KQTx VOICES Spotlight

Last month, Mee-ok submitted this story to share with KQTx newsletter readers.

An abridged version of Mee-ok's story first ran in the LA Times on April 9, 2020.

KQTx VOICES features creative submissions and viewpoints from the diverse experiences of Queer, Trans, Koreans across the diaspora. Are you interested in having your work featured on and our monthly newsletter? Submit your pieces for review.

Lee Sun Kyun, left, and Jo Yeo Jeong in a scene from 2020 Oscar best picture winner “Parasite.” (Photo: Neon / CJ Entertainment)

After “Parasite” won the Academy Award for best picture in February, South Korea dominated headlines. Two months later, this small cultural and economic powerhouse finds itself basking again in the American media spotlight — this time for its swift and effective response to the coronavirus outbreak.

While reports in the U.S. have focused little on such places as Hong Kong and Taiwan, with their nine confirmed COVID-19-related deaths combined, South Korea has continued to receive outsize praise for its handling of the crisis, despite its Big Brother tactics, which have also been a factor in Singapore’s approach to COVID-19.

The novel coronavirus struck terror in this conservative country in part because its wide-scale technological capabilities threaten those who visit LGBTQ clubs, mistresses, psychiatrists, cosmetic surgeons — all culturally shamed activities, though little of this is given much airtime here.

So why do most Americans view South Korea as a bastion of liberal democratic values?

A photo of Mee-ok at about 8 months old, before she was adopted. (Photo: Mee-ok)

The Korean War, the third most devastating war of the 20th century behind World Wars I and II, produced 100,000 mixed race children, all unwitting catalysts in the birth of international adoption: half-white abandoned children of American GIs and prostitutes from the camptowns that were officially condemned but quietly expanded by the U.S. military. The overwhelming majority of these prostitutes were orphans or abandoned children.

Seventy years, three generations and 250,000 Korean “orphans” later, South Korea broke the pagoda ceiling with Bong Joon Ho’s “Parasite,” which became the first foreign-language film to win best picture since the academy’s inaugural Oscars ceremony in 1929. The film, which is now streaming on Hulu, also earned more than $250 million at the global box office. Should I celebrate?

It was disorienting and disembodying to watch American culture, my culture, finally acknowledge a film — though not its actors — that came from a face like mine. It was even more dizzying to watch an Academy Award go to South Korea, the country that erases my existence as an adoptee even harder than the American media ignores Asians, unless we’re playing surgeons, convenience store owners, martial arts masters or Chinatown extras.

It wasn’t surprising, then, that “Parasite” would be the first film starring only international faces to win best picture, while also failing to nominate a single actor or actress. It would deify its auteur and his masterpiece while erasing his all-Asian cast, like the only other film in recent memory to do the same, Slum Dog Millionaire. The fact that the win surprised anyone speaks to this erasure: South Korean cinema has been on fire for decades. It is, as the film would have it, so metaphorical.

“Parasite’s” main competitor for best picture was “1917,” an epic all-white throwback to one of the only two wars most white people care to remember. From an adoptee perspective, which is better? The movie about white people fighting a white war over 100 white years ago? Or a film revered by a country that erases its Asians made by a country that erases its adoptees?

The “Parasite” cast and crew accept the Academy Award for best picture. (Photo: Mark Ralston / AFP / Getty Images)

The booming postwar trade of international adoption in South Korea created and fed a market that served the combined interests of an occupying nation wanting to ignore the lives that its servicemen had fathered and a country economically devastated by the active fighting from 1950-1953. To say South Korea was poor after the fighting ended is an understatement of propagandic proportions. Some estimates cite that 10% to 20% of the population was massacred (this is without North Korea’s numbers), approaching the number of Jews killed in Nazi Germany.

It ranks as the third most devastating war of the 20th century only because of its scale—it decimated a peninsula, not a planet. More bombs were dropped in Korea than in Germany and Japan combined during WWII and so indiscriminately that the Pentagon recommended changing the term “villages” to “military targets” to avoid negative press; nearly twice as much napalm was sprayed there as in Vietnam, a conflict that lasted the length of nearly seven Korean Wars. It is the war where we coined the term, “weapons of mass destruction.” And this is without the nuclear bomb President Truman considered dropping the minute the war started. Hiroshima, Nagasaki and Seoul.

By the time the armistice was signed, over half of the peninsula was killed, wounded, missing, or permanently separated from their families. Even a year and a half after the fighting ceased, four million Koreans — 20 percent of its population — remained homeless. After decimating one of the most modern societies of the Far East, it was America that built the society it would eventually become, a society created in its own image.

It was inevitable: The main U.S. military base in the middle of Seoul, now an empty space on Google maps at the heart of the city, was the only economy in the country for decades, and it shows. Landing at Incheon airport for the first time, I knew immediately that I wasn’t in China or Japan, not with all the neon crosses puncturing the skyline. No wonder a pivotal coronavirus outbreak happened in one of South Korea’s many Christian shadow-cults before it metastasized throughout the country.

Members of a local residents group wear protective gear as they disinfect a local park as a precaution against the novel coronavirus in Seoul, South Korea. (Photo: Lee Jin-man / AP)

In 2006, 13 years before his “Parasite” triumph, Bong Joon Ho made another film called — wait for it — “The Host.” But instead of embarking on a class-conscious domestic critique, “The Host” calls out the American military and its collusion with the South Korean government. It centers on an amphibious monster that suddenly emerges out of the Han River, attacking an unsuspecting crowd, striking terror throughout Seoul. After a mass funeral for the victims, the government rounds up survivors to place in quarantine: The creature is also the host of a deadly, unknown virus.

