the struggles they faced and the particular manner of their demise.
Shared Struggles
One of the goals at the outset of this research project was to understand which challenges
faced by the unmarked men’s gender justice groups already represented in the literature are
specific problems for those kinds of groups, and which are problems that are more widely
generalizable to engaging men. While men’s shared structural dominance can be expected to
create some shared experiences, especially as relates to specifically gender-related experiences,
their different intersecting identities can also be expected to create some differences in these
experiences. The homogeneity of most of the men in the literature thus far make it difficult to
parse which experiences are likely to be shared, and which are likely specific to particular social
locations. Because the men of MMADV and Sweet Tea share a position of structural male
privilege with those in the literature, but have widely divergent other identities, they are useful
comparison cases for analyzing these issues. If the two groups in this study do not share a
particular experience, it likely is not about men’s structural position vis-à-vis women in an
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unequal gender order; if an experience is true for both groups of men in this study and those men
in the literature, it is highly likely to be a constant facet of men’s organizing for gender justice (at
least within the context of the contemporary United States; future transnational studies are
warranted). The following section details some of the common concerns in the literature and
those that I found in my previous study with Men CARE, to explore their generalizability.
Navigating Privilege
The members of both MMADV and Sweet Tea struggled to come to terms with the ways
they were using male privilege in an attempt to reduce gender inequality. This was most clear to
the members of MMADV in terms of the privilege of the male voice, and how they had a much
easier time speaking about domestic violence, being listened to, and being taken seriously than
did the women of the community. Though he did not use the term, Waleed understood that male
privilege was part of the reason that MMADV was needed in the Muslim community, because if
“women are trying to give that message, they’re not going to listen to them. They’re not. As a
matter of fact there was one woman in Chicago. . . she used to try to go to the masjids and talk
about it, eventually she got banned from the masjids because these men didn’t want to hear about
it. . . . That’s why it’s going to take the men to do it, just to get your foot in the door.” Sayeed had
a very clear understanding of this and was intentional about it, telling me that “when a man
speaks about domestic violence he's more likely to be heard. . . . It would be great to be in a
society where women have as much privilege as men, but because we're not at that level, let's use
the privilege we have to ameliorate the position of women.” Although he clearly accepted the
strategic use of male privilege (“let’s use the privilege we have”) to introduce anti-sexist
messages, he was still conflicted about it and upset about the ways in which this made him feel
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complicit with existing sexist social structures. This came through when he told me about giving
a talk at a mosque where
the men and women were not in the same room. Here I am, this MSV guy, feminist,
supposed to give a talk on domestic violence, when men and women are not in the same
room. Now, it would be one thing if men and women were in different sides of the room,
I've done that, or women are in the back and men are in the front—that I still think I have
a problem with, but it's ok. But what if the women are upstairs and the men are
downstairs. . . . they can hear everything, but they can't really interact with the speaker.
This mosque, I was here [raises his hand to indicate the upper floor of the mosque], and
the women were in the basement. They had a different room downstairs, so I couldn't see
them at all. . . . I even thought, in that moment, why am I even doing this? Why am I
giving a talk? I should've just left. Why am I giving a talk in a venue where the women
themselves could not participate?
Despite his clear understanding and acceptance of the necessity of using his privilege, coming
face-to-face with his own strategic complicity “in that moment” made him rethink how that
reflected on him as a feminist, to the point where he considered refusing to give the talk (“why
am I even doing this?” “I should’ve just left”). This kind of internal struggle is not uncommon in
the experiences of men who do anti-sexist organizing and are sufficiently aware of the structural
workings of inequality and privilege.
While Sweet Tea members never faced a situation as extreme as giving a talk where
women are excluded from the space, they also spoke of conflicted feelings about the ways they
used their male privilege in disseminating anti-sexist messages. Dwayne felt that, for him,
speaking out against sexism in everyday spaces
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is a very important thing to do, as a guy who, in the minds of some, would seem like a
very typical, All-American Guy. . . . I’m aware of my masculine privilege that enables me
to be in spaces where I can speak up on behalf of women who may not even be in the
room, but to challenge men about their sexism. And there’s a way that I get to pass that
enables me to do that, so I’m very conscious and mindful of that. . . . I wouldn’t be as
easily integrated if I were more effeminate, and I’m very aware of that, and I want to
create a society where that masculine privilege doesn’t exist—but I think to not use it to
the benefit, to dismantle, would be part of the problem. So, trying to use that masculine
privilege to be a part of the solution—there are some times that I can be in a space and I
can say something about sexism where guys who wouldn't expect that to come out of my
mouth have to rethink, 'oh, well maybe, maybe I am wrong,' as opposed to if a woman
says the same thing, 'of course she's going to say that, she's a woman,' right? So, how do
we utilize the privilege that we have as men in our community to do some of the work
with men in our community.
Dwayne seems both more strategic and more comfortable with “trying to use that masculine
privilege to be part of the solution,” but the internal struggle still comes through in his self-
consciousness about his privilege (“I’m very aware of my masculine privilege,” “I’m very
conscious and mindful,” “I’m very aware of that”), because his short-term tactics are still at odds
with his ultimate goal of “a society where that masculine privilege doesn’t exist.”
A particular instance of this difficult in navigating male privilege that seems consistent
among men engaging in anti-sexist activism is the privilege evident when men receive
disproportionate appreciation and excitement for their contributions, or for their mere presence. I
found this among members of Men CARE and interviewees in another project (Peretz,
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forthcoming; Messner et al, forthcoming), and call it the pedestal effect.
30
Members of both
MMADV and Sweet Tea also spoke of their experiences of being put on a pedestal for their
involvement, saying things like “so many women were so happy, so overjoyed to see young
Muslim men engaging in this work and talking about it” (Sayeed). Harry was thoughtful and
invested enough that he did some informal analysis of the factors underlying this extra
appreciation when he told me that the women who attended a Sweet Tea event:
really appreciate any time men look at the issue of sexism and work on that. . . . I think
that many of the women who were there at the event, you know, were there to kind of
cheerlead and give us support, because this was an unusual event for them, for a group of
men to come together and say 'we have been looking at our sexism and the ways in which
we oppress women and how we deal with that, internally and externally.’ It hadn't
happened for some time, or at all.
While Harry was both gracious and grateful, the undertone expressed by his choice of words
(“cheerlead”) and the wry chuckle with which he ended the statement suggest that he has mixed
feelings as well. I was unclear whether his ambivalence was about receiving this kind of support,
or about the reason to which he attributed this level or appreciation: men’s lack of engagement
with anti-sexism (“this was an unusual event” and “hadn’t happened for some time, or at all,”).
Ita was also critical of “things that men could say in feminist spaces and how that would get a
certain level of praise and recognition, and not when women were saying the exact same things,
or had been saying the exact same things and were not given the same kind of weight.”
30 The pedestal effect also apparent in Bridges’ discussion of men’s marches protesting
violence against women (2010).
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Burdening or Excluding Women
A central tension in the inclusion of men in feminist work is how the efforts to engage
and educate men can take time, energy, and resources that would otherwise be used to benefit
women directly. This is especially problematic when men expect women to do the work of
educating them. There was some awareness of this concern among MMADV, as when Abdullah
told me that he supported the group remaining all-male because “the sisters, they do too much.”
Part of his reasoning for keeping the group all-male, then, involved reducing the amount of
energy the group members siphoned off of women. This awareness was either limited or more
abstract than practical, though, because Abdullah himself began having “a training every week
with Sister Umm Kulthum about how to identify domestic abuse, how to deal with it, how to talk
about it, and some of the reasons why women or victims or survivors tend to stay in abusive
relationships.” These trainings were by phone, and when I joined them for one call, it seemed to
me that she would essentially read to him from a manual on addressing domestic abuse and
occasionally elaborate, discuss, or quiz him on the contents. These educational calls were clearly
useful for Abdullah, and he would often refer to things he learned from them during meetings or
conversations with me. It was unclear, though, why he could not educate himself on the issues
directly from the manual, or what Umm Kulthum got in return for the effort she put in during
those times, especially once Abdullah stepped down from organizing the group.
Sweet Tea wrote about this concern for not burdening women into their proclamation,
saying “An integral part of being a male ally also involves doing the work with other queer men
to challenge our patriarchal and sexist practices rather than depending on women to educate us.”
Their website includes a selection of recommended books and movies, so that men might
educate themselves without requiring more effort and energy from women. In Chris’ view, part
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of Sweet Tea’s purpose was “for us to take the onus” in educating gay men and challenging
sexism in their community. “We didn’t want to rely so much on women to be teaching us,
encouraging us,” he told me: “women are going to do that anyway, that’s what they are tasked
with doing just dint of the effects of sexism itself. So we wanted to encourage men to take
ownership of it.” Jeune agreed, when I asked him why the group was all-male, saying:
The purpose of it wasn't to exclude women, the purpose was to suggest that men should
be responsible for doing this work as well. And then I think often times when you have,
when feminist work is being done and there are women in the room, then we assume that
the woman should have all the answers and we look to her, 'what do you think,' and that's
certainly necessary, but it becomes a problem when she's obligated to take on that work
or take on the lead. . . . I think our main goal was wanting to hold each other accountable
without having to also put the burden of talking about sexism on women.
Jeune defended the homosocial nature of the group by arguing that it was not exclusionary, but
symbolic of Sweet Tea’s conviction that sexism is a men’s issue; in the end, though, he wanted to
be sure that the group did not “burden” women by requiring their assistance or education. Harry
seemed more confident with the group’s decision to separate by gender, but his concern for
women’s comfort and resources was still evident when he told me
I learned from the lesbian separatists that there's a difference between separation and
segregation. I was raised in segregation and I know that it's an evil thing. But separation
is a choice, it's a choice for people who have something in common to be just with each
other, [so] that they can process on a deeper level. . . . I don't think that there was
anything that happened in any of our conversations that would have been deemed
ultimately offensive by women, but some of the process was kind of raw, and probably
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for, particularly for a woman who was well-grounded in her feminism, it could have been
tedious.
The other end of the spectrum from burdening women, however, is a level of exclusion
which can resemble sexist spaces. Kimmel argues that homosocial spaces facilitate “the
protection of men’s privilege,” but to some extent, the exclusion of women is definitional to
men’s gender justice groups (1996, p. 315). Still, the way that gender segregation occurs can
alter its effects, and is itself shaped by social location. Sweet Tea ran into trouble soon after their
Coming OUT Party, when the group was more specifically geared towards queer men. The
Facebook invitation for one of their early events said that “All Queer, bi and gay men, trans
inclusive are invited to join us,” and the first comment on the page was from a woman, saying “If
I were a queer man I’d come in a heartbeat.” While this is not a vehement indictment of the
group for their exclusion of women from the event, it is an illustration of the tension the group
faced around this issue. Later in the group’s existence, they allayed this concern when they began
opening even their planning meetings to anyone who was interested; one woman did attend
regularly. MMADV may have had less trouble with this because of the expectation of gender
segregation in the Muslim community, but some of the members still felt conflicted about it.
Sayeed told me that he had struggled with this concern when he had lead the group, because the
group was set up as an exclusively male space, but he felt that by “saying that only men can
attend these meetings, I was perpetuating the patriarchy of Muslim institutions.”
Membership, Motivation, Commitment
Another consistent feature of men’s engagement seems to be difficulty maintaining
membership, motivation, and commitment. This was true in Men CARE, though they managed it
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well with the application of their substantial institutional resources (e.g., University funds, a
dedicated professional director, etc.). It was even more true of MMADV and Sweet Tea, both of
which were entirely volunteer grassroots efforts and neither of which had any institutional
resources to speak of. Making specific claims about the theoretical reasons for these challenges
is thorny, though, because there are so many complicating factors.
It is conceivable that male privilege makes it more difficult to build membership or to
maintain motivation and commitment, and as a result, projects that engage men will require a
constant input of effort simply to keep the men invested. Indeed, a cornerstone of theorizing
about privilege is that privileged people are able to be passively ignorant or actively dismissive
about issues of structural inequality, whereas oppressed groups’ social location encourages some
level of grappling with these issues (Collins 1986; Kimmel & Ferber 2013; McIntosh 1989;
Messner 2011). Many of the men represented in (and writing) the literatures on men’s
engagements would be pained by this assertion—some might argue vehemently for the ways
their own social locations or individual life experiences created enduring and passionate
commitments—but the more important point is simply that the data is not there to support any
conclusion definitively. Others, like Sweet Tea member Harry, actually make this critique
themselves.
When I asked Harry if he had any self-critique he would like to share with me, he told me
“I can withdraw into a comfort zone that was created in part by my privilege. I don't have to
work as hard. . . . I can become complacent. And I think that we all need to have time to rest and
rejuvenate, but I keep challenging myself.” He linked this ability to withdraw from the work not
just to his gender, to his many forms of privilege, including his “class background,” how he
“appear[s] in the world,” (a possible reference to being able to pass as straight, but possibly also
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taking in his white skin, able body, etc.), and also to his age. At 62, Harry felt that if he wanted
to, “I can just say ‘I’m tired,’ or ‘I’ve done that,’” and no one would fault him for it. His
awareness of his privileged ability to withdraw, however, also requires Harry to work
intentionally to balance self-care (“we all need time to rest and rejuvenate”) and commitment to
continued engagement with gender justice work and to the continual navigation of their own
structural privilege (“I keep challenging myself”).
Grassroots community groups collapse for a wide variety of reasons, and the kinds of
membership and motivation struggles that men’s anti-sexist groups face are not uncommon
among grassroots groups more widely; in Blee’s study of over 60 grassroots activist groups,
“Most collapsed or remained fragile and tiny” (Blee 2012, p. 6). There many confounding factors
—potential differences between grassroots groups and those formed or supported by existing
institutions; disparities of resources; differences between group that focus on their own sexism,
those that educate other men, those that primarily support women’s organizations, etc.—that
make it impossible to tease out the specific reasons that one men’s group struggles more than
another in this regard. Moreover, understanding how male privilege impacts men’s commitment
levels and longevity in anti-sexist activism would require a comparison between men and women
(and, ideally, people of other genders as well), which as yet does not exist.
While this study’s data do not provide an answer about whether male privilege reduces
commitment to gender justice work, they do allow some intelligent speculation about how
intersecting identities impact relative differences in membership and motivation between
different groups of men. The data elaborated previously in this study (see especially Chapter 2)
seems to suggest that men who experience some form of gendered or sexual marginalization
themselves would more strongly maintain a commitment to feminism, because they see it as
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more directly improving their own lives. The rest of this chapter also demonstrates that
marginalized social locations frequently create obstacles to active involvement regardless of
ideological commitment, particularly for working-class men.
Masculinity Challenges
Because feminism—and anti-sexist work more generally, by extension—has been
gendered feminine (Bridges 2010), men who engage in anti-sexist work share the experience of
having their masculinity, and often their sexuality, called into question. Both men and women
frequently view the effects of gender inequality as “women’s issues,” so those men who take up
these issues are seen as aligned with women in some ill-defined way. As West and Fenstermaker
argue (1995), people are “accountable” for their performances of gender, so by stepping outside
of the constraints of normative masculinity, male anti-sexist activists open themselves up to
critique of their masculinity, authenticity, and reliability. This constrains the ways that male anti-
sexist activists can present their own genders and interact with their audiences, but can also
impact them personally.
The members of both MMADV and Sweet Tea described facing these sorts of
“masculinity challenges,” though the specifics varied based on their other intersecting identities
(Messerschmidt 2000a, 2000b). Waleed told me he had “heard people say ‘what’s wrong with his
manhood that he always has to talk about this?’ because in their culture, the man is dominant and
the woman really has no rights. So, yes, we’ve gotten that kind of push-back from certain people.
. .in the masjid.” Not knowing that this kind of masculinity challenge (“what’s wrong with his
manhood”) occurs for non-Muslim anti-sexist men as well, Waleed attributes it to a “culture” that
supports male dominance, and distances himself (“their culture,” “certain people”) from it (his
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attribution of oppressive masculinity to other Muslims’ cultural norms is discussed further later
in this chapter).
For obvious reasons, having their sexuality questioned is less of a concern for Sweet Tea.
As politically-aware queer men whose gender presentations range from very masculine to rather
femme, Sweet Tea members have experience with challenges to their masculinity and sexuality,
and so they rarely spoke of these particularly in reference to their anti-sexist work. Their
activism on behalf of women means that they do still face some scrutiny from other gay men, but
it is directed at their masculinity or their allegiance to gay men’s community. The most striking
story of this was from Harry, telling me about work he did organizing a queer community event
before Sweet Tea was formed. A vote was being held during a meeting, the sides were evenly
split by gender, “and myself and another guy voted with the women. . . and they [the gay men’s
organization who had volunteered their space for the meeting] literally threw us out. . . .
Needless to say, it didn't do anything for my popularity among gay men. I was seen as a traitor.”
These tensions within the gay community are described in more detail later in the chapter.
Community-Specific Challenges
Intersectionally organized men’s groups do also have some specific struggles that are
different than those faced by men’s groups more widely. MMADV, for example, had to navigate
Islam’s discouragement of cross-gender interactions among non-relations, which caused some
difficulty finding ways to help women, educate themselves, and build enduring motivation.
When I asked Abdullah whether he talks to women about MMADV’s work, he said “No, I try to
stay away from the sisters. There’s a degree of separation that we try to maintain within Islam.
There’s a barrier, like when you go inside the Mosque, the men and women are separate. . . . It’s
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difficult in a society like this to maintain that.” I asked how he navigates this in a group whose
work might be expected to put him into contact with women, and after some hemming and
hawing, he told me that it works because Umm Kulthum and Baitul Salaam can interact with the
women, so he can just send women to them if he needs to.
While the above example is caused by an internal characteristic of the Muslim
community, many of these sorts of community-specific challenges stem from the wider society’s
perceptions, the ways their community is treated because of these perceptions, and the ways the
group internalizes and responds to these perceptions. “Activist groups act in patterned ways that
reflect social structural contexts,” as Blee reminds us, “such as their access to resources and the
availability of recruits” (2012, p. 25). Social location impacts both of these factors, and I argue
that intersecting identities and the public perceptions of them make their own independent
contributions to structural context (though interpreting any of these structural constraints too
deterministically would be a mistake). The next two sections detail specifically how the wider
society’s perceptions of Muslims as misogynistic and gay men as automatically aligned with
women caused problems to which MMADV and Sweet Tea, respectively, struggled to respond
appropriately.
“Once It Gets Out In the Media, Every Muslim is in Scrutiny”: The Challenges MMADV
Faced
After my interview with him, I asked Waleed if he had any questions for me or anything
else he wanted to discuss. I was surprised when he told me
I’m really happy that you’re even asking these questions. What’s important to me is that
you understand that these things that are happening in this community, it’s not based on
the religion, it’s based on people’s misunderstanding, or just ignorance, or culture. . . .
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and if I don’t get that message out, somebody on Fox News who’s not a Muslim is going
to give their own interpretation of it, so we have to do it.
This sense that the reputation of the Muslim community and the religion itself needed to be
defended from pejorative external definitions (“somebody on Fox News who’s not a Muslim”)
was central to MMADV’s group identity. In defending themselves and their beliefs, MMADV
attempted to spread information about the group (“I’m really glad you’re even asking”) in hopes
that wider knowledge about the group would combat the image of Muslim men as violent
misogynists. One problem with this tactic, however, was that other Muslims, also aware of this
negative image, would have preferred to pretend that domestic violence simply was not a
problem in the Muslim community, and saw the group’s efforts as airing dirty laundry in public.
To protect Islam from defamation, MMADV also engaged in some boundary work, first
separating themselves from a subset of immigrant Muslims who they blamed for the
misogynistic reputation of Islam, and then redefining that violence as cultural (“it’s based on
people’s misunderstanding, or just ignorance, or culture,”) so that Islam could be held blameless.
In this section, I discuss how the public perception of Muslims impacts MMADV’s work.
The American popular conception of Muslim men, especially since September 11th,
2001, has focused on violence, intolerance, religious fanaticism, and misogyny; “representations
of 'terrorism' and 'Islamic fundamentalism' have increasingly replaced other representations (e.g.,
the rich Arab oil sheikh and belly-dancing harem girls) and have become more fervently
deployed” (Jamal & Naber 2007, p. 4). A key feature of this discourse, which conflates all
Muslims with Islamic fundamentalists and all Islamic fundamentalists with violent fanatics, is a
focus on the status of women within some Muslim countries (Gottschalk & Greenberg 2008).
The oppression of women and the presumed violent, virulent sexism in Muslim countries has
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been used to justify American military action and takeover (Ahmed 1993; Eisenstein 2002;
Mohantey 2003; Mohanty et al. 2008). Domestically, the run-up to these invasions has involved
demonizing Islam as a mysogynistic religion and Muslim men as brutal, violent, and
domineering. The public image created by the Islamic fundamentalism discourse and the internal
community responses to that public discourse both shaped the efforts of MMADV, becoming a
major raison d’etre. From the beginning, Abudullah told me, MMADV “wanted to focus on
Muslim men because unfortunately there seems to be a. . . stereotype that Muslim men are
abusive.”
Moreover, the social location and treatment of Islam within the American social structure
changed after 9/11. Some scholars have likened the current position of Muslims as a group to
that of historically marginalized racial groups, arguing that there has been a “racialization of the
category 'Arab/Middle Eastern/Muslim' as a signifier of nonwhite Otherness or that a
'racialization of Islam' has underlain the post-9/11 backlash against persons perceived to be Arab,
Middle Eastern, South Asian, and/or Muslim” (Jamal & Naber 2007, p. 2). Ascribed pan-
ethnicity, the involuntary amalgamation of many ethnic groups into one collective by outside
forces (e.g. hundreds of unrelated and sometimes hostile tribes become Native Americans),
proscribes recognition of the huge differences within the Muslim community (Espiritu 1993).
This means that for many Americans, all Muslims around the world, including the many
dissimilar communities of Muslims in America, are drawn with the broad strokes of one
unfavorable brush. Waleed was very aware of this “racial lumping” (Espiritu 1993), and told me
it factored into his decision to work with MMADV, because he felt it was necessary
to get this message out there because those people who oppose Islam and hate Muslims,
any time they get a chance to bring it down they will, and when they look at someone
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who’s committing domestic violence, they’re not going to say ‘look at what that
individual did,’ they’re going to say ‘look at what the Muslims do, look at how all of
them treat their women,’ which is not true!
The members of MMADV are very conscious of this public perception of the Muslim
community. Mahmood had been very successful in beginning conversations about the group by
wearing his MMADV t-shirt out in public. I asked him more about these conversations, and he
admitted that they were primarily with non-Muslims, whose high level of interest was “probably
because they may have a view of Islam that's colored by the media, that Islam is this violent
religion and women are totally suppressed and so forth.” He explained that the wider public
might not understand the existence of a group like MMADV because “they see Muslim women
covering themselves up, and they think that's imposed by the outside by the men. And sometimes
that may be the case, but the women I've known who cover more extensively, it's a choice that
they make based on their understanding of modesty and their religion.” This self-conscious
awareness of the public perception of Muslim men influenced the group’s sense of self, ways of
interacting with outsiders, and ways of addressing other Muslim men.
One of the major effects is that the group members see part of their work as redressing
this public perception. Many members hope that by being very public about the group’s work,
they can by show that Islam is not a violent religion and that the public perception of Muslim
men is an overgeneralized stereotype. This was one of the most significant themes in my
conversations with group members, appearing in discussions of why members joined the group,
of the group’s events and purpose, etc. When I asked MMADV members what they would want
a news story to say about the group, all of the interviewees wanted “people to see that Muslims,
that we are opposed to this [abusive] type of behavior” (Abdullah), “that Muslims do consider
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this to be a problem and are trying to find some ways to solve it,” (Mahmood) and that MMADV
is “working to eradicate domestic violence in and out of their community. . . [to] let people know
that it’s not a part of the religion, there’s no aspect of domestic violence that’s part of our
religion” (Waleed). Sayeed not only wanted to publicize MMADV as an example of Muslim men
who work to end violence, but also wanted a specific point made that violence is a concern for
other religious and racial communities as well:
I would want them to know that Islam is not a violent religion. That Muslims can be
violent, and that can be because of their backgrounds or whatever it is, but I want people
to know that like every other faith group and community—right now the spotlight is on
Islam—all communities of color, all faith communities are grappling with domestic
violence. It’s a problem in the Christian community, in the Buddhist community, in the
Hindu community, in the Jewish community, whatever. African-American, white, Latino,
Arab, Native American, it’s a problem. I want people to know that there are men in the
Muslim community who believe that this has no place in Islam; that there are many many
loving, wonderful Muslim men out there who are amazing husbands and amazing fathers
and amazing partners.
Sayeed shared the other group members’ desire to show “that Islam is not a violent religion,” but
also asks non-Muslims to turn the scrutiny on themselves (“all faith communities are grappling
with domestic violence”) before judging Muslims negatively. Moreover, he ends by specifically
upholding positive examples of non-violent Muslim masculinity (“amazing husbands and
amazing fathers and amazing partners”). This perceived need to defend Islam and publicize
examples of positive Muslim masculinity—including their own group’s members and projects—
responds to the demonizing public perception of Muslim men. One major problem cause by this
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outside perception is that MMADV gets mired in what Jasper calls the dilemma of “reaching out
or reaching in”: they have two separate audiences, the Muslim community and the outside world,
and need to present different ideas to each, for different goals, using different tactics, but while
maintaining a coherent sense of purpose (2004, p. 10). Two other major effects of this public
perception on MMADV’s work and self-understanding are a concern among Muslim audiences
about airing dirty laundry, and a recurring theme of blaming (immigrant) “culture” for the
violence in Muslim communities.
Because the Muslim community is very aware of the negative stereotypes they face, the
external perceptions also created difficulties for MMADV when they worked within the Muslim
community. “With our political situation in the United States, where we already have people
hating us just for who we are,” Umm Kulthum said when telling me about the difficulties she and
MMADV had faced in their work: “if you bring up this domestic violence thing, that gives them
something to feed on, to use against us, so we just need to keep quiet to preserve the whole
community's reputations.” Aside from her own problems being listened to as a woman in the
Muslim community, which she had hoped to solve by recruiting a group of men to her cause,
Umm Kulthum found that even MMADV faced a desire among many community members to
ignore the issue. Abudullah often spoke of it as “like an ostrich sticking their head in the sand.”
When I asked Sayeed about the reception he received while giving talks as a member of
MMADV, he told me that “some of it was positive, some of it was negative. There were some
Muslim men who didn't feel that this work was appropriate,” he said. His impression was that
they felt “that we shouldn't make announcements that we have this domestic violence talk. I
remember a guy telling me ‘you shouldn't publicly tell people, they will have a very negative
impression of Islam.’” Waleed took this concern for Islam’s reputation one step further, linking
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this concern about airing dirty laundry to the racial lumping of Muslims and negative public
perceptions, saying “once it gets out in the media, every Muslim is in scrutiny, this is what
Muslims do.”
The problem with this fear of publicly admitting that domestic violence is that it also
makes it difficult to have the kinds of conversations among Muslims that are necessary to reduce
the incidence of violence or to respond after acts of violence. MMADV had trouble finding
venues to host their events because of this fear; during one meeting, Waleed reported that he had
“approached Masjids in my area, and they don't even want to address the issue. If they don't see
it, it doesn't happen, it can't be happening.”
Later in the meeting, Abdullah told Mahmood he was impressed with all the in-person
conversations Mahmood was having about MMADV’s work. Mahmood credited it to wearing
the MMADV t-shirt out in public, but Abdullah said in confusion that when he “wore the shirt to
jum’ah, I got some stares. Not quite jeers, but confused, definitely some stares.” Mahmood
pointed out that so far, all the people who had started conversations with him because he was
wearing an MMADV t-shirt had been non-Muslims: “So far no Muslim has approached me. . .
They don’t seem to want to broach the subject.” This desire among the Muslim community to
avoid conversations, public events, or any admission that domestic violence is a problem for
their community is a substantial hurdle that MMADV had to work consistently against.Their
fears of lending any credence to the public perception of Islam as violently misogynist religion
mitigates their having the kinds of conversations that are necessary to address the concrete
realities of domestic violence.
In order to navigate between the negative external perceptions and the internal desire to
hide the problem, MMADV members engaged in symbolic boundary work and projection that
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shielded Islam itself from criticism by blaming “culture.” Culture here was a euphemism,
referring to the oppressive beliefs and behaviors that MMADV members had seen or heard
rumors of in immigrant Muslim communities or Muslim countries. This strategy for protecting
the religion from critique both relies on and exacerbates the existing division between immigrant
and African-American Muslims (Jackson 2011). In this way, Abdullah railed against “culture,” in
an attempt to defend Islam from being tarnished by the behavior of some Muslims: “Muhammed,
peace be upon him, spoke about caring for the women, being kind to women. . . but they still
treat women like dirt. . . . And a lot of it is just cultural! Cultural, cultural. But they try to use
Islam to justify it.” Waleed similarly complained to me, during his interview, that
There are people who don’t even want to hear what you say, because ‘This is what we do
in our culture. . . . This is our culture, and this is Islam!’ And I had to tell them, I said
‘look, your culture is wrong! It’s not correct.’ Everybody has culture and we should
embrace that, but you can’t mix it up and get it all jumbled up and think that what your
culture is is Islam, because it’s not. So you need to learn how to separate your culture
from the religion, and never get the two mixed up. So, if someone’s doing this type of
thing in their household, don’t tell me that this is what Islam says. That’s what your
culture is telling you to do, not the religion. . . . What they’re doing is not what the
religion says, that’s what your culture dictates. That’s what you’ve been raised up to
believe. . . . When you find a man who is beating his wife, or you’re not allowing her to
leave the home, that’s your culture. The religion is not telling you to do that. So, that’s
why we we have to make this distinction between the two.
Waleed was vehement, repeating over and over again the need to distinguish between “what the
religion says” and what behaviors (“a man who is beating his wife” “not allowing her to leave
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the home”) are cultural. He was upset that some Muslims use religion to justify male dominance
(“This is out culture, and this is Islam!”), because he understands that he would then be assumed
to similarly support male dominance and act accordingly. At the end of the interview, Waleed
actually told me that if he believed Islam supported violence against women, he would leave the
religion and give up being a Muslim.
MMADV members draw a distinction between culture and religion to explain their low
expectations for their ability to engage with immigrant Muslim communities on issues of
domestic violence. After one MMADV event did manage to draw a few immigrant Muslims,
Waleed was “really surprised and happy that they showed up,” saying “Normally those groups
[Indian or Pakistani] kind of shy away from this, some of them don’t see it [domestic violence]
as an issue. It’s a cultural thing that they do.” He squarely places the responsibility on culture,
assuming that domestic violence is normative in their home countries and that this is the reason
that immigrant Muslim men are less engaged with MMADV’s events. Mahmood also showed his
low expectations for immigrant Muslim men when he told me that “with the more immigrant
community, [MMADV] may have to take more baby steps. To get people to talk about it
[domestic violence] is one thing that they may have a hard problem with, whereas in the African-
American community it’s not as big a problem.”
Although it is intended to protect Islam from being tarnished, the use of “culture” as an
explanation for oppressive behavior had the unintended consequence of splitting the already
small Muslim community and making it difficult for MMADV to reach across difference to
engage immigrant communities. During a phone conference planning future MMADV events,
Abdullah worried about being unable to reach these communities, saying “The brothers who are
from other countries, they don't want to talk about it…, so I hope and pray that they allow us to
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come and talk to their Masjids…., those from Saudi Arabia, Iraq, and some of these other
places.” Waleed agreed, saying “It’s still real difficult to get the word out to the community,
especially the immigrant community. Some of the things that they do are so much a part of their
culture that it's hard hard to separate what's right and what's wrong, it's just what they do.”
MMADV still attempted to bridge this gap and appeal to immigrant communities, but it
was a struggle. Before Purple Hijab Day, Abudullah sent out an e-mail to all the group members
asking that everyone “shoot me a list of speakers you would think would participate in this
venture.They need to be speakers that will Condemn strongly domestic violence in our
community!!!! We need at least one Arab brother.” His concern for including immigrant
communities is clear in his desire to find “at least one Arab” speaker; both organizers I
interviewed mentioned their desire and difficulties in reaching out to immigrant communities.
The divide between the immigrant and Black Muslim communities cause difficulties for
MMADV, making it difficult for them to engage substantial parts of the Atlanta Muslim
community.
While the members of MMADV often blamed immigrant communities and cultures for
Islam’s bad reputation and this boundary work made it difficult for them to engage immigrant
communities, the creation of this boundary was not unilateral.
31
A number of MMADV members
spoke to me of having experienced alienation or outright racism from immigrant Muslims.
Abdullah complained that “they talk to you a little differently, they say things. . . . Sometimes
they may not want to give you Salaams, they may not say Salaam Alaykum, sometimes they
might not say anything to you. They walk right past you and wouldn't say anything in some
cases.” Even Sayeed, the one non-Black member of MMADV, was aware of this, saying “A lot
31 Because my research followed MMADV, I did not spend much time within immigrant
Muslim community spaces or speak with immigrant Muslims at any length, so there is clearly
only one side of this story available to my research method.
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of immigrants believe that they're better Muslims, that African-Americans don't really know a lot
about the faith. I know one of the pet peeves of African-Americans is being asked ‘oh, when did
you convert to Islam?’. . . . Or even more derogatory, ‘did you convert in prison?’” These sorts
of negative assumptions and microaggressions certainly also contributed to MMADV’s difficulty
in engaging immigrant Muslims (Sue et al. 2007; Wong et al. 2013). Similar to the stereotypes of
Muslim masculinity that cause MMADV to emphasize the anti-sexist nature of their work, to
avoid airing dirty laundry, and to defend Islam by defaming “culture,” this intra-Muslim racism
is informed by negative discourses imported from the wider American culture.
The stereotypes of Muslims as misogynistic and violent created specific challenges for
MMADV. Not only did they feel a need to address the stereotypes directly, by showing
themselves as evidence of nonviolent Muslim masculinity, but they also had to overcome the
additional hurdle of a Muslim community afraid that any discussion of domestic violence would
be seen as corroborating these stereotypes. By blaming a vague and unspecified “culture” for the
most visible and virulent forms of sexism, they created a symbolic boundary that protected Islam
and their own Black Muslim community, but also constrained their associations with the
immigrant Muslim communities of Atlanta. These combined challenges not only impeded their
efforts, they also contributed to the group’s dissolution (discussed later this chapter).
“When We Think of Sexism, We Immediately Imagine A Straight Person”: The Challenges
Sweet Tea Faced
Like MMADV, Sweet Tea faced some difficulties that are common to men doing anti-
sexist work, but also some that are specific to the ways their social location is understood in the
wider culture. While the public discourse on queer and gay men is multifaceted and shifting in a
more progressive direction, there are certainly still persistent and powerful negative stereotypes.
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These stereotypes impact Sweet Tea’s efforts and members directly, but also affect them
indirectly by shaping the way that queer communities understand themselves internally. Jeune
recalled to me a youth pride march during which he had been marching next to and having a
genial conversation with someone who said
‘Oh, I'm gay, so, I get it’. . . . It was in the context of recognizing oppression in general. I
couldn't articulate it at the time, but I knew that just because you are gay, you identify as
gay and people receive you and read you as gay, does not necessarily mean that you don't
have any sort of privileges. . . . It was his way of saying ‘I’m gay, and it is the ultimate
form of oppression, and it means that I don't have any privilege, there's no way you can
hold me accountable, responsible for any type of violence that I put out into the world.’
This sense that gay men face “the ultimate form of oppression” and “don’t have any privilege”
was a substantial barrier that Sweet Tea had to constantly work to overcome before they were
even able to have conversations about sexism in the queer community. From Sweet Tea’s
perspective, this sense of indemnity among gay men was itself part of a broader problem. The
young gay man Jeune was marching with and the other gay men who share his sensibilities are
drawing those ideas from discourses common in the wider culture.
The subordination of gay men is a principle characteristic of a hierarchal gender order
(Connell 1987, 2002, 2005). Since the late 1800’s, the primary public discourse for
understanding gay and queer men has been one of degeneracy, effeminacy, and failed
masculinity (Chauncey 1994; Christian 1994; Coston & Kimmel 2012; Goffman 1963; Mitchell
& Ellis 2011; Pascoe 2007; Weeks 1996). The term “degenerate” was one of the prevalent
markers of queerness around the turn of that century, especially among regulatory agents like the
state, police, and medical institutions; it carried connotations of moral corruption, biological
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difference, and disease, and as such created a sense of gay men as not-quite-human (Chauncey
1994). Historically, gay men have faced disenfranchisement, violence, and death because of
these widespread public ideas about sexuality. Effeminacy has been a primary marker of the
homosexual object of violence, and gay men as a whole have been understood as having more in
common with women than with other men (Chauncey 1994; Coston & Kimmel 2012; Mitchell &
Ellis 2011; Pascoe 2007).
Gay male culture has selectively taken up some of these discourses about gay men,
though often in ways that attempt to re-shape them to empower gay men, build safe and
supportive communities, or take the sting out of negative external definitions (Goffman 1963;
Dansky, Knoebel, & Pitchford, 1977; Newton 1979). This has given rise to a complicated
relationship between gay men’s communities and femininity. In some ways, gay culture prizes
and even idolizes femininity; in others, women and womanhood are rejected or ignored, and
effeminaphobia among gay men is rampant (Lehne 1989). Sweet Tea saw sexism in many of the
ways that gay men’s communities refer to and borrow from women, and this became a central
focus of their criticism of gay men’s sexism. However, they struggled to draw clear lines about
which ways of relating to women are unacceptable, and even moreso to find ways of critiquing
these forms of sexism without condemning gay men’s subcultures of safety or disregarding their
experiences of oppression.
Sweet Tea’s political analysis centered in part around questioning and troubling the ways
gay communities relate to women and femininity. When DeShawn, a younger member of the
group, told me about the sexism he wanted the group to critique, he began by explicating the use
of two particularly gendered words:
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Cunt and fish are two words that are very popular and very pervasive in Black gay
spaces. . . . It would not be uncommon for a Black gay man to refer to a woman as a fish,
or to several women as fish, as in 'I don't like fish,' or whatever. It's a very crude
reference to a woman's vagina and the way that it supposedly smells, and then using that
to define her. . . . The other word, cunt, is less intentionally offensive, but it's a way of
describing things in Black gay space that are extremely or overtly feminine. So if I called
a boy 'cunty,' that meant that he was probably extremely effeminate, or if I call something
cunt, it means that it's probably seen as effeminate, but also that I really like that. It's
supposed to be a term of endearment or a term of praise, when a Black gay man calls
something or someone else 'cunt,' typically it's supposed to mean that's fierce because of
it's female attributes. Well, both of those words are fuckin’ offensive to women! Talking
about the way a woman's sexual organs smell—and particularly it not being a good smell,
and then you use that to define her—is rude as fuck! And then certainly, even though you
can make the argument that you've taken a word and repurposed it, kind of like what
people say about nigger, but you call any woman a cunt, she's going to be fucking
offended!
The particular words DeShawn criticized are words gay men sometimes use to build homosocial
relationships with each other, but they do so by referencing—and, at least in Deshawn’s mind,
harming—women. The links to social location are clear in his description of specifically Black
gay men’s sexist and “offensive” use of the words; worth emphasizing, however, hints of
hesitancy persist, even in DeShawn’s clearly vehement condemnation of this language. He
admits that “cunty” is “supposed to be a term of endearment or. . . praise,” and concedes that it
might be possible to “repurpose” the words. In the end, though, Deshawn decided that using
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these words in this way is too offensive to individual women (“you call any woman a cunt, she’s
going to be fucking offended!”).
Ita made similar critiques of gay men’s subcultures, but took a broader, more abstract,
and theoretical perspective. He wanted gay men to consider and change the ways their
subcultures created support and safety while reinforcing the oppression of women. To Ita, much
of gay male culture idolized womanhood, but simultaneously deprecated actual women. This
especially came through in his critique of gay men’s interactions with women’s bodies, where:
gay and queer men [are] often defining femininity and womanhood. . . having the rights
to define women's bodies, to say 'this is what's sexy, this is how you look attractive,' and
women's self-definition is stripped away from them. . . . Also about the entitlement to
touch. . . there's this sense of ‘I’m gay, so I don't want you sexually, but I can still touch
you when I want to, and I can also police you and tell you how to wear your clothes’. . .
and it's still for the male eye, in a sense.
Ita also wanted to group to question and critique gay male cultural tropes, such as gay men
calling each other “‘bitch,’ and the connection to using the pronoun ‘she’ and ‘her’ for
everything. Those kinds of things pose questions to me, what is this indicative of?” His
perspective on these facets of gay male culture is complex, drawing on his knowledge of feminist
theory and queer critique to, for example, investigate “diva worship—is this really authentically
about who she is as a woman, or is this about praising some kind of normative idea of
femininity?” Ita critiques gay men’s sense of “entitlement to touch” women, judge their
attractiveness and gender presentations (“this is what’s sexy”), and re-inscription of gender
policing. However, with things like the use of female pronouns or diva worship, he stops short of
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declaring them oppressive or sexist, instead questioning their motives and cultural impact (“what
is this indicative of?”) without drawing conclusions.
This difficulty drawing clear boundaries around subcultural behaviors that are
unacceptably sexist reflects the complicated relationships between gay men and femininity. The
disjointed social location of gay men, Black gay men especially, makes it difficult to distinguish
between behaviors that are harmful instantiations of privilege and those which are responses to
one’s own oppression. Indeed, because disjointed social locations are privileged and oppressed
simultaneously, they may blur the line between harmful and affirming; they may be
simultaneously contributing to and combatting structural oppression. This is the knot that
Dwayne attempt to unravel:
For example, in queer communities and in particular communities of color, a lot of guys
may say ‘hey bitch,’ or ‘work out, bitch,’ or whatever, and it's not—there was a part of
me that was a little old-school feminist that was like, ‘that’s just horrible, that men are
referring to each other as bitches as a put-down,’ but they're also referring to each other
as bitches as a affirmation. . . . So what would it mean that Missy Elliot could take a term
like ‘I’m a bitch,’ and sort of re-appropriate it as a powerful self-affirmation? And in
those same ways, gay men are taking those things as—some would say a way of
mimicking women, which at some times I thought was negative, but I think if they are
seeing a source of power and strength in the way that women are, that it's a little more
complicated than just writing it off as 'oh, they're just being sexist and mimicking
women. . . . One of the things that made it really hard to do the statement is it was really
hard to create a statement that was more about the intention and less about a bunch of
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rules and making people feel bad and shamed for how a lot of us grow up and are in the
world."
Dwayne clearly recognizes the ways that gay men’s use of the word “bitch” is harmful (“that’s
just horrible”) and contributes to women’s oppression; however, he also complicates this analysis
by bringing up the ways that popular Hip-Hop artist Missy Elliot reclaims the word “as a
powerful self-affirmation”, and argues that gay men use it “in those same ways.” The usual
social justice response, that only members of a particular group can reclaim a word that has been
historically used to oppress them—that in order to re-claim a term, you must have a claim on it
in the first place—loses sight of the fact that, historically, gay men have had feminine epithets
used against them, and that such words often carried a credible threat of violence. This is the life
experience that Sweet Tea struggled to hold on to while also making anti-sexist critiques of gay
male culture. In writing the Sweet Tea Proclamation, the group had to find ways to negotiate or
finesse this problem in writing, which Dwayne concedes “was really hard.” Dwayne’s desire to
make sure that the group’s work was not about “making people feel bad and shamed” is a further
example of this struggle to balance anti-sexist critique with understanding and respect for gay
men’s experiences of marginalization and attempts at self-affirmation.
Part of this difficulty was due to differences of opinion within the group about the best
ways to strike such a balance, and about which parts of gay male culture merit critique. Eddie,
one of the first core members of the group, left the group very early in it’s existence, in part
because he felt the other members “were much more interested in telling gay men not to be sexist
towards women, and I think I was more interested in telling us to not be femme-phobic and
hypermasculine towards each other.” He wanted Sweet Tea “to not just be about telling gay men
not to call women fish and cunt and all that,” and was dissatisfied with what he saw as an
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insufficient focus on the ways gay men re-inscribe the oppressive aspects of the wider gender
order within their own communities and relationships (Han 2008). Eddie would have preferred to
see the group focus more on the body politics and politics of desire within gay men’s
communities, things like the “very patriarchal and white supremacist” beauty norms and the
ubiquitous use of the phrase “No Fats, No Femmes,” or the slightly more tactful “Straight
Acting, Straight Appearing,” on gay dating websites. Eddie verged on psychoanalysis when he
argued that these forms of sexism within gay men’s communities are either drawn from or in
response to gay men’s own experiences of oppression and alienation from normative masculinity.
The other major hurdle Sweet Tea faced because of the public perceptions of gay men,
and the gay communities own selective absorption or response to such perception, was a
difficulty in convincing many gay men that feminist critique applied to them. Before gay and
queer men will engage with projects aiming to reduce sexism, they need to see it as possible for
gay men to be sexist. Because of their own experiences of oppression, the discourse of gay men
as “like women,” and the complicated relationship with effeminacy and femininity, many gay
men do not see this as possible. Chris felt that he was often not held accountable for his own
sexist behaviors because of this perception: “as a gay man, it's almost like I get a pass,” he told
me, and explained that “given our experience with homophobia, given our experience with some
level of gender oppression, there's somewhat more of an identification, an assumed identification
with women.” As Jeune put it, “when we think of sexism, we immediately imagine a straight
person.”
This means that among women and straight men, “queer men might be given a pass,
sometimes, in regard to sexism,” (Jeune). It also means that many queer men “didn't see that
queer men are sexist. We got that a lot, from a lot of queer men and gay men who were just like
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‘I don't think I have male privilege, because of the way heterosexism works, etc. etc.’” (Ita).
Chris came to Sweet Tea already ready to address this concern, because he had heard and
responded to this faulty argument about gay men and sexism before Sweet Tea formed, in a
community discussion group for Black gay men. “We were exploring sexism,” Chris told me,
“and someone said ‘how could I be a sexist? I’m a femme gay man.’ And I turned to him—and
he was a friend—and I turned to him and I said ‘you have a dick, that’s how. You just get certain
things.’”
The members of Sweet Tea discussed this problem during their early discussions and the
writing of the Proclamation. Their intersectional analyses of privilege and oppression were very
clear that “just because you are gay, you identify as gay and people receive you and read you as
gay, does not necessarily mean that you don't have any sort of privilege” (Jeune). In the
document, the publicly proclaimed that “As a collective, we challenge the belief that men who
are oppressed by heterosexism are not also advantaged by sexism. Queer men, regardless of their
gender expression, are still men. Even though patriarchy is complicated by heterosexism, it by no
means eliminates our sexist reality.”
This recognition of the ways gay men can be sexist despite their own marginalized
identities is a necessary analytical pillar to support a project that aims to address sexism within
the queer community. It is not, however, an analysis shared by the majority of Sweet Tea’s
primary audience, other gay/queer men. According to Dwayne,
often the resistance came from. . . gay man who felt that by virtue of being gay—and in
particular if they were gay, Black, and somewhat conscientious—they felt like 'well,
obviously I'm not sexist,' but not thinking about some of those ways that sexism
manifests, or thinking about their own male privilege. I think a lot of this is really about
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challenging privilege, and when. . . you’ve shaped an identity around being marginalized
and a victim, it's hard to also see yourself as potentially being an oppressor, and being
privileged.
This meant that the first step in Sweet Tea’s outreach had to be overcoming this hurdle—and as
Jeune found, “it’s difficult to articulate how a marginal or oppressed group has privilege.”
Intersectional Organizing Styles
In “The Complexity of Intersectionality” (2005), Leslie McCall makes an important
intervention into the theories and methodologies of intersectional research. She argues that
different methodologies produce different kinds of substantive knowledge, and as such it is
important to understand the methods used to create intersectional research. She argues that there
are three types intersectional research: anticategorical, intercategorical and intracategorical.
Anticategorical research deconstructs categories, arguing that social life is "too irreducibly
complex-overflowing with multiple and fluid determinations of both subjects and structures-to
make fixed categories" (McCall 2005, p. 1773). The other two approaches, while generally
recognizing identity categories as socially constructed, complex, and changing, nonetheless
argue that it is important to use the currently recognized social categories to understand the
impacts they have on people’s lives and on social relationships. Whereas intercategorical
approaches study the shifting, unequal relationships between different categories, intracategorical
approaches zoom in on the experiences of individuals and groups at particular social locations,
often those that have been neglected or are multiply marginalized. To McCall, this dissertation is
a juxtaposition of two intracategorical research sites.
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In the section that follows, I adapt McCall’s typology for use in analyzing social
movement groups. Whereas McCall uses her typology to better understand trends in
intersectional research and advocate for improved research methodologies, I gratefully rework
her framework and terms, using them instead to describe intersectional organizing styles, which
classify different ways of organizing social change groups. I argue that different intersectional
organizing styles have different potential benefits and shortcomings, and understanding them can
help groups organize more effectively around intersectional identities. I find that MMADV’s
organizing style was intracategorical, focusing on the experiences of individuals at their own
social location, and Sweet Tea organized intercategorically, working across difference to form
alliances with people and groups at other social locations.
32
These organizing styles reflect the
groups’ ideologies and the discourses through which they understand gender, identity, violence,
and their own place in the world (as discussed in Chapter 3).
Furthermore, I argue that the particular shortcomings of each organizing style, coupled
with the specific characteristics of each group’s intersecting identities, contributed directly to the
collapse of each group in specific, distinct ways. This is not to say that all groups that organize in
a particular style are doomed to failure, or that these groups would have persisted if they had
adopted different organizing styles; rather, I argue that the organizing styles they chose are
evident in the particularities of the specific different ways that each group collapsed. MMADV’s
32 One can imagine a possible anticategorical organizing style taken by radically queer
groups, but an anticategorical ideology is most likely not to lead to the formation of social
change groups, being itself inherently against organizing by category. In any case, no such group
was included in my study, so I have no data on how such a group would function. If such a group
did form, I hypothesize that they would face significant struggles in recruiting membership
(because they would have no particular constituency predetermined), defining short-term goals
(because group members would likely struggle over which social change issues were of highest
priority, each arguing for those that make the most sense from their own social location), and
forming a coherent group identity. Future research into the potential and the challenges of such
organizing is encouraged.
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intracategorical, inward-focused organizing made it difficult for them to gather resources,
membership, or audiences, suffocating the group over time until they imploded and winked out
like a candle flame deprived of air. Sweet Tea’s intercategorical style made it easy for them to
find resources, audience, and new members, but organizing across difference to work with so
many other marginalized groups eventually pulled Sweet Tea apart, diluting their original
purpose and pulling their membership in different directions until the group was stretched too
thin to survive. Both groups were especially vulnerable to these stresses because of their small
size, grassroots structure, and lack of institutionalization or institutional affiliation; larger, more
institutionalized groups may not face these same struggles around intersectional organizing, but
would likely face their own.
33
“There Wasn’t Any Solid Foundation”: MMADV Collapses Inward
In many ways, MMADV typified Blee’s statement about activist groups that “are groping
for focus, that can’t pull themselves together, that accomplish little” (2012, p. 7). The challenge
that eventually led to MMADV’s decline was directly related to the social location of the group
members, but also to the way the group organized around their intersectional identities. Because
the group functioned specifically and only with Muslim men in mind, they had very limited
resources and a small base of support; while many grassroots activists groups struggle with
limited support and resources, and men’s anti-sexist groups even moreso, the extent to which
MMADV suffered was exceptional and severely limited the groups efficacy. This was apparent
in the intertwined challenges of lacking resources, flagging membership, inadequate leadership,
33 In most cases, groups that are large and institutionalized have decided to ignore issues
of intersectional identity, appealing to an imagined mainstream or focusing on only one
marginalized identity. The struggle for these groups, once they are established, is to bring
intersectional awareness back into their work; MSV is an example of one such group, as
discussed in Chapter 2.
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and difficulty accomplishing goals and projects. These overlapping challenges eventually caused
the collapse of the group: without resources to support events and projects, successful events to
bolster motivation, or experienced leadership to rally and direct the group, members left. Without
membership or community support and contributions, the leadership faltered, events stopped
being planned, and meetings stopped being scheduled. There was no point where the group
officially disbanded; rather, it simply faded out among confusion and apologies. I argue that this
dissolution was a direct result of the social location of the group members and the way they
organized around their intersectional identities.
MMADV’s way of organizing around their intersectional identities was intracategorical,
focused only on those people who lived at one particular intersection of identities. By this I mean
not that they refused to interact with the outside world (as evidenced by my ease of entre and
quick acceptance as a core group member), but that they were relatively insular and saw their
community’s concerns as theirs alone—in stark contrast to Sweet Tea, as illustrated later in this
chapter. They did not tend to form alliances with other groups or reach out for assistance, and
they saw their audience and stakeholders as solely limited to the Muslim community. This was
visible at their meetings, which were attended only by Muslim men (myself excepted), and at
events like Purple Hijab Day, which were exclusive to Muslims (as shown in the vignette that
opens this chapter). This hesitation to reach beyond the boundaries of their own community was
likely influenced by the public perceptions of Muslims and the fear of buttressing anti-Muslim
stereotypes (described above). The ways they drew these symbolic boundaries and imputed
men’s violence to ‘culture’ exacerbated the difficulties interfacing with Atlanta’s immigrant
Muslim community, which meant that in reality, the overwhelming majority of their members,
audience, and stakeholders were members of a few Black Muslim masjids in the Atlanta area.
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This intracategorical organizing style was consistent with the ways MMADV understood
and talked about their work (see Chapter 3). Their understanding of domestic violence as not
necessarily linked to other forms of sexism or larger structures of oppression and their sense of
the group as limited community activists, rather than part of a larger liberation movement, were
both consisted with an organizing style that focused inwards, on their own community identities.
While this organizing style is also consistent with the influence of Atlanta’s history of successful
Black community organizing (see Chapter 1), the numerical and class characteristics of the
Muslim community meant that this organizing style was much less successful for MMADV, and
created difficulties for the group.
The effect of this intracategorical style of intersectional organizing was to severely limit
the resources available to MMADV. I use the word “resources” broadly here, to include physical
resources like copiers and t-shirts, but also intangible resources such as: the available time and
energy of members, and their willingness to take on leadership positions or undertake tasks for
the group; their collective skills, knowledge, and creativity; the personal connections they could
bring to bear and social networks they could draw into the group’s work; community support and
appreciation; and financial contributions that the members or their community could donate to
the group. This broad definition brings concerns of class into this analysis, not only through the
ability or inability to fund projects, but also through the skills and social networks that MMADV
lacked and which are fostered in middle-class educational and community settings. While they
made impressive use of the resources they had available—having a Muslim screen printer do
their t-shirts at cost, hosting Purple Hijab Day at Al-Islam Mosque, etc.—the intracategorical
organizing style meant that they could only receive support from a very restricted community.
MMADV was a group made up of Black Muslim men, addressing mostly Black Muslim men,
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for the benefit of the Muslim community. It’s resource base was drawn almost entirely from the
small Black Muslim community around Atlanta. With this limited purview, resources were a
constant struggle and severely limited the group’s efficacy.
There is also some evidence that, regardless of creative and effective leadership or
specific activity choices, intracategorical organizing results in similar challenges at this particular
social location. That is, it may be that the characteristics of Atlanta’s Muslim community and
their location within larger structures of inequality create a situation where an inward-focused,
community-bounded intersectional organizing style will tend towards shortcomings and
limitations in possible group effectiveness. This seems likely because, previous to my arrival in
Atlanta and under different leadership, the group was under different leadership and had different
short-term goals, but was still intracategorical and faced similar overarching limitations.
Sayeed, who had retired from the group by the time I joined, had previously been the lead
organizer. When he was in charge, he chose a different way to organize within the constraints of
the Muslim community. He was able to leverage his own leadership, event organizing, and public
speaking skills (as well as a level of class privilege that allowed him to travel widely) to focus on
producing repeatable, drop-in events that he could then offer to provide at different mosques and
masjids across the country. This strategy was successful in some ways, and he told me he had
“probably given 20 or 30 talks across the United States…. in different cities, New York, Seattle,
Chicago, Huntsville Alabama.” MMADV events were more frequent during Sayeed’s tenure and
the group’s reach was much wider, but there was little interactive community engagement and
there was little room for the kind of follow-up and relationship-building that creates sustained
change in community culture. In attempting to address this limitation, Sayeed as much as
admitted that he was unable to even monitor the sustained effects of his drop-in presentations, let
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alone create more long-lasting effects: “I hope—even though I'm not keeping track of it—I hope
that other men were inspired to keep on doing this in their cities.” During this time, MMADV’s
membership was also particularly low, leading Sayeed to tell me that “like any organization,
oftentimes if you're very passionate about it, sometimes it's an organization of one.” It is
important that these struggles not be misread as a failure of Sayeed’s leadership, or Abdullah’s or
anyone else’s; this limitation comes from the combination of community factors, especially the
small size and limited resources of the Muslim community in America, and an intracategorical
organizing style. While it is possible that a more outward-focused, coalitional organizing style
would have resolved some of these problems, this choice was constrained by the Muslim
community’s fears of airing dirty laundry and the blaming of immigrant cultures for violence and
sexism.
Membership is often a problem for grassroots groups and usually a problem for men’s
anti-sexist groups, but social location made it an even bigger problem for MMADV. The simple
demographic sparseness of Muslim men is a factor, as Sayeed told me, “There’s such a small
number, and infinitesimally small number of Muslim men doing this work across the US, let
alone just in Atlanta. It's a fraternity of three or four, you know? We need some more members.”
The tensions between Black and immigrant Muslims, described above, is another. Finally, class
is a factor not to be overlooked: the Muslims in MMADV’s community tended to be working
class, and work therefore took much of their time. Sociologists have consistently found that
wealthier individuals have more leisure time, and the converse means that in MMADV’s
working-class community, matters of employment and survival take up more time and leave less
available for social change activism.
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The day before an event MMADV co-sponsored, Abdullah had to back out of attending;
the reason he gave for his absence was that he had used all his vacation time when his daughter
was born. This sort of excuse, that work got in the way of contributing to MMADV, was
common among members. The kind of work that most of the members did gave them little time
or flexibility to make themselves available for the needs of the groups. Many worked long hours
and weekend or evening shifts, and rarely had control over their work schedules. Frequently,
events would be scheduled well in advance but members would still be unable to attend because
of work concerns. This not only means members have less time to devote to the group, it also
means many people who might wish to be members simply would not have the time to commit.
Men who did commit to MMADV often were able to do so for only a relatively short
period of time before finding that they were overcommitted. Sayeed could have continued
supporting the group as a member after Abdullah became the organizer, “But basically it was
when I got married, I withdrew. . . . I was too busy.” Abdullah sometimes found himself also too
busy to keep the group afloat, as when he told me “things have kind of gone stagnant. I really
take responsibility for that, my job and stuff, I work about six days a week, about thirteen hours a
day,” or when he would call into telephone meetings while at work driving a truck. Eventually he
also found himself too busy to be able to maintain leadership of the group, and stepped back to
prioritize spending time with his growing family. Waleed backed out of his commitment to the
group over e-mail, saying something had come up and “between my regular job and the
opportunities that have been presented it will be difficult for me to give my full effort to
MMADV so at this time I am going to step away until I have more time to give. Insha'Allah I
hope you understand. Jazakum Allah Khair [May Allah reward you with goodness].” Some other
members simply faded out without even that much explanation.
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It is also possible that specifics of Muslim cultures also negatively affect men’s interest in
anti-sexist work or their ability to commit to such efforts, but the available data is insufficient to
make any claims. During his interview, Mahmood told me that he “was conflict[ed] between
having three different major volunteer jobs to do, and looking at which one was at this point the
[most] important, so I kind of began to back away from MMADV. . . . I didn't stay involved long
enough to, I think, have a big impact.” This reinforces the above concern about members’s short
tenure limiting the group’s capacity, but it also brings up the possibility that gender equality is
not as high a priority for some men. As discussed above, there is a distinct possibility that social
location affects men’s level of commitment to anti-sexist work—that is, because they benefit
from gender inequality, feminist men may be generally less committed to gender equality than
feminist women (and/or less committed than other men commit to other causes)—but there has,
to my knowledge, been no systematically study women’s commitments that would allow such a
comparative statement to be confirmed. For Muslim men specifically, it is possible that some
distance from the issues and reduction in commitment is caused by tension between the Islamic
ideal of a hierarchical (though close and respectful) relationship between men and women on the
one hand, and the egalitarian and equal relationship assumed in most feminist discourse on the
other. Similarly, the segregation of genders common in Muslim spaces may reduce opportunities
for the kinds of interactions with women that would build or sustain motivation. I can neither
support nor reject these hypotheses, however, because I have insufficient data to compare
between groups of men (because so few men expressed this kind of sentiment when leaving
men’s groups). What does seem to be supported by this data is that for these Muslim men, class
limitations and family concerns made maintaining their commitment a significant challenge.
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Leadership was also a problem for MMADV. The group was formed by Umm Kulthum, a
woman who felt that the group’s existence would benefit the work of Baitul Salaam, a
community organization that works on issues surrounding domestic abuse. She was the de facto
organizer of the group in it’s infancy (and arguably continued to be through the end of my data
collection), but felt that it should have a man directing it. She evidently had trouble finding men
interested in taking on a leadership role, because she told me the group existed for some time as
a small group, “originally maybe seven men, primarily friends of my husband,” with her
directing. She eventually found Sayeed, who had some previous organizing experience but no
experience or education about gender inequality. As he explained when describing the first
MMADV meeting he attended, “she wanted to pass the torch on to someone else. It just seemed
clear that I was the one who was the youngest there, and was the most passionate about it, so I
admit I took it on without any experience.”
Abdullah, the coordinator following Sayeed, also had no previous experience around
issues of domestic violence or with group leadership. Sayeed and Abdullah both lacked
experience with issues of domestic violence and gender inequality in part because the social
location as men gave them few opportunities and little encouragement in this direction; Abdullah
lacked leadership experience in part because of his class status, having only completed a year of
college and not having found other leadership opportunities until MMADV. The leadership gap,
itself caused by social location, caused problems like the previously mentioned difficulty
scheduling meetings or following up on plans, but also intertwined with the group’s struggles for
resources and membership. One member who had backed away from the group told me “I
quickly realized that there wasn’t any solid foundation. . . . that’s when I kind of pulled away
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from MMADV. That doesn’t mean that I won’t support them, but I need to see more coming out
of them. The leadership needs to be there.”
One of the clearest signs of the difficulties MMADV faced was the sheer number of
projects they began but were unable to complete; as Blee argues, what does happen in a group is
in some ways less important that “what fails to happen” (2012, p. 10, italics in original). Aside
from the regular occurrence of meetings being scheduled and then postponed or canceled
altogether, there were many events and actions which would garner excitement and support early
on, and then fizzle and fail due to lack of resources (again, broadly defined). During one
meeting, a member floated the idea of creating a brochure and leaving copies at all the masjids.
The idea was to emulate a brochure I had seen and passed on to the group, to explain the group’s
perspective on domestic violence and argue that Islam repudiates relationship abuse. This idea
drew a lot of support and a resolution for each member to come up with ideas and text for the
brochure and share them at the next meeting. During that meeting, however, Abdullah asked “did
any of you jot down ideas as far as that brochure was concerned?” After one member answered
in the negative and another said “I also apologize, I had a brain freeze,” Abdullah was forced to
admit he also hadn’t followed through, saying: “Tal, did you have a brain freeze as well, 'cause I
did.” This shows how leadership challenges, membership challenges, and limited resources
entwine with the group’s faltering ability to accomplish its ambitions. Just during my eight
months with the group, the list of projects which were mentioned and partially planned but never
came to fruition is long:
 A rally, planned with a national Muslim community organization, which would have
involved getting as many Muslim community members as possible to march for domestic
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violence awareness, in an Atlanta suburb known for having a substantial Muslim
population. The “Big rally in October,”Abdullah told me during his interview in July, was
“something I’m really happy about and I really want us to make a big presence at.” When
I checked back in about it a few months later, he told me “that’s still going on, it really is.
I look forward to going to that, that event is still going on here in Atlanta. Matter of fact,
I’m glad you reminded me, I need to contact a sister about that and ask her what’s the
situation on that.” His insecurity about the event (“still going on, it really is”) shows he
was aware of the group’s disappointing track record; despite his excitement and
enthusiasm for the event (“really happy about,” “really want us to make a big presence
at,” “I look forward to going to that”), it never happened. This quote also shows how
reliant MMADV was on women to do logistical work (“I need to contact a sister and ask
her what’s the situation”), a point elaborated previously (in Chapters 2 and 3).
 •A “24-hour lock-in” was discussed during one phone meeting, where boys and young
men would sleep over at the masjid, possibly with their fathers, and MMADV would
organize some fun “activities like wrestling matches and things, insha allah, but we could
also talk to them about how to deal with anger, proper ways to treat a lady,” and similar
topics that the group viewed as promoting healthy relationships and reducing future risk
of violent behavior. The group discussed charging a small fee, “seven or eight dollars,”
cooking together in the masjid’s kitchen, and giving them MMADV t-shirts for their
participation. During the phone meeting, Abdullah said “we think this is an excellent
idea, it's a great idea,” and there was some follow-up over e-mail, including asking a
member who had organized such events in the past to take the lead, but thereafter the plan
fizzled.
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 After Purple Hijab Day, there was excitement and motivation to regularly schedule
similar events at different masjids and mosques, “so we keep the ball rolling. We gotta do
something every month, that's the goal,” said Abdullah. The following month passed
without event, as did the next and the one after that.
 The above-mentioned brochure about Islamic anti-violence persectives and another group
publication, “a flier that we put together on the statistics…, just to get greater awareness
of the problem, at the masjid, at the friday prayers,” was also proposed by Abdullah
during a meeting and agreed upon by the group. There was some follow-up, including
asking me to collect statistics and help with the layout and writing of these publications,
but neither was ever produced.
 A mission statement (excerpted in the vignette preceding Chapter 3), which was drafted
but never revised, agreed upon, or ratified.
 A website with the group’s mission statement, member biographies, and events, which
was discussed but never created.
 Various fundraising efforts, including working with local Muslim businesses or applying
for a grant from the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services.
 A basic intake form for new members, to allow the group to more easily keep track of
interested men and draw them into its activities.
 A day-long training session to create a strategic plan for the group, work on the mission
statement, and receive trained by myself and members of Men Stopping Violence and
Project Sakinah.
The combined and intertwined challenges of lacking resources, flagging membership, and
shortcomings in leadership all contributed to MMADV’s difficulty following through on ideas
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and accomplishing goals. With more members or more steadfast and experienced leadership,
some of the above projects might have been successful. If more projects had been successful, the
group would have been more able to attract new membership and community resources, and the
members may have maintained commitment longer. More experienced leadership might have
been able to overcome these challenges, especially if the leadership had enough class privilege to
be able to dedicate substantial time and personal resources to the group. With none of these
forms of assistance available, the group was unable to function effectively, accomplish goals, or
even maintain group cohesion. Eight months into my fieldwork with them, the group effectively
ceased to exist.
The dissolution of MMADV showed the particular markings of their social location and
intersectional organizing style. Their intracategorical way of organizing kept them from reaching
out across axes of difference for support, because they understood themselves as being of, for,
and directed towards Muslim men. Their most successful events were those organized in
collaboration with Baitul Salaam, when the reached across gender difference towards a shared
goal. If they had been able to reach out more effectively to other religious community
organizations (which they did attempt at one point, discussed below), to Muslims of other racial
backgrounds (especially the immigrant Muslim communities mentioned previously), or to
unmarked men’s groups, they might have found enough support to make up for their own limited
resources, membership, and leadership. Unfortunately, the constraints of negative external
perceptions, intracommunity concern for not airing dirty laundry, and the symbolic boundary that
protected Islam and MMADV by blaming immigrant culture directed MMADV towards an
intracategorical organizing style that precluded these sources of support. A group whose own
community provided sufficient resources and support might be able to be successful despite an
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intracategorical style of organizing. Because of the demographic scarcity of Muslims and the
class location of most of Atlanta’s Black Muslim community, however, MMADV’s social
location did not offer this possibility. By limiting the support they could receive from outside of
their own community, MMADV’s intracategorical organizing style shaped and contributed to the
group’s collapse.
“You Kind of Forget the Mission”: Sweet Tea Gets Pulled Apart
Whereas MMADV’s approach to organizing around their particular intersecting identities
was intracategorical, focusing their attention on their own particular intersection of identities,
Sweet Tea’s approach was intercategorical. They organized across difference, endeavoring to
turn axes of oppression into bridges across which they could build relationships and partnerships
with many other people and groups that worked for social justice writ large. This approach is
reflective of the beliefs and discourses that underlie the group’s activities (see Chapter 3), such as
seeing their work as part of a larger historical movement to end all oppressions (as Mark said,
“it’s about oppression, it's about liberation, it's about all of us,”) and their organic understanding
of intersectionality. This intersectional organizing style showed up in the language they used in
their publicized proclamation, the ways they planned their meetings and events, the diversity of
people who attended their public events. It also showed up in the way the group dissolved,
struggling to maintain focus and group identity while being drawn in so many different
directions by their many identifications and alliances.
Sweet Tea saw themselves as a multiracial collective of progressive, feminist gay and
queer men. While that describes the group of eight men who participated most heavily in the first
group meetings and the writing of the Sweet Tea Proclamation (Sweet Tea, 2009), it does not
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describe how they understood their purpose or the community of their stakeholders. In the
Proclamation, they describe themselves as “allies to both feminist and womanist movements. . . .
[Who] seek to co-create a world where we can all be free.” Their desire to work together across
difference is evident not only in describing themselves as allies, but also in choosing the term
“co-create” to describe how they envision creating change and including all of humanity (“we
can all be free”) in the imagined beneficiaries of their efforts. They include “Build Alliances” as
a subheading in their writings on “What We Must Do,” emphasizing “the urgency of building
coalitions across lines of difference. To that end, we need to be concerned with and
knowledgeable of the spectrum of allies and possible partners in the struggle against sexism.”
Organizing across difference was also evident in the ways group members understood
and spoke about the group, in such a deep and intrinsic way that it appeared in conversations
about completely unrelated things. When I asked Mark what he would want a national news
story about Sweet Tea to say, he told me he would not want an article “based on queerness or
maleness,” but instead a story about how “Sweet Tea, along with a coalition of this, this, and this
group, held this really great rally in support of Trayvon[ Martin]’s family, or did a fundraiser for
queer folks in Jamaica who were effected by the earthquake.” To Mark, this “coalition” would be
a more powerful story, “because then people are pushed to say 'what is it, what do they do, oh,
well, how does that relate to this?' That's a more interesting dialogue.” In other words, Mark
understands Sweet Tea’s work as intrinsically connected to a wide variety of social justice causes
and other organizations, and would want an article to be written in such a way that other people
“are pushed” to explore the particulars of those connections. This understanding of their group
and their issues as tied into a web of other social justice causes is a facet of intercategorical
understandings, and a key part of Sweet Tea’s ways of organizing.
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This intercategorical organizing style was also evident in their meetings and events.
Sweet Tea meetings were open and welcoming to people who were not group members, as
evidenced by the white gay men and woman of color who I met at some meetings. The group
was clearly trying to work across axes of difference when planning events, both by consciously
inviting people from many different progressive groups that organized around different identities
and by working intentionally to make the events both welcoming and appealing to multiple
constituencies. This was most clear in the planning of Queer Run Amok, the event described in
this chapter’s vignette.
During one of the planning meetings, Jeune inquired whether it was possible to get an
American Sign Language interpreter for the event. Though no one in the group is deaf, their
specific mission has nothing to do with disability awareness or advocacy, and no audience
members had specifically asked the group to provide one or rebuked them for not having had one
at previous events. Harry agrees that it would be “lovely” to have one, but also points out in his
slow, sweet drawl that “they deserve to get paid for that. It’s hard, hard work,” especially given
that the event will be around six hours long. There was an extended discussion, and eventually
the consensus is that it would be too expensive, but the event page on Facebook should bear a
statement that people with ability concerns should get in touch with the event organizers, who
will try to help accommodate their needs. Someone checks, “but the library is accessible?,” and
Harry confirms that the building complies with Americans with Disabilities Act standards. This
discussion may not seem notable in itself, but its meaning becomes clear in contrast with
MMADV, where such topics would never come up and members would not have the awareness
or knowledge of these issues. The fact that this much discussion time and concern was devoted
to issues associated with an axis of difference that is not the group’s primary concern, and
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especially that so many group members were aware of and knowledgeable about the issues (e.g.,
Harry already knowing the building’s ADA status) and found them to be important enough to
devote this amount of time to, shows how they worked intentionally to make their events
welcoming to allies across axes of oppression.
The members planning QRA were not only conscious of making it an event that anyone
could attend, though. They specifically wanted the event to interest people across categories, and
worked to include their concerns in the event proceedings. Later in the meeting there was a
discussion of who the speakers at QRA would be, and a count of speakers began. Three had
already confirmed, and Jeune suggested a fourth, a young Black woman from a reproductive
justice organization. Harry confirmed that a friend of his, an older white queer-identified man
who has done various organizing work throughout his lifetime, would be happy to serve on the
panel (although he admitted that he hadn’t spoken to him about it, and agreed to call and
confirm). Mark went over the list once more, specifically checking that there was a diverse
representation of race, gender expression, etc. He suggested one more name, saying that the
panel did not yet have anyone who expressed a femme gender identity. Someone asks about a
lesbian speaker who was already on the panel, and Mark said she does not fill that gap, calling
her “my favorite butch dyke.” The level of awareness and intentionality the group shows in
selecting speakers that will be able to bring in the voices of many multiply-marginalized
communities speaks to their imagined constituency and their intercategorical organizing style.
This approach to organizing was effective in drawing a broad and diverse audience. As
described in the vignette, the audience at QRA was impressively diverse, and along multiple axes
of difference. I saw people who I identified or who identified themselves as white, Black, Native
American, Jewish, Asian, and Latino; men, women, trans- and genderqueer; gay, lesbian,
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bisexual, straight, and questioning; butch, femme, and androgynous; young, middle-aged, and
older. Sweet Tea had organized across difference for previous events as well. As previously
mentioned, they intentionally held their “Coming OUT” event at Charis books, Atlanta’s feminist
bookstore, as an act of solidarity and accountability to women. The had an ongoing relationship
with Atlanta’s chapter of the Radical Faeries, frequently inviting faeries to their meetings and
events and trying to recruit faeries to join Sweet Tea, while also critiquing them as a mostly
white and upper-class group of gay men who often struggled to understand the different
perspectives of multiply-marginalized communities. Sweet Tea even reached out to other groups
transnationally when they organized a fundraiser in the aftermath of the 2010 earthquake in Haiti
and donate those funds to the International Gay and Lesbian Human Rights Commission’s
projects for LGBT people in Haiti.
This coalitional organizing was made possible in part by the tremendous amount of
involvement and experience among the members of Sweet Tea. Unlike MMADV, Sweet Tea
never had a dearth of leadership experience or ability. Though the flat organizational structure
sometimes lead to periods of stagnation because no one was taking the reins to organize the
group, “all the members,” Harry told me “had a background where they had done some kind of
community work, they had confronted internal oppression and external oppression. This was not
a beginners course” (as mentioned in Chapter 1, many group members met through their work
with such groups). As Chris phrased it, “we were all very thoroughly engaged men.” This glut of
leadership skills reflects the educational and class backgrounds of Sweet Tea members, as many
of them began honing their leadership skills during college. Harry was part of the “radical
student movement” of the 1970’s, DeShawn did “anti-homophobia work on campus,” etc.
Because so many of the groups that helped them build leadership experience were queer or
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HIV/AIDS-related organizations, Sweet Tea’s leadership ability also links specifically to
sexuality.
While the broad imagined constituency and many alliances across identities made Sweet
Tea popular with diverse progressive constituencies, their intercategorical organizing style also
contributed to the group’s demise in specific ways. With their small size and collectivist,
nonhierarchical leadership structure, reaching out across difference in so many directions spread
their limited capacity too thin across too many issues, made them lose the focus on sexism in gay
men’s communities, and eventually pulled the group apart entirely. One group member went so
far as to say that the group “didn’t do what we said we were going to do. We said we were going
to develop an action program to take this [critique of gay men’s sexism] into the community, and
we were not able to do that.”
When the group first formed, they were very clearly about sexism in the gay men’s
community. Ita told me he formed the group because he “wanted to really delve into the unique
ways in which I saw queer, gay, cisgendered queer men embodying sexism and contributing to a
culture of violence against women.” Other members’ descriptions of the groups purpose were
similarly clear that it was about gay men’s sexism: Eddie told me “Sweet Tea sought to build
community among gay and queer men around progressive feminist politics,” or when Dwayne
called it “a coalition to talk about sexism in particular in the queer community.” Jeune told me
that when they were trying to recruit new members, they “were looking for folks who wanted to
think seriously about sexism in queer men's community, period. We wanted to build community
with other queer men who were thinking about sexism, wanted to engage in a dialogue about
sexism in queer communities.” The Proclamation similarly focused on such issues as “Queer
Male Privilege,” including the explicit statement that “Queer men, regardless of their gender
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expression, are still men. Even though patriarchy is complicated by heterosexism, it by no means
eliminates our sexist reality.” When I asked Dwyane about the proclamation, he called it a
“defining statement by a group of queer, gay, bi-identified men to challenge sexism, not just
generally but particularly in the gay community.”
Over time, however, Sweet Tea’s focus was pulled towards many other issues and
concerns, and the focus on sexism in gay men’s communities faded. Some of the group members
I interviewed showed an awareness of this trajectory, though some saw it as more of a problem
than others. Mark did not seem to be bothered by it when told me that the groups started with a
specific focus, “but I will say that I think it broadened.” Jeune, on the other hand, seemed a little
troubled when he told me “I think that in the very beginning it was always intentional for us to--
and maybe because we were working on the document--to always just talk about the different
ways sexism manifests in queer men's communities and circles. That was very much intentional.
Not so much later on, though.” When it came up in a telephone conversation, months later, he
told me “I don't know if we're still doing that. I think that's what the group is about, yea. We don't
always use the language. . . . I don't know, maybe that's something that should be asked.
Sometimes when you do this kind of stuff, you kind of forget the mission.” While Mark simply
thought that the focus of the group “broadened,” Jeune saw it more as “forget[ting] the mission”
that the group had formed around. My data do not allow me to differentiate between the two, nor
do I make a value judgement about the trajectory of the group’s work, other than to point out the
links to its intercategorical organizing style on the one hand, and its eventual disintegration on
the other. Shifting goals is one of the common dilemmas faced by social movement groups, but
for Sweet Tea it was their specific intersectional organizing style that directed the progression of
this problem (Jasper 2004).
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The most telling evidence of Sweet Tea’s drift away from a focus on gay men’s sexism is
the chronology of their public events and activities. While the group’s focus on having critical
feminist conversations about sexism in gay men’s lives was was very clear at the beginning, the
gradually widening scope was reflected in its activities, such that the last events the group put
together bore at best a tenuous relationship to this original conception. What follows is a
selection of Sweet Tea’s events over time,
34
beginning with their formation and concluding when
the group dissolved:
 Spring 2008 - Spring 2009: Group formation, discussions and writing the “Sweet Tea
Proclamation.”
 April, 2009 - “Coming OUT Party” at Charis books
 April 25, 2009 - “Queers, Coffee, Flap Jacks and Feminism”: brunch and conversation at
local gay-owned restaurant
 June 7, 2009 - “Sunday Brunch with Sweet Tea”: potluck with exercises about
masculinity and privilege
 Winter 2010 - Haiti earthquake fundraiser: poetry and musical performances raised $600
for the queer community in Haiti.
 Autumn 2011 - planning of Queers Run Amok event
 November 12, 2011 - Queers Run Amok: celebration of queer progressive organizers
The group’s first year was clearly focused on gay men’s sexism, through the production and
publication of the proclamation, and this focus continued through 2009 with potlucks and
34 Some dates are more precise than others because of the availability of data. Those
events that had Facebook pages which were still accessible have exact dates and names, and
descriptions summarizing the posted event details. Those events which did not have accessible
Facebook pages during the time of my data collected are approximated based on the descriptions
given to me by group members, and are thus subject to the accuracy of their recollections of the
events.
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gatherings designed to build membership and community while educating members and guests
about feminism, masculinity, privilege, etc. 2010’s fundraiser for Haitian earthquake victims
expanded the focus somewhat, maintaining a link to queer communities and actively creating
social change, but no longer addressing sexism or feminism. By the end of my time in the field,
Sweet Tea’s final event lost any clear link to gay and queer men’s sexism or actively pushing for
social change; Queers Run Amok took a step back from organizing for social change to instead
celebrate other queer community members who were doing this work,
35
and zoomed out even
further to encompass queers of all sexes and genders, not just gay and queer men. A final event
was discussed that would have related to the upcoming presidential election and how electoral
politics relate to the lives of the queer community. Though it never happened, the subject matter
and way it was discussed in the early planning stages suggest that it likely would have
represented a further step away from the focus on sexism in gay men’s communities. Again, as a
researcher I do not make value judgements about this shift, but note how this shift was an effect
of the group’s intercategorical organizing style, and how it contributed to their dissolution.
An important part of the dissolution of Sweet Tea was the time and energy that group
members put into other social justice projects. All members of the group were involved in other
social justice projects, often professionally; as their professional opportunities and commitments
required more of them, less was available for their organizing with Sweet Tea. This explains the
number of group members who, over time, left Atlanta to pursue other avenues of social justice
work in other places. By the time I had arrived in Atlanta, three of the eight original members of
the group had left the South for New York City, Washington D.C., and Houston, Texas. Another
35 Some of the members of Sweet Tea, during planning meetings, expressed the opinion
that celebrating queer organizing efforts was supportive of those efforts, and in that way was
itself a social change project. While I agree that this celebration was beneficial to the
communities involved, I categorize it as distinct from the more immediate critical and
educational projects of the group’s early organizing.
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left Atlanta during my time in the field, and another shortly thereafter. As the group slowly
hemorrhaged members due to graduate school, work obligations, or out-of-state moves, finding
new members became a difficult priority which was never accomplished successfully.
In every case where a member of Sweet Tea left Atlanta, they were following an
opportunity to become more deeply involved in social justice work, whether that was through
graduate school, government work, or nonprofit foundations. These opportunities again bring up
the professional-class standing of most Sweet Tea members, but also illuminate how the
professionalization of social justice work is sometimes in tension with intercategorical
organizing. Each of these opportunities required the members to become more focused and
proficient on a narrower range of issues, figuratively pulling them away from intercategorical
organizing at the same time as they were literally taken out of Atlanta and out of Sweet Tea. Ita
was aware of this and critiqued this tension, and linked it specifically to social location. When I
asked him about the group’s trajectory, he told me the group had gone into decline because “it
just became difficult for most of the members to make time for it. . . which I think is a whole
other thing about men and working, busyness. There’s a lot of discourse in there about what we
make time for and what we don't make time for.”
Three weeks after the meeting that ended up being Sweet Tea’s last, I called Harry to
discuss the status of the group. At the meeting, each of us had agreed to take a few steps towards
organizing the next event, but in the month since then few of those steps had actually been taken.
We discussed the waning energy of the group, how it seemed to have lost focus and how, as he
put it, “it just seems like there's not a whole lot of energy.” When I asked him about his sense of
why that might be, he asked me "What are we really doing, and how necessary is it?” We talked
about whether we could produce the event ourselves and try to use it to revive the group, but he
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told me “I’m able to summon forth energy, I can generally mobilize a few people, but ultimately
what would the end be? . . . . I could push it, but I would feel like I'd push it, and I'd have to push
it again.” Eventually we agreed to postpone the event we had been planning, and before the
planning gets picked up again, another member gets a job offer that takes him away from
Atlanta. With such reduced membership and no clear sense of direction or purpose, the group
never pulled itself back together.
Flexibility in Intersectional Organizing Styles
Of course, neither Sweet Tea nor MMADV acted entirely and consistently in the ways
these organizing styles might suggest; that is, intersectional organizing styles are not concrete
and monolithic features of a group, but trends in the ways a group talks and acts. They are
flexible and mutable, but seeing these trends helps us understand ways that a group understands
itself, whether consciously or unconsciously, and predict possible effects of that self-
understanding. Both groups sometimes acted in ways that were inconsistent with their overall
approach, but I argue that this is not a flaw in the categorization of intersectional organizing
styles, but simply an important reminder that the ways individuals and groups act on the ground
often do not line up perfectly with the theoretical abstractions by which we try to understand
them. In both groups, moreover, the occasions where they strayed from their usual intersectional
organizing style ended in a way that reinforced their commitment to their own style of
organizing.
Despite being very intersectionally aware and clearly organizing intercategorically, for
example, Sweet Tea members sometimes argued the need for intracategorical organizing. Part of
Ita’s reasoning in organizing the group was his sense that queer men needed “a space alone [to
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be] able to address our privilege. . . . There’s a commonality and nourishment they can give each
other, and also a challenge they can give each other that other groups with other identities mixed
into them may convolute or not necessarily get to the heart of.” Because of the specific disjointed
social location of queer men, including their own experiences of marginalization, queer men’s
anti-sexist organizing can benefit from intracategorical spaces and conversations (a space alone).
For Ita, this is because of a shared experience of marginalization that can be better addressed in
those spaces (“commonality and nourishment”) and because queer men can hold each other
accountable (“a challenge they can give each other”) despite the widespread belief that gay men
cannot be sexist. Dwayne agreed that exclusive, intracategorical spaces were valuable because
“the conversation—which is something I learned from feminism—that the conversation can
change” when members of one group do not have to be concerned about how they are perceived
by members of another. He added another explanation of why this was necessary, saying that
“sometimes because of the cultural differences, men of color or Black men sometimes need to be
able to come together to talk about sexism and some of the ways that it emerges and manifests
that are particularly cultural” before returning to advocating intercategorical organizing by
saying that “I think that parallel to those spaces, there do need to be spaces where people are
coming together.”
The most telling examples of Sweet Tea occasionally moving into intracategorical
organizing, however, were the multiple times that Harry attempted to leave the group. As the
only white member and the oldest member of the group, Harry was an important contributor to
the group’s intercategorical organizing; when friends asked him about the group’s membership,
he would joke that he “was the diversity in the group. They got two for one with me, I was old
and white.” At the same time, he was conflicted about his place in Sweet Tea, unsure whether his
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difference contributed to the group or kept it from being a more effective group specifically for
queer men of color. When I asked him about the importance of the Sweet Tea Proclamation, he
called it “the first collective work that I'm aware of by a group of African-American gay men to
address this particular issue. And my presence in the group, I don't think made it a whole lot less
African-American.” Jeune told me that before I arrived in Atlanta, Harry had already “brought
up the idea that ST should maybe just be a Black organization. . . . And we shut that down.”
During my time in Atlanta, Harry tried this again, sending an e-mail to the group and saying
“The notable absence [in Atlanta’s queer progressive organizations is] queer men of color. If
Sweet Tea has a mission it would be with that demographic. It feels funny to me as the old white
guy in the group to point that out but I believe it is true.” This second attempt to leave the group
so it could be more specifically intracategorical also was not accepted by other group members.
While Harry’s two attempts to back gracefully out of the group suggest a move toward
intracategorical organizing, the fact that he was twice asked to stay in the group shows Sweet
Tea’s commitment to intercategorical work.
36
For MMADV, the one notable exception to their insular, intracategorical organizing was
that upon my early arrival to Atlanta, MMADV had arranged to be co-sponsors of an event
called “Sacred Safe Space.” This was a breakfast discussion for faith community leaders,
organized by the Georgia Commission on Family Violence and the Georgia Coalition Against
Domestic Violence. It opened with two Christian survivors of domestic violence sharing their
stories, then proceed with leaders of different faith communities—Jewish, Christian, Muslim,
Sikh, Buddhist—giving presentations about how domestic violence impacts their communities
36 Harry’s attempt to leave the group also reiterates the confusion that Sweet Tea felt
about their sense of purpose just before they disbanded. What had started as a group of gay and
queer men committed to addressing gay men’s sexism was now a group that members could as
easily view as a group for “queer men of color,” despite the fact that this would necessitate the
departure of a key member.
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and how they respond, and an employee of Men Stopping Violence gave a presentation on their
work as well. This event, reaching out to groups doing anti-domestic-violence work in other
religious communities, is clearly intercategorical. However, the actual attendance and outcomes
of the event suggest that this kind of work was of lower priority to MMADV members. The
evening before the Sacred Safe Space event, Abdullah informed me via e-mail that he would not
be able to attend and asked me “please be observant and represent” the group, despite my having
not yet met with the group in person at that point. Umm Kulthum was in attendance, but no other
members of MMADV were present; given the extent of her involvement in logistics and
planning for other MMADV events, it is likely that she was actually the person to do the work
necessary for MMADV to be recognized as co-organizers of the event. Regardless, the lack of
attendance shows MMADV’s prioritization of intracategorical approaches over those, like
Sacred Safe Space, that bridge differences.
These examples should not be read as failures, but as instances where the group
considered an alternate course of action—a path that might make them more or less committed to
their current organizing style—and, whether intentionally or not, rejected it. Though there are
internal and external forces that constrain some actions or encourage others, organizing styles are
always mutable; each time a group makes a decision about how to relate to each other, other
groups, or the wider society, they are choosing one style of organizing and dismissing others.
These examples can also be seen, then, as highlight the flexibility in each organizing style,
opening the heartening possibility of creatively combining or navigating between them.
Conclusion
Neither MMADV’s nor Sweet Tea’s members wanted to admit to being finished. At the
same time, neither was still having meetings, hosting events, or maintaining an active online
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presence. When I left Atlanta, neither group had met, organized and event, or had any official
group communication for a few months. Both had seen membership drop off to such an extent
that only two or three people in Atlanta would still consider themselves members, and both
lacked anyone willing to take the reins of leadership and push the group into action. While both
groups had members that hopefully described their group as dormant, and it is certainly possible
that either or both groups were simply in a period of abeyance and would re-form or take another
shape in the future , they were defunct, for all intents and purposes, by the time I left Atlanta
(Blee 2012; Taylor 1989).
As MMADV approached it’s end, Abdullah, the coordinator, would occasionally send out
e-mails or text messages saying things like “I would like to first apologize for not being
consistent.No excuses her[e]…just beg your pardon.” When it became more clear that he would
not be able to maintain leadership or even involvement, I scheduled a follow-up interview with
him and he said he was hoping to “play more of a supportive role, but not quit.” The next time I
followed up, after I had left Atlanta, he had stepped down without finding a replacement, and the
group—such as it was, mostly a name and a history—was rudderless. Since the group was
originally formed and continuously overseen by Umm Kulthum, it is possible that she may
eventually find another coordinator and revive the group, or simply continue using the group’s
name and organizing events herself,
37
so as to benefit from the male privilege of the group’s
perception. Mahmood’s statement that “I hope the group gets back together. . . If some of the
brothers still want to do some things, then I may be able to help out,” however, shows that the
37 This possibility brings back the conversation of how much effort and energy women
expend in attempting to educate and engage men in anti-sexist work. While Umm Kulthum’s
own efforts are eased by the existence and endeavors of MMADV, It seems she also needs to
continually expend energy to keep the group productive. Whether this sort of effort is worthwhile
for feminist women is a subjective concern, but this research does show how, in order to benefit
from men’s engagements, often feminist women must continually expend their own energies to
impel men.
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membership saw the group as inoperative, and though they may have had some optimism about
it re-forming in the future (“I hope”), no one was ready to take on themselves the work necessary
to make that happen (“I may be able to help”).
The members of Sweet Tea seemed much more clear about the dissolution of the group,
but some also held on to the assertion that, rather than being over, the group had changed or
shifted in a way—or at least, that the work the group had done was valuable and would continue
to provide lasting benefits. When I went to New York City to interview Ita, the group’s founder,
he stopped me mid-sentence to tell me he found the conversation “funny, because you're
speaking in the present tense, and it's very past tense to me.” When I spoke to Harry about it,
though, he was “not ready to put [Sweet Tea] to rest, and held on to the idea that
the group is sort of - I would use the word transmuted. What we were doing, the values
that we were trying to work on and clarify, I think helped us become more solid as
individuals and more effective in the work that we do, and we all do some kind of work
that touches on this. So, I think the energy goes on.
Other group members similarly pointed to the Proclamation being available online for others to
read, learn from, and critique, with the hope that others would carry the conversation forward.
One member brought up the possibility of the group re-forming online, or if enough members
were geographically near again in the future; these both seemed more like hopeful optimism to
me than an actual intention for the future, and no movement in that direction has happened since
I left the field. Still, nearly all of the members said something to the effect of “I’m still very
much a part of the group that created that statement, I still stand behind it, I still have
relationships to the people,” and saw this as a way that the group’s effects, if not it’s
organizational existence, would be perpetuated into the future.
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In this chapter, I showed how comparisons between MMADV, Sweet Tea, and unmarked
men’s groups suggest that some facets of men’s anti-sexist work tend to be stable across other
intersecting identities, suggesting that they are effects of men’s superordinate social location on
their efforts to organize groups for gender justice. These included difficulties with membership,
motivation, and commitment; receiving disproportionate praise and excitement for their
contributions; navigating the continued existence—and sometimes the strategic use—of male
privilege despite ideologies that repudiate male privilege; the tensions involved in having
homosocial spaces; the drain of energy and resources from feminist women; and questioning of
their masculinity or sexuality.
There were other difficulties that MMADV and Sweet Tea faced, however, that were
specific to certain axes of difference or intersections of identity. Some of these are about that
identity or community’s own internal characteristics, but many of them are related to the ways
that the wider public perceives and treats those identity-communities, and the ways the
communities respond to or internalize those perceptions. MMADV, for example, had to find
ways to navigate the separation of genders in Muslim culture, the division of the Muslim
community into Black and immigrant factions, and the Muslim community’s concerns about
airing dirty laundry and thus corroborating negative stereotypes about Muslims and Islam. Sweet
Tea struggled to draw clear lines of appropriateness through gay male culture’s complicated
relationships with femininity, to balance feminist critique with an appreciation for the safety and
support of gay male subcultural communities, and to overcome the resistance of gay men who
believe their own oppression means they cannot be held accountable for perpetuating the
oppression of women.
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The final contribution of this chapter is to introduce the concept of intersectional
organizing styles, adapted from McCall’s typology of intersectional research. Whereas MMADV
was found to organize intracategorically, Sweet Tea organized intercategorically; these
organizing styles were influenced by the groups’ understandings of oppression and of their own
purpose in organizing, and they shaped the efficacy and outcomes of the groups in particular
ways. Neither group maintained a strict and unwavering commitment to one type of organizing
—neither group was intentional about deciding on one organizing style over another—but the
trends in their organizing were as clear as their impacts. While MMADV’s insular,
intracategorical organizing made it difficult for them to gather enough resources and momentum
to accomplish tasks and maintain effectiveness, Sweet Tea’s expansive, intercategorical
organizing spread their limited resources thin and pulled them away from their original focus on
gay men’s sexism.
MMADV’s resource limitation was exacerbated by the class standing and demographic
paucity of Atlanta’s Muslim community; these showed through most markedly in the difficulty
recruiting and keeping members, the lack of leadership and organizing experience, and the
frequency with which members’ employment concerns limited the group’s functioning. Sweet
Tea’s class location and deep embeddedness within queer and social justice communities kept
leadership and resources from being a problem, but they instead found themselves attempting too
much for too many constituencies and losing focus on their original purpose as a collective; the
tension between professionalization in one field and intersectional focus also contributed to their
difficulties.
Rather than seeing the difficulties these groups faced with intersectional organizing as
failures of their leadership, membership, or mission, I argue that their experiences can tell us
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something important about intersectional organizing. For groups working to organize from a
particular intersection of identities, especially if that intersection narrows their focus to appeal to
a relatively small population and thus a small resource base, intersectional organizing presents a
key challenge. These groups find themselves having to navigate between Scylla and Charybdis:
between an intracategorical organizing style that limits their resource base and ability to
accomplish goals, and an intercategorical style that stretches their resources thin and inhibits
your ability to focus on the concerns of their own small community (Chapter 5 discusses possible
strategies for addressing this challenge). Neither option, it appears, is tenable in the long run.
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CHAPTER FIVE
CONCLUSIONS
This dissertation was undertaken as an intervention into the growing literature on
engaging men in anti-sexist activism. Until now, most of this research has acknowledged that
sampling limitations were present and recommended that future research include a more diverse
sample of men before proceeding with the assumption that their results are more-or-less
generalizable to all feminist men (Bridges 2010; Casey 2010; Casey & Smith 2010; Coulter
2003; Holmgren & Hearn 2010; Shiffman 1987). By showing some specific places where this
assumed generalizability fails, this dissertation corrects unexamined beliefs about engaging men,
provides new data on the experiences of marginalized men and their groups, and hopefully
encourages future research and praxis to look more carefully at the differences between men in
their engagements with gender justice work. In showing the specific ways that Black, Muslim,
and gay/queer men differ from the men already represented, it also gestures in the direction of
other differences (for other groups of men, or for these men in areas not addressed in this
dissertation). As is often the case in qualitative sociological research, this project also produced
findings that addressed issues not originally intended, contributing to the literatures on how place
affects activism and how intersectional organizing styles shape activist groups’ trajectories.
When I first conceived of this project in the wake of my research with the unmarked
group Men CARE, I started by looking for men’s anti-sexist groups that specifically engage
around some other identity: race, class, sexuality, religion, etc. I found a high concentration in
Atlanta, and moved there to spend a year working with, interviewing, and collecting data about
Muslim Men Against Domestic Violence and the Sweet Tea Southern Queer Men’s Collective. I
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chose qualitative methods to allow the broadest scope of data collection and the greatest
theoretical and analytical flexibility, because so little had previously been written on socially
marginalized men engaging in anti-sexist work. Life-history interviews helped me to get a better
sense of how personal trajectories and group life interacted with larger social structures,
especially the axes of oppression that make up Collins’ Matrix of Inequality (Collins 1990).
When I arrived in the field, one of the questions I found myself asking over and over was
“why Atlanta”? My investigations found that a combination of geographic, demographic,
historical, and institutional factors shaped the local context in a way that encouraged the
development of intersectionally-organized men’s anti-sexist groups. Atlanta’s geographical
positioning as a progressive bastion in the conservative South makes it a haven for marginalized
minorities and also encourages networking and cooperation among them. Demographically,
Atlanta is one of the few places in the United States that has a critical mass of Muslims and gay
men; in both cases the communities are already networked sufficiently to support the creation of
small community groups. The activist history of Atlanta was particularly consequential: Sweet
Tea drew knowledge and inspiration from Atlanta’s queer activist history, and both groups grew
in the shadow of slavery and racism but also of effective Black community mobilization. The
existing local institutions have major effects on the possibilities for new activist groups: the
presence of a major international airport sustains a substantial immigrant Muslim community;
the Nation of Islam created a stable Black Muslim community as well; a concentration of
HBCU’s educates and integrates a substantial Black middle-class; the longstanding gay
neighborhoods, community groups and institutions, and HIV/AIDS organizations all helped
Sweet Tea form and find support; and Men Stopping Violence, a nationally recognized men’s
feminist organization that has been running since the early 1980’s, provided education and
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institutional support to both groups. While no one of these factors was necessary or sufficient,
geographic, demographic, historical, and institutional factors together directed and made possible
the groups’ emergence.
MMADV was founded by Umm Kulthum, the coordinator of the Muslim domestic
violence organization Baitul Salaam, in order to support her work and circumnavigate some of
the obstacles she faced in reaching the Muslim community. Sweet Tea, on the other hand, formed
as a collective when Ita invited a number of his feminist- and activist-oriented friends and
colleagues to discuss the problems of sexism in queer communities. Both groups had key
members trained by Men Stopping Violence and gained much from MSV’s analysis and
resources, but both groups were formed in part because they felt alienated and unrecognized in
the analysis or organizing of this unmarked men’s group.
When I compared the pathways that brought group members to each group and to anti-
sexist work more generally, I found that the existing literature had already illuminated many key
points, such as seeing engagement as a long-term process with multiple stages. However, both
groups showed some variations that add to or clarify existing models of engagement, and Sweet
Tea’s pathways differ enough to encourage re-evaluating existing models more carefully. The
data from MMADV highlight the importance of the Internet and social networking technology in
engaging and communicating with demographic minorities, and their stories of getting involved
because of their parenting experiences remind us of the increased potential for engaging men as
they mature. When read alongside the engagement stories of Sweet Tea members, they suggest
that social location moderates the importance of individual women in sensitizing experiences and
involvement opportunities. Sweet Tea members had difficulty telling engagement stories,
because their sensitization experiences and involvement opportunities were usually in reference
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to their own experiences of gendered marginalization, beginning at a very young age. They
therefore do not speak of experiencing a shift in understandings of gender during their
engagement, but instead of finding a community or language in which to express things they
knew already. The fact that Black Muslim men’s pathways largely mirror those in the literature
but Black queer men’s do not illustrates an important point about how marginalized identities
impact men’s engagements in anti-oppression allyship: the type of marginalization matters.
The regular and routine proceedings of the groups bear much resemblance to those of
many other grassroots activist groups or to those of unmarked men’s anti-sexist groups, with a
few notable exceptions introduced by their marginalized intersecting identities (Blee 2012). They
both are small, organizing primarily in people’s homes or over the Internet, and utilize the
material and cultural resources in their communities to support their organizing and reach to their
audiences. For reasons that are similar to those given by unmarked men’s groups, both organize
homosocially; however, MMADV also sees this as adhering to religious injunctions for gender
segregation, while Sweet Tea is much more aware than most groups that organizing
homosocially allows them to discuss the effects of their social location while also lifting the
burden of educating them from women.
MMADV’s activities were similar to those of other anti-domestic-violence organizations,
though inflected with religious overtones: they focused on public education to their community,
helping individual women through crises, and supporting women’s anti-violence organizations
(most notably Baitul Salaam, their sponsoring organization). Zakat, the Islamic mandate to
provide money for Muslims in need, helped them fundraise for women in a novel way, by
sending text message requests for assistance. This focus on concrete, pragmatic, and relatively
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small-scale activities reflects their view of themselves as a single-issue, liberal community
organization.
That much of MMADV’s efforts are about assisting individual women or supporting
women’s groups follows from their sense that, as men, their proper orientation towards sexism is
to assist women in working on a women’s problem, or to help and protect especially vulnerable
women. This view of women and their place in the anti-sexist movement reveals their essentialist
views of gender, which also extends to seeing men as violent and ungovernable and men’s
violence as rooted in anger and superior physical strength. They tend to define sexism rather
narrowly in terms of violence or egregious controlling behavior and do not consider themselves
feminist or see their work as necessarily aligned with feminism; instead, they see it as being
about upholding fairness, protecting and supporting “the family”, and following in the footsteps
of Muhammad. This increased spiritual involvement, along with the awareness and
accountability about their own behaviors and the positive feelings generated by helping people,
were the primary benefits that they spoke of receiving from their involvement.
Sweet Tea’s primary activities were directed towards building community and fostering
public conversations about sexism and male privilege in queer communities. This began with the
internal discussions that lead to publishing the Sweet Tea Proclamation and proceeding through a
series of potlucks, discussion groups, and talks. These activities make sense from the groups’
perspective because they understand sexism in both very concrete and very broad ways. They
saw concrete manifestations of sexism in gay men’s sense of entitlement to touch and comment
on women’s bodies and fashions, their use of feminine terms as pejoratives, their unquestioning
wielding of male privilege, and their interactions with other gay men. They also understood
sexism more broadly, though, as including institutionalized advantages, structures of inequality,
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and cultural trends. To Sweet Tea, “patriarchy” is the root of all these gendered injustices, and
the way to address it is to change the culture and social structures that uphold it. The focus on
community-building also fits with the freighted and distinctive way they think about and discuss
“community,” as both a concrete and metaphorical space of shared identity, experience, culture,
friendship, and trust, which compels mutual effort for communal protection and uplift. That the
friendships, support, and personal development fostered by this community were the most
frequently mentioned benefit of group members, then, is unsurprising.
The members of Sweet Tea saw themselves as part of a broad and ongoing movement for
human liberation, and many of them were deeply involved in multiple social justice
organizations. This reflects their grounded and ingrained understanding of intersectionality and
their commitment to coalition politics, and explains why their activities eventually expanded to
include supporting other social justice causes. I use the term organic intersectionality to describe
how their own life experiences as Black gay men shaped this way of living and organizing
(Messner et al. forthcoming); these experiences also helped them come to view gender as social
construct. This understanding of gender, especially given that feminist, Black feminist and Black
gay texts were so formative for them, also provided them a sense of ownership or belonging in
feminism that meant they were women’s comrades but need not rely on women’s guidance or
oversight. Their view of men’s violence against women as an expression of violent masculine
socialization, used to uphold unequal gender relations, is also founded in social constructionism.
Social location also informed the struggles each group faced and their eventual declines.
More specifically, the ways their marginalized identities are perceived in the wider culture
created particular roadblocks for each group, and their intersectional organizing styles
constrained their responses and shaped the ways they collapsed. This does not mean that either
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style is wrong or would sabotage a group in some deterministic way; a better interpretation is to
think of intersectional organizing styles as a useful analytic tool for understanding the tendencies
of a group, each with it’s own strengths and weaknesses. Possible strategies for navigating these
pitfalls are discussed later in this chapter.
The common perception of Muslims as violent, misogynistic, and domineering create
dual challenges for MMADV. On the one hand, awareness of this outside perception makes the
Muslim community reticent to discuss or even admit to domestic abuse in their communities, not
wanting to air dirty laundry and give credence to these negative stereotypes. This makes it
difficult for MMADV to do their outreach and educational programming. On the other, MMADV
themselves are also very aware of this external perception, and put a lot of emphasis on showing
themselves as counter-examples and on defending Islam from aspersions. They instead blame
“culture,” used in a very broad and vague way, for Muslim women’s oppression, but this has the
unanticipated consequence of distancing MMADV from Atlanta’s many immigrant Muslims.
This divides their already small base of support, exacerbating the resource deficiency they faced
because of the sparse and working-class nature of their community. Because their
intracategorical organizing style foreclosed other options for garnering support, such as alliances
with other anti-violence, religious, or community groups, they were constantly struggling for
membership, leadership, and resources. Most of their projects went unrealized and goals went
unfulfilled, until eventually even meetings ceased happening and there was nothing left.
The marginalization and oppression of gay men, along with discourses that portray gay
men as like or naturally aligned with women, make it difficult for many gay men to see
themselves as receiving male privilege and contributing to women’s oppression. This sense that
“gay men can’t be sexist” both creates a hurdle to engaging with gay men about their own sexist
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behaviors and also narrows the possible conversations Sweet Tea could have with the wider
public. The varied and complex ways that femininity gets taken up in gay male culture also make
it difficult for Sweet Tea to draw clear lines that repudiate sexist behaviors without also rejecting
parts of gay male culture that provide safety, support, and solidarity for gay men. The challenge
that most shaped Sweet Tea’s collapse, however, was their difficulty deciding what issues were
within their purview and what they would have to leave to other groups and communities.
Because of their sense of themselves as part of a grand movement working for liberation from all
oppressions, and because of the intercategorical organizing style that saw them allying with their
time and energy to the causes of many oppressed communities, they took on too many issues,
spread their resources to thin, and eventually were pulled apart. Their initial focus on sexism in
gay men’s communities—already a substantial enough concern that there was conflict within the
group about what to prioritize—grew to include support for queer communities abroad, the to
celebrating the work of queer individuals organizing for other issues, and eventually to
everything and nothing.
Both MMADV and Sweet Tea eventually collapsed, but that should not necessarily be
taken as a sign that they accomplished nothing. While the methods used for this research are not
appropriate for evaluative conclusions, there are some signs that their work did create ripples or
plant seeds. MMADV’s Purple Hijab Day has been taken up by other groups both nationally and
internationally, and though their idea of a public march in collaboration with Project Sakinah
never came to fruition, it did bring the national organization’s attention more directly to Atlanta
and encourage them to create an Atlanta chapter (which a former MMADV member helped
establish). Sweet Tea’s proclamation is available online, has been included on the recommended
reading lists of the National Resource Center on Domestic Violence’s special collection for
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working with men and boys, and is linked by a grassroots anti-racist group in Pittsburgh
(National Resource Center on Domestic Violence, 2011;Whites Working and Hoping to Abolish
Total Supremacy, Undermining Privelege, N.D.). There may have been other kinds of long-term
impacts that would not appear in this study, such as influencing MSV to be more inclusive,
connecting other organizations along axes of difference, or shifting community norms and
creating an accepted space for anti-sexist organizing within their communities.
Theoretical Contributions
The primary theoretical contribution this dissertation was intended to make was to
illustrate the importance of intersectionality in studies of men’s anti-sexist engagements. The
literature to this point has been marked by a “glaring gap” where intersecting identities are
concerned (Casey & Smith, 2010, p. 970). The present project proved the importance of
considering these intersections by showing the ways that they shape group formation and
individual entry, group activities, discourses and understandings, benefits experienced by group
members, challenges, and group dissolution. In the course of making this argument, the findings
of this project contributed to the literature on men’s gender justice efforts, but also added to
sociological knowledge on place and urban studies, activism and social movements,
intersectional organizing, and intersectionality more generally.
The data collected on Black, Muslim, and queer men’s anti-sexist organizing support the
premise that some—though not all—of the challenges that are common in men’s anti-sexist
organizing stem from men’s superordinate position in structural hierarchies of power, such that
they may be expected to become apparent any time men in such a society do work understood as
benefitting women (Connell 1987, 2002, 2005). These include difficulty in attracting and
retaining members; an uneasy reliance on homosocial spaces; difficulty navigating male
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privilege, especially the pedestal effect and the use of privilege in support of gender equality; a
tricky balance of maintaining connections and accountability to women without creating more
work for them; and the experience of having one’s masculinity and/or sexuality questioned
(Messner et al. forthcoming; Peretz, unpublished paper, forthcoming). Confirming the structural
basis of these issues would require further research, both cross-culturally and with other
intersectional identities, but the present project does strongly support this hypothesis. Cross-
cultural research is recommended to explore whether these concerns are specific to the United
States or reflect gender hierarchy and inequality anywhere; investigations of how they arise
when allies do work around other social inequalities are also recommended.
This project also illustrated the concrete effects that different understandings of gender,
violence, and justice have on men’s organizing. Many discussions of men’s anti-sexist work have
assumed that these groups are based on feminist principles and therefore tends to rely on similar
grounding logics. The many different forms of feminism themselves rely on different
assumptions, however, so it follows that men’s groups can form around a variety of available
discourses, and that these underlying understandings would impact the shape they take.
MMADV’s efforts relied on essentialist and liberal discourses, combining second wave feminist
and Muslim-American community perspectives, while Sweet Tea was undergirded by
constructionist and liberationist discourses, third wave and Black feminist thought, and Black
gay cultural production. Understanding the different actions and understandings that emerged
from these foundations clarifies our analyses of men’s engagements.
The stories that MMADV members told of their pathways to joining the group highlight
the importance of both age and parenting in men’s gendered awareness and willingness to engage
in anti-sexist work. Because so much of the research and discussion about men’s gender justice
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work happens in academic settings and focuses on young men, this potent avenue for
engagement is both understudied and probably underutilized (Crooks et al. 2006). Similarly,
evaluation studies of programs that intend to compare the effectiveness of different strategies for
reducing gender inequality by education men, like Green Dot, One in Four, and Men of Strength,
should keep in mind the differences between collegiate audiences and audiences in non-
collegiate settings, and consider the likely possibility that different strategies are necessary for
different audiences (Ahrens et al. 2011; Dworking et al. 2012; Earle 1996; Gondolf 2004;
Langhinrichsen-Rohling et al. 2011; Verma et al. 2006; Verma et al. 2008). Evaluations studies at
HBCUs, Hispanic-serving institutions, and Latino campuses, or for adult education audiences,
are also recommended. Overall, prevention-education evaluations studies should attend to
intersectional difference in their audiences, and as much as possible, should be designed to
gather data from multiple audiences so intersectional comparisons can be made.
The ways that experiences of marginalization impact men’s willingness to get involved
gave rise to differences between the engagement stories of the two groups, and specifically to the
difficulty that Sweet Tea members had in forming a coherent narrative to describe their
engagement process. This adds nuance to the premise that marginalization makes men more able
to understand and empathize with women’s oppression (Brod 1988; Christian 1994); it shows
that marginalization alone is not sufficient to understand men’s engagement processes and ally
formation. The type of marginalization matters. A potent site for future research would be to
investigate how this plays out with allies in anti-racist or anti-homophobia movements.
Trying to understand why men’s anti-sexist groups organizing around disjointed social
locations were unexpectedly and disproportionately present in Atlanta lead to an investigation of
ways that place impacts activism. This revealed the intertwined effects of demographic,
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geographical, historical, and institutional factors impacting group formation, group-level culture,
and the possibilities for alliance-based organizing. The presence of substantial and sufficiently
networked Muslim and queer communities were necessary for the groups to form, and Atlanta’s
position as a liberal haven in a conservative region encouraged both the presence of these
populations and the organizing styles that characterized them. Atlanta’s history of slavery and of
successful black community organizing, of safe and empowering spaces for gay life and
activism, and of activism around gender and sexuality shaped activists’ sense of possibility and
of what successful organizing looks like. This history also created institutions which remain and
support current activism. The feminist bookstore where Sweet Tea debuted their proclamation,
MMADV’s masjid that was founded by the Nation of Islam, and the nearby presence of Men
Stopping Violence all encouraged the formation of these groups. Local institutions that were
unrelated to activism, like HBCUs and the international airport, also influenced the context
within which the groups functioned, and thus on the way organized.
The primary contribution this research makes to the literature on intersectionality and
social movements is the concept of intersectional organizing styles. MMADV’s intracategorical
organizing style and Sweet Tea’s intercategorical style had different effects on the trajectory each
group took, and on the groups’ eventual dissolution (McCall 2005). While neither style should be
understood as destructive in itself, they each have their own tendencies, including strengths,
blind spots, and possible pitfalls, especially for groups that are smaller and have limited
resources, as tends to be the case with intersectionally-organized groups. Intracategorical
organizing meant MMADV’s resource base was limited to the small, resource-poor Muslim
community in Atlanta, and the groups essentially asphyxiated for lack of support. Sweet Tea, on
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the other hand, was pulled apart by the many competing demands and concerns that they were
open to because of their intercategorical organizing style.
The concept of intersectional organizing styles adds an important intersectional identity
component to the social movement literature’s discussion of the dilemmas faced by movement
organizations (Jasper 2004). The effects of MMADV’s intracategorical organizing style overlap
with the organizational dilemma (centralized leadership is more efficient but reduces
membership buy-in) and the dilemma of reaching out or reaching in (directing efforts towards
your own community or towards outsiders require different tactics and resources). Sweet Tea’s
intercategorical challenges map onto the dilemmas of extension (broader goals and identities
reduce coherence of goals and actions) and shifting goals (changing goals over time may be an
appropriate response to changes in resources or context, or may signal a detrimental a loss of
focus or solidarity). These similarities suggest that future research into the interactions between
intersecting identities, intersectional organizing styles, and the strategic dilemmas faced my
movement organizations would be fruitful.
Intersectionally organized groups face challenges unique to their own identities and
communities. Some of these are based on specific characteristics of their own community, but
more often they stem from the public perceptions, as illustrated by MMADV’s concerns that
airing dirty laundry might give credence to stereotypes of Muslims as violent misogynists and
Sweet Tea’s difficulty with the idea that gay men cannot be sexist because they are somehow
“like” women. The groups had to take these public perceptions into account and decide how to
respond directly to them, but they must had to navigate the ways that the public perceptions are
adopted or reacted to by other community members.
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The ways that MSV shaped the formation of each group highlights the important
relationships between more and less intersectionally aware groups and groups organized around
specific intersectional identities. MSV simultaneously provided resources and education that
supported the formation of new groups, and created a sense of alienation that highlighted the
need for them. These kinds of relationships may also be a fruitful place for future research.
Finally, this dissertation contributed to intersectional theorizing in two major ways. The
first is by including Muslim men, a group whose racialization in the United States draws heavily
on the enforcement of difference based on religion and nationalism, two undertheorized axes of
difference (Jamal & Naber 2007). Race, class, and gender are well-established in the
intersectionality literature and sexuality is becoming standard, but different theorists add or
prioritize other categories in myriad ways and intersectionality beyond these four categories is
currently undertheorized (Baca Zinn, Hondagneu-Sotelo, & Messner 2005). With the increasing
interest of sociologists in global research and global relations, the importance of religion and
nationalism for intersectional research should not be overlooked.
More significantly, this study illustrated the importance of disjointed social locations and
began to investigate the ways they shape people’s lives. While intersectional research has
supplied a critical and substantial literature on multiply-marginalized communities and
sociologists have long studied superordinate groups (e.g. Domhoff 2005; Kimmel & Ferber
2013; Kimmel & Messner 2012; Mills 1959), sociologists are only beginning to investigate the
places in the matrix of domination where privilege and marginalization are experienced
simultaneously (Coston & Kimmel 2012; Hondagneu-Sotelo & Messner 1994). These are
important sites for understanding the ways different structured inequalities interact, the various
ways life experiences around one axis of difference can influence or be leveraged against another
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axis of difference, and the ways that individual and collective actors can act upon structured
inequalities.
Practical Implications
My hope in writing this dissertation is that, by illustrating the myriad and deep-rooted
ways that intersecting identities shaped the involvement of MMADV and Sweet Tea, I can aid in
improving the effectiveness of men’s anti-sexist groups and support the involvement of more
diverse men in anti-sexist activism. Engaging marginalized men requires getting a sense of their
own community concerns and how they intersect with masculinity, feminism, understandings of
gender and violence, etc. (Douglas et al. 2009; Gondolf & Williams 2001; Williams 1995).
While the current data only addressed these concerns with regards to two social locations, it was
still able to illustrate the ways that social location, moderated through life experience, external
perceptions and expectations, and community characteristics, can shape men’s anti-sexist
activism.
The overarching importance of intersectionality can be introduced into engagement
efforts in multiple ways. Understanding community concerns and allying with members of a
community may provide access to resources and discursive strategies that are important and
beneficial. For example, MMADV’s idea of having educational and engagement talks during
Jumah as a way of reaching the Muslim community could be employed by other groups, or
adapted for other communities. Learning from the discourse and cultural touchstones of Sweet
Tea might encourage student resource centers that focus on gender issues to have the works of
Melvin Dickson, Essex Hemphill, Joseph Beam, Assato Saint, and Audre Lorde on hand for
reference, to show familiarity with the queer community and also illustrate how feminist critique
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can apply to the lives of men within it (e.g. Beam 1986; Hemphill 1992, 2007; Lorde 2000,
2006; Lorde & Clarke, 2007; Riggs 2008, 2009; Saint 1989, 1996).
MMADV and Sweet Tea formed in very different ways; their formation stories may be
useful in starting more intersectionally-organized men’s groups, or in fostering the inclusion of
marginalized men into unmarked groups. The stories of how alienated MMADV and Sweet Tea
members felt in the MSV internship, either because of the conflict between MSV’s second-wave
feminist ideologies and their own religious beliefs or because the heteronormative assumptions
prevalent there, should serve as cautionary tales for unmarked groups, providing a sense of the
kind of competency to strive for in engaging diverse men. Unmarked groups need to be
especially aware of the ways their discourse may alienate group members from marginalized
communities, and discuss openly and strategize intentionally around the differences between
group members life experiences. Disjointed social locations may increase the possibility of
empathy, but they also make men sensitive to the ways group-level culture excludes or erases
their communities and experiences, and so care must be taken.
At the same time, MSV’s analysis and resources were central in the formation of both
groups. The tensions MSV’s employees described, of wanting to support such men but being
unable to manage all the competing concerns of the many different communities they attempt to
serve, also provide fodder from some creative consideration. Perhaps alliances between
institutionalized, nationally-known, unmarked men’s groups and smaller, nascent, community-
specific groups would be fruitful. Network hubs like MSV could, for example, offer the use of
their space to groups like MMADV and Sweet Tea, actively working to support them through the
sorts of practical and theoretical struggles a small men’s anti-sexist group might expect. This
would also benefit MSV, as they would in turn learn more about the communities these smaller
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groups serve, and be able to provide them as a resource to others when beneficial. This sort of
coalition would likely be most beneficial to both parties if the learning process was
institutionalized and deliberately bidirectional, so that the great resources and power of the hub
would not overshadow or silence the other groups.
The data collected on MMADV and Sweet Tea’s engagement pathways should serve
groups interested in engaging more diverse men in understanding not just the pathways men take
to allyship, but also the ways these pathway differ for different men. Developing an awareness of
community concerns before trying to engage diverse men seems especially important in light of
this data. MMADV’s experiences showed the importance of hearing women’s experiences in
creating empathy and sensitivity to these issues, as well as the power of a respected woman
making a specific invitation to become more educated and involved. They also illustrated the
potential in involving older men, who have had more possibility for sensitization experiences.
The strong shift in gendered meanings that they described from formalized educational
experiences suggests the importance of making more such opportunities available to men,
especially outside of collegiate settings. Because Sweet Tea members did not describe a shift in
gendered meanings during their involvement pathways, it may be more prudent to recruit
gay/queer men (especially men of color) in ways that appeal to their own experiences of
gendered/sexual oppression, or at least which do not presume ignorance of structural oppression.
The ability to compare the experiences of Black, Muslim and gay/queer men with those
of men already represented in the literature and in my previous research with unmarked men’s
groups also clarified the sorts of challenges men can expect to face (Dibgy 2013; Okun 2014;
Peretz unpublished paper, forthcoming, 2014; Porter 2012; Schacht & Ewing 1998; Tarrant 2007,
2009). Difficulties faced by three groups with such different structures and of such different
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social locations should be expected to be likely in other groups as well. Struggles navigating
male privilege and the pedestal effect, maintaining membership and motivation, working in
homosocial spaces that tend towards reinforcing sexism, balancing accountability to women with
independence, and masculinity challenges are all common enough that men’s groups should
intentionally strategize around them and train new members to understand and navigate them.
The added challenges that MMADV and Sweet Tea faced because of the external
perceptions of their communities may also provide data useful in improving ally efforts. They
may be leveraged to encourage men to step up and show their commitment to fairness and
equality, as in the case of MMADV’s desire to disprove disparaging stereotypes of Muslims. The
may also alert unmarked groups to concerns they need to address with their audiences, as with
Sweet Tea’s need to address the myth that gay men cannot be sexist before engaging gay
audiences. Perhaps the most important overall concern here is to balance the focus on women’s
experiences of oppression with an awareness of men’s own life experiences. This need not be
pandering to men or de-centering women’s concerns, but can instead be a recognition of
common experiences or common cause.
Finally, the fact that both MMADV and Sweet Tea dissolved during my time in the field
should provide useful, if cautionary, data for men’s gender justice groups and other
intersectionally-organized activist groups. These groups need allies, because their disjointed
location pulls at their ability to stay both focused and productive, especially given how being
directed towards a more specific intersection of identities shrinks their resource and membership
base. For MMADV, this limited base of support and their intracategorical organizing style meant
they could not sustain a base of support or maintain logistical needs, and eventually were unable
to maintain enough forward momentum to stay afloat. For Sweet Tea, working across axes of
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difference and allying themselves intercategorically meant their own original mission got diluted
and the group was pulled apart as people left to do other work. Such groups must find balance
between internal and external strategies of intersectional organizing, having some meetings that
are intracategorical, only for group members, but having other meetings or events which reach
out as well. Limited resources may make restrain groups’ abilities to have these multiple kinds of
projects going simultaneously, but maintaining an awareness of this concern should still help in
navigating between Scylla and Charybdis. Regularly checking to make sure the group maintains
it’s purpose and focus, balancing accountability to women with independence, and considering
reaching out across other axes of difference to shore up weaknesses.
Limitations of the Research
There are some limitations to this study, which are important to note. Because of the
dearth of existing intersectional research on feminist men, the study was designed as exploratory,
but this also means the results are limited by the study design. While the concepts are hopefully
applicable in other contexts, the data collected can only specifically speak to the experiences of
the men in these groups, and to the city of Atlanta. The small and local sample of this study
means the results are illustrative, not representative. That is to say, the results points at a hole in
the literature and provides some limited data as to what is in it; it does not attempt and cannot
claim to fill it. They do not speak to the experiences of Muslim, Black, or queer men in
unmarked or majority-white groups, and important place for future research. They only attend to
difference across race, class, religion, sexuality, and to a lesser extent gender identity; these
categories are also possibly muddled because of the overlap of race with religion in MMADV
and with sexuality and gender identity in Sweet Tea.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
Like most studies of men's anti-sexist activism, this study works backwards from
organized men’s antiviolence groups, and is therefore limited to only recognizing activism that
occurs in organized groups of men. It cannot provide data on men who work in women’s groups,
as solitary individuals, or in informal ways (e.g., men who interrupt violent acts they encounter
in daily life, argue against rape-supportive comments and jokes among their peers or online).
Moreover, without any data on marginalized men who have not engaged in such groups, this
research can only speak to how these men joined, not why other Muslim or queer men do not.
A final and substantial methodological concern of this study is the structural differences
between the groups. Where MMADV was formed by a larger organization and directed at the
specific issue of domestic violence, Sweet Tea formed collaboratively and directed itself at a
much wider range of issues under the heading ‘sexism.’ In the dissertation, these differences are
treated as data, in terms of both their links to social location and their impacts on the groups.
However, these differences may also shape the groups in other ways that did not come to light in
the data, thus skewing the results in other places. It is possible that some effects interpreted as
consequences of social location are actually about group structure. Moreover, the differences
between these two groups and the unmarked groups in the literature—which tend to be campus-
based, institutionally supported, and student-oriented—limit the utility and comparability of the
results.
***
Men’s efforts as allies are an important part of the continuing struggles for gender
equality, one of the major next steps in moving past the stalled gender revolution. Engaging men
is therefore an important part of the contemporary feminist movement. This does not make it
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unproblematic, however, nor does it make it easy. Just as the feminist movement has struggled to
organize across difference, one of the primary struggles in ally work has been reaching and
involving men from diverse communities. This does not make the goal any less crucial, however:
overlooking the men of any community is tantamount to ignoring the women of that community,
not to mention any other women who these men come into contact with. This makes
intersectionality an important concern in engaging men.
Intersectionality takes on added importance in the context of transnational activism. The
recent profusion of transnational projects, including coalitions like the MenEngage network and
conferences like the upcoming Global Symposium of Men and Boys for Gender Justice, require
scholars and activists alike to consider the ways that men’s gender justice work might function
differently in different social contexts and among different men. Understanding the underlying
issues that construct differences between men’s groups within one social context is perhaps a
small step in this direction.
The kinds of struggles that are shared by the men in this study, those in my previous
research, and those in the literature suggest that some of the problems faced by men who engage
in anti-sexist activism stem from the sexist social structure within which they work. That is, the
problems are a reflection of the social context, and therefore men’s anti-sexist work will not be
unproblematic until the wider social context is. Clearly that cannot mean that we stop trying to
engage men, given the importance of their efforts in reaching that goal. It should also not mean
that we accept these problems uncritically as the price of having men involved. Instead, I would
argue that we need to clarify the core concerns that come up when men organize for gender
justice, so they can be attended to more intentionally and intelligently (e.g., Messner 1997). This
dissertation begins that project as regards men’s multiple intersecting identities. It is intended as
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a step in the direction of understanding how intersectional analysis can be used to improve men’s
gender justice efforts, and signals a commitment to continuing in that direction.
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APPENDICES
A - Recruitment e-mail
My name is Tal Peretz, and I'm a researcher just starting a project in Georgia on men's groups
working on issues of sexism and gender-based violence. I'm getting in touch with you and the
other admins on the [Group Name] facebook page because I'd really like to include your group in
my study, and wanted to talk with you about what that would mean, look like, and whether you'd
be willing to have me. It seems like the work you are doing is a great fit for my research, and
your methods and stories might really help make progress on these issues. I'd be happy to answer
any questions you have about myself or my research, and I look forward to hearing from you
soon.
Best,
Tal
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B - P.O. Informed Consent Sheet
INFORMATION SHEET FOR NON-MEDICAL RESEARCH
Men's Intersectional Gender Justice Projects
Purpose
You are invited to participate in a research study conducted by Tal Peretz and Dr. Michael
Messner, faculty advisor, from the University of Southern California. The results from this study
will be used to write a dissertation for completion of the Ph.D. in Sociology at USC, and may
later be used in academic publications including journal articles and books. Your participation is
voluntary; you must be aged 18 or older to participate. The purpose of this study is to examine
the different ways that men understand and engage in work on issues of sexism, relationship and
sexual violence, and gender-based discrimination.
Participation
If you choose to take part in this study, you will be asked to allow the researcher to observe and
participate with you in your group activities, and will later be given the opportunity to participate
in a face-to-face interview. You can choose to be part of the study without being interviewed. If
you choose to be interviewed, the interview will take place at a time convenient to you and the
researcher, such as a coffee shop, office, or classroom. The interview will take between one and
three hours, will be audio-recorded and later transcribed for accuracy.
Your Rights
Your participation is voluntary and you may withdraw from the study at any time without
penalty. You do not need to participate in any way you do not want to, for any reason. Please feel
free to present any questions or concerns to the researchers at any time before, during, or after
the study. If you have questions about your rights as a participant in this study or you would like
to speak with someone independent of the research team, please contact the USC University Park
Institutional Review Board, Office of the Vice Provost for Research Advancement, Stonier Hall,
Room 224a, Los Angeles, CA, 90089-1146, (213) 821-5272, or upirb@usc.edu.
Potential Risks and Discomforts
There are no anticipated risks or discomforts.
Potential Benefits to Participants and/or to Society
You may benefit from the opportunity share your thoughts and to reflect on aspects of your life
and work that are (or once were) very important to you. The anticipated social benefits include
the accumulation of useful information for organizations conducting anti-violence work, and the
advancement of scholarly understanding of men, violence, and social movements.
Confidentiality
All information gathered from this study will be kept one the researcher's private, password-
protected computer. Only the researcher will have access to the records. A backup will be kept on
an external drive, in the researcher's locked private office. All data from the study will be
destroyed no more than seven years after the study has been completed. No one in your group
will be told whether or not you choose to participate in the study, and your participation or non-
participation will have no impact on your involvement in the group.
If you have questions regarding this study, please feel free to email the researcher, Tal Peretz, at
tperetz@usc.edu.
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C - Interview Informed Consent
University of Southern California
Department of Sociology
Los Angeles, CA 90089-2539
1. INFORMED CONSENT FOR NON-MEDICAL RESEARCH
Men’s Intersectional Gender Justice Activism
You are invited to participate in a research study conducted by Tal Peretz and Dr. Michael
Messner of the University of Southern California, because of your involvement in a men's anti-
sexist group. Your participation is voluntary. You should read the information below, and ask
questions about anything you do not understand, before deciding whether to participate. Please
take as much time as you need to read the consent form. If you decide to participate, you will be
asked to sign this form. You will be given a copy of this form.
PURPOSE OF THE STUDY
The study is designed to explore how different men organize for gender justice causes, and what
their experiences in these organizations look like.
STUDY PROCEDURES
If you volunteer to participate in this part of the study, you will be asked to participate in an
audio-recorded interview that will take approximately two to three hours.
POTENTIAL RISKS AND DISCOMFORTS
There are no anticipated risks.
POTENTIAL BENEFITS TO PARTICIPANTS AND/OR TO SOCIETY
You may benefit from the opportunity share your thoughts and to reflect on aspects of your life
and work that are (or once were) very important to you. The anticipated social benefits include
the accumulation of useful information for organizations conducting anti-sexist work, and the
advancement of scholarly understanding of men, violence, and social movements.
PAYMENT/COMPENSATION FOR PARTICIPATION
None
CONFIDENTIALITY
This interview will not be connected with your name or any personally identifying information.
All information gathered from this study will be kept on the researcher's private, password-
protected computer. Only the researcher will have access to the records. A backup will be kept on
an external drive, in the researcher's locked private office. All data from the study will be
destroyed no more than seven years after the study has been completed. No one in your group
will be told whether or not you choose to participate in the interview.
PARTICIPATION AND WITHDRAWAL
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Your participation is voluntary. Your refusal to participate will involve no penalty or loss of
benefits to which you are otherwise entitled. You may withdraw your consent at any time and
discontinue participation without penalty. You are not waiving any legal claims, rights or
remedies because of your participation in this research study.
ALTERNATIVES TO PARTICIPATION
Your alternative is to not participate in this research study.
INVESTIGATOR’S CONTACT INFORMATION
If you have any questions or concerns about the research, please feel free to contact Tal Peretz;
Department of Sociology; University of Southern California; Los Angeles, CA 90089-2539.
Tperetz@usc.edu
RIGHTS OF RESEARCH PARTICIPANT – IRB CONTACT INFORMATION
If you have questions, concerns, or complaints about your rights as a research participant you
may contact the IRB directly at the information provided below. If you have questions about the
research and are unable to contact the research team, or if you want to talk to someone
independent of the research team, please contact the University Park IRB (UPIRB), Office of the
Vice Provost for Research Advancement, Stonier Hall, Room 224a, Los Angeles, CA 90089-
1146, (213) 821-5272 or upirb@usc.edu.
SIGNATURE OF RESEARCH PARTICIPANT
I have read the information provided above. I have been given a chance to ask questions. My
questions have been answered to my satisfaction, and I agree to participate in this study. I have
been given a copy of this form.
□ I agree to be audio-recorded □ I do not want to be audio-recorded

Name of Participant

Signature of Participant Date

1. SIGNATURE OF INVESTIGATOR
I have explained the research to the participant and answered all of his/her questions. I believe
that he/she understands the information described in this document and freely consents to
participate.

Name of Person Obtaining Consent

Signature of Person Obtaining Consent Date
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D - Interview Protocols
INTERVIEW PROTOCOLS
This interview will be recorded, but no one will hear it other than me; everything you say will be
confidential, I won't tell anyone what you said or even whether or not you agreed to do an
interview with me. When I write it up, I'll be using a pseudonym, which you can chose if you'd
like.
The interview is designed to be conversational – telling stories is encouraged, feel free to talk
around topics, come back to anything you would like to return to later in the interview, etc. There
no right or wrong answers and there's no “right” way of saying things, so please don't feel any
need to censor yourself. You may decline to answer any questions you chose. Are you ready to
begin the interview?
Theorized Life History and Entry
Could you please tell me the story of how you got involved in (group name)?
-Follow up by asking why it appealed, why this group, etc. using their language.
Where in your life did you come across these issues first? And since then?
When did you start to see the groups concerns as things that mattered to you?
Were there any specific events from your life that contributed to your involvement?
Have you been involved in any other, related groups before?
Is your involvement motivated or influenced by: relationship with any particular people?
Religious, ethical, or political commitments? Particular life experiences? Any other part of your
identity?
How they see/interpret the group
When you are telling a friend about your group, what do you say?
What does the group do? What do you do with(in) the group?
What was your experience of being in the group like?
I'm sure a lot of people don't understand why a person like you (race/sexuality/religion) would be
involved in such a group – what do you think?
How do your peers react when you tell them about your involvement in (group name)?
Do reactions depend on the gender of the person you're talking to?
Can you describe for me the ideal (group name) member? Is there anything that would mean
someone shouldn't be a member of (group)?
What do you think (group name)'s main accomplishments as a group are?
What are your hopes or goals for (group name)?
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If there was a national news story about (group), what would you want it to say? What would
you want everyone to know about (group) and it's work?
Do you think it is important that (group name) is an all-male group? Why? Is it important that the
group be explicitly (race/sexuality/religion) men? Why? What's different between this group and
a group that is just men against violence?
Do you feel that you personally benefit from your involvement with (group)? How? How did
involvement in this group change you?
To what extent is your involvement influenced by feminism? Do you identify as a feminist?
What does sexism look like in your community? What specifically are the problems that (group)
is intended to respond to?
What does intersectionality in (group) look like? Why does it work the way it does?
Relationships with Women/Women's groups
What's the relationship between your work with (group) and the work that women do on similar
issues?
Can you think of any specific times or ways that (group) worked with women or your work
supported women's work on these issues? Can you think of any specific times or ways that your
group is in tension or conflict with women?
Is it important to you that women approve of the work that (group) does?
Have you experienced any interpersonal tensions with feminist women/groups?
Masculinity
These next few questions have more to do with your life outside of and apart from (group name).
Outside of (group name), do you see yourself as a “typical American guy?”
What does that mean to you?
What is important to you about being a (race/sexuality/religion) man (as opposed to just a man)?
What types of people do you feel like you really fit in with and are comfortable around? Where
are you most comfortable?
Statistics show that most of the gender- and sexual violence in our society is perpetrated by men
– what do you think about this? Why is it the case?
Conclusions
What keeps you motivated and involved in this work?
Can you see yourself leaving the group or this kind of work sometime in the future? Why might
you?
Is there a question about gender violence, anti-violence, your life, or your involvement in the
group that I haven't asked but you'd like to talk about?
Do you have any questions for me?
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E - Demographics Questionairre
DEMOGRAPHICS
Name:
Contact Info:

1. Your birth date and place

2. education levels

3. self-described gender identification(s)
4. self-described racial or ethnic identification(s)

4. self-described sexual orientation identification(s)

5. occupational history

6. current annual income

7. current family structure (parnered; single; married)

--if partner or spouse, his or her occupation

8. children (number; ages)

9. religious affiliations

10. political affiliations
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F - Demographics
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Pseudonym Age Birthplace Education Race Gender
MMADV
Abdullah 39 Atlanta, GA Some College Black Male
Mahmood 63 Savannah, GA BA Black Male
Sayeed 33 Evanston, IL MA South Asian Male
Umm Kulthum 57 Milwaukee, WI BA Black Female
Waleed 55 Bronx, NY Junior College Black Male
Sweet Tea
Chris 52 N.D. MSW Black Male
DeShawn 26 Oklahoma City, OK BA Black Male
Dwayne 40 Cincinnati, OH MA, MA Black Male
Eddie 32 Atlanta, GA BA Black Male
Harry 62 Birmingham, AL MSW White Male
Ita 31 Ft. Lauderdale, FL BA Black Queer
Jeune 25 Los Angeles, CA MA (student) Black Queer Man
Mark 32 Louisville, KY BS Black Male
MSV
None 66 N.D. Ph.D White Male
Halim 66 Greensboro, NC M.Ed Black Male
Michael 52 Caribbean MA Black Male
Tal Peretz
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Sexuality Annual Income Family Structure Children (number, ages) Religion
Heterosexual $68,000 Married 4: Ages 17, 15, 6, 8 mo. Muslim
Heterosexual Under $15,000 Married 5: Ages 35, 34, 28, 26, 23 Muslim
Heterosexual $40,000 Married None Muslim
Heterosexual $27,000 Married 1: Age 34 Muslim
Heterosexual Over $80,000 Married 3: Ages 29, 21, 20 Muslim
Gay $45,000 Single None None
Gay/Queer $28,000 Single None None
Queer, Bisexual $60,000 Partnered 1 (adopted): 24 None
Gay $47,000 Single None None
Gay/Queer $40-60,000 Autonomous None None
Queer $55,000 Partnered None None
Queergay $12,000 Single None Agnostic
Queer $75,000 Single None None
Gay $75,000 Single None Jewish
Hectosexual $50,000 Married 10: Ages from 37-28 Christian
In-the-life $70-80,000 Family of Choice 1: Age 22 None
Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
G - Glossary
Abaya - A loose cloak or robe-like dress, worn by some Muslim women, that covers the
whole body save for the hands, feet, and face. Along with other forms of covering, Abaya have
been the subject of much debate among feminist and religious scholars.
Achi - Arabic word for Brother (see Brother).
Ahadith - Arabic pluralization of hadith (see Hadith).
Allah - Arabic word for God.
As Salamu Alaykum (abbreviation: ASA) - Arabic salutation, literally translates to
“peace be upon you,” often used as “hello,” sometimes abbreviated “ASA” in writing. I noticed
that, when contacting MMADV members or other members of the Muslim community, I was
much more likely to get a response if I began with this greeting. The proper response is Wa
alaykumu salam, “and upon you, peace.”
Asr - Afternoon prayers; see Salah.
Auntie - Black gay vernacular for an older gay man who spends time with younger gay
men; often a mentor or revered member of one’s chosen family.
Ayat - Verses of the Qur’an, literally translates to evidence or signs.
Baitul Salaam - Arabic for House of Peace; name of the Muslim domestic violence
organization that formed MMADV.
Bottom - In queer and kink communities, the sexual partner taking the
passive/submissive/receptive role.
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Brother - Honorific title, masculine, used by Muslims to show respect and community;
from Qu’ran verses that refer to all Muslims as brothers. Sometimes also used to refer to non-
Muslims.
Butch - Gender presentation exhibiting exaggerated stereotypically masculine traits in
appearance, dress, and behavior, especially among lesbian women; contrast with femme.
Dhuhr - Noon prayers; see Salah.
Dyke - Lesbian, often associated with butch lesbians specifically. Once pejorative, this
terms is being reclaimed in many queer communities.
Fajr - Dawn prayers; see Salah.
Femme - Gender presentation exhibiting exaggerated stereotypically feminine traits in
appearance, dress, and behavior, especially among lesbians and gay men; contrast with butch.
Fierce - Exclamation or superlative of appreciation; originally from gay slang, this term is
becoming more widely used because of it’s presence in popular media, especially the T.V. Shows
Project Runway and RuPaul’s Drag Race.
Fish - Derogatory way of referring to women, femininity, or female genitalia.
Hadith (plural: ahadith)- Reported deeds or sayings of the prophet Muhammad. Compiled
well after his death, ahadith are sources of Muslim jurisprudence but are regarded as less
authoritative than sunnah or the Qur’an.
Haraam - Sinful, proscribed by religious doctrine.
Hijab - A scarf or wrap, worn by some Muslim women, that hide the hair and neck from
view when among men who are not part of the woman’s family. Sometimes also used as a
generic term to describe all religious coverings worn by Muslim women, and the scriptures and
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
traditions that encourage their use. Along with other forms of covering, Hijab has been the
subject of much debate among feminist and religious scholars.
Imam - Muslim leadership position, usually the religious leader of a masjid.
Insha’Allah - Arabic, “if Allah wills it.” A statement of support or hopefulness, but also
used to reaffirm belief that Allah controls all things and therefore that the speaker does not
contravene Allah’s plans.
Isha' - Nighttime prayers; see Salah.
Jum’ah - Friday noontime meeting at the masjid or mosque; an obligatory congregation
for adult Muslim men, which includes the noon prayer and a sermon, and often serves as a
community meeting.
Khutbah - a speech or sermon on religious matters; often used to refer to such sermons
given during Jum’ah.
Kuffer - non-Muslims, outsiders.
Kufi - A short, skull-hugging hat worn my many Muslims, particularly those of African
or Middle-Eastern descent.
LGBT(Q/I/A) - Acronym for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgendered. Sometimes
includes Queer, Questioning, Intersex, and/or Allies.
Ma Sallam - Arabic, “go with peace.”
Maghrib - Evening prayers; see Salah.
Masjid - Muslim place of worship, synonymous with mosque. Masjid is the Arabic word,
and translates as “place of prostration.” Also often used as a community center and event space.
Mosque - Muslim place of worship; see “Masjid.”
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Niqab - A veil or mask, worn by some Muslim women, that hides most of the face from
view when among men who are not part of the woman’s family. Along with other forms of
covering, Niqab has been the subject of much debate among feminist and religious scholars.
Qur’an - The central religious text in Islam, believed to have been spoken by God to the
prophet Muhammmad.
Salah/Salat - daily prayers, one of the five pillars of Islam. Consists of five daily prayers
at prescribed times; Fajr (dawn), Dhuhr (noon), Asr (afternoon), Maghrib (evening), and Isha'
(night).
Shade - Insulting or disrespectful behavior, often subtle, underhanded, or passive-
aggressive, especially in front of others, and sometimes developed as a performance. Slang in
queer communities, especially Black gay men.
Sister - Honorific title, feminine; see “Brother.”
Sunnah - Records and stories about the life and habits of the prophet Muhammad, which
are taken as practices for Muslims to emulate. Because Muhammad is seen as an exemplar of
virtuous behavior, sunnah are referenced as sources of Islamic laws, second only to the Qur’an
itself.
Surya - One of the 114 chapters of the Qur’an.
Takbir - Islamic expression or interjection used to garner attention, express faith, distress,
celebration, resolution, determination, or defiance. Usually translated as “greatest,” Takbir is
derived from Allahu Akbar, “God is the Greatest.”
Top - In queer and kink communities, the sexual partner taking the
active/dominant/penetrative role.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
Ummah - Arabic, nation or community; often intended to include all Muslims and
contrast with the kuffer.
Wa alaykumu salam - See “As salamu alaykum.”
Wakil - A woman’s guardian or the authorized representative of her family, who gives her
away to the groom during marriage.
Wudu - Ritual cleansing, washing away physical impurities to prepare for the spiritual
cleansing of prayer.
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H - Sweet Tea Proclamation
The Sweet Tea Southern Queer Men’s Collective Statement
April 2009
Mission Statement
________________________________________
Sweet Tea is a collective of Southern queer men dedicated to fostering supportive, sustainable
and loving communities among queer men by raising our consciousness of sexism and other
forms of oppression.
Our Proclamation
________________________________________
Consciously engaging in anti sexist work demands that we change. We strive to become different
kinds of men. How will we change? Who will we become? Who will stand with us?
I. Who We Are
________________________________________
We are a Southern-based collective of gay, bisexual, and queer men; black, white, and men of
color; in our twenties, thirties, forties, and fifties.
We are sons, fathers, grandsons, brothers, uncles, lovers, and friends.
We are educators, students, activists, artists, organizers, healers, and poets.
We are fighters: progressive, radical, conscious, pro-feminists, womanists, and allies.
We are gay, queer, fierce faggots, same gender loving, men who have sex with men,
gender queer, gender fuck, gender non-conforming, masculine, feminine, butch, femme, sissies,
tops, bottoms, and in-betweens.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
We are privileged. We are dismantling. We are changing.
Join us.
We as a collective, allies to both feminist and womanist movements, value a commitment
to naming not merely what we are against, but identifying and working toward that which we are
for. We seek to co-create a world where we can all be free.
Each of us has come to his own independent analysis of the symbiotic relationship
between sexism and homophobia. We also have our own individual appraisals of how patriarchy
perpetuates most forms of oppression; from racism to sexism, from heterosexism to transphobia,
from ableism to ageism. We have come together to investigate the nature of sexism in queer male
communities and develop theory and praxis in order to resist systems that keep women and other
marginalized people oppressed. We advocate for a liberated humanity where diversity is the
wellspring of our unity. We strive to transform weapons of mass oppression into tools for
collective liberation.
We are educating and challenging male privilege within ourselves as a queer* Collective.
We are doing this for the sake of building community.
*Queer is a complex term, identity, and consciousness that each of us defines differently.
In this document it serves as an umbrella term for gay, bisexual, queer gendered, same gender
loving, faggot, faerie, etc.
II. Defining Queer Male Privilege
________________________________________
Our male privilege is derived from the economic, political and cultural subjugation of women.
While we derive palpable and unseen benefits from patriarchy, we pay dearly in terms of the
ability to express our own humanity. Whether we act in accordance with or fail to act in
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opposition to this unjust system, we consent to women’s oppression and dehumanization. Our
very inaction is itself an act of patriarchy.
We assert that by virtue of being men in a patriarchal society, we are all given privileges
not afforded to women. This means that even when men are not committing overt acts of sexism,
we are still benefiting from a system that denigrates women. In our work organizing queer men
against sexism, we have noted that many queer men often believe that they are, by nature of their
sexual orientation, exempt from perpetuating sexism or being privileged by their maleness. As a
collective, we challenge the belief that men who are oppressed by heterosexism are not also
advantaged by sexism. Queer men, regardless of their gender expression, are still men. Even
though patriarchy is complicated by heterosexism, it by no means eliminates our sexist reality.
A.Intersectionality
As queer men, we believe that the nature of male privilege is further complicated by
varying arenas of difference known as intersectionality. We define intersectionality as the space
in which multiple forms of oppression (e.g., oppression based on race, gender expression, sexual
orientation, class, ability, nationality, etc) converge and coalesce, creating unique vantage points
from which oppression is both experienced and understood. Understanding the concept of
intersectionality helps us elucidate our assertion that male privilege amongst queer men is
complex. Queer men may access privilege in certain arenas (e.g., masculinity or race) while
being simultaneously disenfranchised in others (e.g., class or nationality). We assert that what is
needed for men working to dismantle patriarchy is a revolving dialogue, informed by an
understanding of the intersection of these and other oppressions as well as varied means of
resistance.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
Addressing intersectionality is an expansive project; as a collective as well as individuals,
we are committed to educating ourselves about the multiplicity of identities that affect our
understanding of intersectionality. We are committed to co-creating a movement of queer men
that will not replicate the same exclusionary practices that have stifled other liberation
movements.
B. Building Alliance and Standing as Allies
Step Back We are men who are heavily invested in being allies to women engaged in the
work of liberation. We define ally as being one who is politically committed to the act of aiding
others who are different. Being queer male allies to women is no small task. Queer men often
have access to certain women’s spaces by virtue of being queer. By virtue of being male,
however, we often dominate those spaces by asserting and taking advantage of the “outsider
within” privilege that our non-hetero identity gives us. Thus, self awareness and accountability
must be a part of our discourse as anti-sexist queer men.
Be Self-Critical An integral part of being a male ally also involves doing the work with
other queer men to challenge our patriarchal and sexist practices rather than depending on
women to educate us. In order to be a true ally to women we believe that queer men must be
constantly engaged in a dialogue of self-analysis and compassionate critique. We must also
respect women’s spaces when our absence is necessary. We must become self-critical; not only
for women affected by patriarchy, but for ourselves, given that male power is so grotesquely
“business as usual” that it is not even viewed as privilege. Accountability is an integral part of
our work. Thus, being “called out” on our sexism presents us with an opportunity to grow and
change. As allies, our job is to listen and accept guidance from women on ways we can assist
their cause(s), offering support when it is requested and welcomed.
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III. What We Must Do
________________________________________
A: Dismantle Male Privilege, Internally
“Nurturing Ourselves & Each Other”- Men are raised, trained, and rewarded to ignore or
minimize our own needs to be nurtured and supported. Therefore we must be forthright in our
commitment and efforts to take care of ourselves and each other. Because while many of us as
queer men may not engage in sexual/romantic relationships with women, we often expect and
demand our sisters, mothers, aunts, and female friends to take care of us without expecting or
demanding the same from our brothers, fathers, uncles and male friends. In taking care of our
own well being, we rightfully accept the responsibility we traditionally have imposed upon
women to serve as our surrogate mothers, servants, and emotional caretakers.
When we dare to support each other’s struggles, hear each other’s pain, and heal both each
other’s fresh wounds and old scars, we encourage each other’s growth. We demonstrate that men
can and should be nurturers to each other regardless of the variables of relationship type, sexual
orientation or attraction.
‘ Learn to Feel Again’- In a patriarchal society for men expressing anger is acceptable
and in many ways encourage. However, it is often not acceptable for men to show fear, sadness,
or depression. We believe that when we permit ourselves to experience and express feelings
(especially those forbidden to us) without restraint or apology, we are fully alive. In this
heightened state of emotional consciousness, we increase our capacity to connect with people in
our lives. Our relationships become more meaningful and fulfilling because they have more
intimacy. In order to shed the choking armor of patriarchy, we must rescue and revitalize our
emotional lives.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
B. Dismantle Male Privilege, Externally
“Chart Our Journey” -We recognize that there are few maps to direct our journey as
progressive queer men, standing in and against male privilege. We must therefore create our own
map and chart our own journey.
It is imperative that we take advantage of innovative ways to disseminate information and to
build a movement of pro-feminist queer men using tools such as technology, education, study,
organizing, and coalition building.
“Build Alliances”- As Pro-Feminist queer men our work is already influenced by and
made possible through lesbians―particularly lesbians of color―who articulate the multi-
dimensional character of oppression, the necessity of heterogeneous forms of liberation, and
most importantly, the urgency of building coalitions across lines of difference. To that end, we
need to be concerned with and knowledgeable of the spectrum of allies and possible partners in
the struggle against sexism.
‘Resist Assimilation’- Many heterosexuals praise and reward men who are
heteronormatively gendered and shun those who deviate from these norms. Queer men also often
disdain, reject, or ridicule other men who they perceive as “too feminine” as well as the feminine
within themselves. We believe that, in order to reach radical self-acceptance, queer men must
resist assimilation into patriarchal fraternity and strive for freedom of sexual and gender
expression for ourselves and for others. This work is necessary to be able to embrace ourselves
as who we are.
Understand Intersectionality- We understand that in order to truly end sexist oppression
we must interrogate a broader matrix of power and hierarchy inherent in all forms of oppression.
Thus, we are not privileging sexism over and above other –isms; instead, we are utilizing it as a
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focal point through which we can uncover and address complications of gay men and male
patriarchy that we feel have been vastly underdeveloped and exposed.
Build Community- We must organize, creating communities & self-sustaining institutions
that educate and enlighten queer men to the realities of sexism and mobilize them for action.
Building communities that allow men to connect with their emotional and spiritual selves (also
known as “healing work”) in the absence of women is a part of the work of helping to liberate
women.
IV. Our Proclamation
________________________________________
As individuals and as a collective, we pledge to commit our lives to the well-being of women by
deconstructing and dismantling sexism. We also commit ourselves to the act of re-envisioning
our lives, ourselves, our communities, and our intimate partnerships in ways that create the
potential for freedom of expression, equality, compassion, and love without conditions. We
recognize the task we set before us is not a small one and we do not assume that a state of utopia
is possible. Instead we assert that a goal of absolute freedom for women and all people is the
only goal worth aspiring to. We work towards this goal with compassion for ourselves and
others, honor for our humanness, and accountability for our actions. We work towards this goal
with acceptance of our differences, acknowledgement of our faults, and hope for our future. We
work towards this in love, as men committed to creating and becoming change.
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Black, Muslim, and Gay/Queer Male Allies
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Asset Metadata

Creator Peretz, Tal Haim (author)

Core Title Black, Muslim, and gay/queer male allies: an intersectional analysis of men’s gender justice activism

School College of Letters, Arts and Sciences

Degree Doctor of Philosophy

Degree Program Sociology

Publication Date 09/17/2014

Defense Date 05/05/2014

Publisher University of Southern California (original), University of Southern California. Libraries (digital)

Tag allies,anti‐sexist activism,Black male allies,Black men,engaging men,feminism,feminist activism,gay male allies,Gay men,gender justice activism,intersectional activism,intersectional organizing styles,intersectionality,male allies,male feminists,men,Muslim male allies,Muslim men,OAI-PMH Harvest

Format application/pdf (imt)

Language English

Contributor Electronically uploaded by the author (provenance)

Advisor Messner, Michael A. (committee chair), Gualtieri, Sarah M. (committee member), Saito, Leland T. (committee member)

Creator Email tperetz@gmail.com

Permanent Link (DOI) https://doi.org/10.25549/usctheses-c3-480650

Unique identifier UC11287112

Identifier etd-PeretzTalH-2957.pdf (filename),usctheses-c3-480650 (legacy record id)

Legacy Identifier etd-PeretzTalH-2957.pdf

Dmrecord 480650

Document Type Dissertation

Format application/pdf (imt)

Rights Peretz, Tal Haim

Type texts

Source University of Southern California (contributing entity), University of Southern California Dissertations and Theses (collection)

Access Conditions The author retains rights to his/her dissertation, thesis or other graduate work according to U.S. copyright law. Electronic access is being provided by the USC Libraries in agreement with the a...

Repository Name University of Southern California Digital Library

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