Except there is no virus: The “virus” serves as an excuse for the American military to release “Agent Yellow” into the atmosphere — a direct reference to Agent Orange, the toxic herbicide that the U.S. sprayed in Korea in the late 1960s (but didn’t admit using there until 2000). As our protagonists in “The Host” escape a conspiracy of hospitals, the police and South Korea’s Orwellian surveillance system, the U.S. military presence plays the unmistakable antagonist. Without it, the Korean government would be without a carrot or, more importantly, a stick.

Bong Joon Ho’s 2006 film, “The Host,” whose Korean title “Goemul” means “monster,” was a huge hit at the South Korean box office. (Photo: Chungeorahm Film)

Unlike “Parasite,” which features no white actors, “The Host” opens with one — its first scene takes place between an American military scientist (Scott Wilson) and his Korean assistant (Brian Lee), both wearing full scrubs in a dingy lab lit with all of the charm of a basement bunker. Wilson commands Lee to dump 200 bottles of “dirty formaldehyde” down the drain into the Han River. When Lee objects to polluting public water supply, Wilson interrupts him with the full authority of the U.S. military: “That’s an order, so start pouring.”

The scene recalls a real-life ecological disaster that occurred in 2000, when the U.S. military dumped 20 gallons of formaldehyde into the Han, the source of drinking water for Seoul’s 12 million residents. Even today the tap water throughout Seoul is entirely undrinkable and emanates a pungent funk that smells like the end of the world. The first monster we meet in “The Host” isn’t a CGI creature, it’s the U.S. military, the monster that creates “the monster.”

With a toxic America infecting its host, why wouldn’t Korean “parasites” smell as noxious as the Han?

The U.S. currently spends $5 billion annually toward its military presence in South Korea, a country still occupied by nearly 30,000 American soldiers, the third largest troop presence outside of the U.S. behind Japan and Germany. And prostitution camps still exist to service these men. Without the U.S. military, there would be no red-light district in Seoul.

The Monkey House, a virtual sex prison built for the US Military, 1961. (Photo: Rene Burri/Magnum)

If this is unknown to American readers it is because the Korean War has been effectively scrubbed from our school curricula, erased from memory, lest it eclipse the glory days of the two World Wars and their virtuosic narratives like 1917. Ironically, we have enshrined these wars as emphatically as South Korea has made the Korean War the core of its national identity, despite the fact that the Korean War was never between the two Koreas, but rather North Korea and the U.S. or, perhaps more accurately, the U.S. and China.

The War Memorial in Seoul tells the tale of the American savior, glossing over the sins that by all measures spell U.S. genocide. Americans call it The Forgotten War, but South Korea will never forget. And though the war’s official start is dated June 25, 1950, when North Korea stepped over the 38th parallel, both the U.S. and South Korea conveniently omit the Korean genocide of “communists” on Jeju Island off its Southern Coast in 1948, which many scholars argue was the true start of the Korean War. It took over half a century for South Korea to admit to the massacre, referred to as 4/3 — Jeju’s 9/11.

Massacre on Jeju Island: Tombstones for the Missing. (Photo: Mee-ok)

It is this lingering fear of the unfinished war that “Parasite” gives for the basement shelter in the chic residence at the heart of the film: “A lot of these rich people, they build bunkers and secret rooms in their homes,” the former housekeeper explains as she scans the secret, subterranean apartment. “You know, in case the North Koreans invade ….”

South Korea rose from the ashes of its bombed-out past to rank as the world’s 12th largest economy by following Germany’s post-World War II lead, from the “Miracle on the Rhine” to the “Miracle on the Han.” But it wasn’t entirely a miracle. Whereas Germany retained its mixed-race children in defiance of the eugenics of the Third Reich, South Korea benefited greatly from not only the profits (tens of billions of dollars) gained through the selling of its infant underclass via international adoption but also the untold costs saved by never having to create any social welfare program to speak of. Korea currently ranks 34th among the 36 OECD countries in spending on social programs as a percentage of GDP, sitting between Turkey and Chile.

With an economy thriving in the 21st century and technology from the 22nd century, South Korea’s social values are still smack in the middle of the 19th century. As recently as 2016, Bong was blacklisted along with 9,000 other artists. Abortion was decriminalized only last year, gay men are still being thrown in jail, fathers are automatically granted custody of children in divorce, and there is still no way to force fathers to pay child support. Sex ed guidelines suggest that victims are to blame for date rape and being drunk is a legal defense for raping children.

Orphanages are given over $1,000 a month per child, while single mothers hit a ceiling of $167 a month in government subsidies, even though the UN has formally called for the elimination of institutional care globally. And despite all of this, after exporting so many of its children for over half a century, South Korea now suffers from a fertility crisis.

Chaplain Lt. Col. Russell Blaisdell, left, and Lt. Col. Dean Hess, right, visit Jeju Island with nearly 1,000 Korean orphans in late 1950. (Photo: US air force)

If Asians like me feel erased in the U.S., it is minor in comparison to the alienation of adoptees returning to Korea, where the natives are mostly unaware we exist and meeting us is usually the first time they’re hearing about it. And why would they know? We are here, a quarter-million of us, scattered across white Christian nations. We do not exist in their textbooks or their museums. They try to forget us as hard as America tries to forget the Korean War.

Though Holt International — the Amazon of adoption agencies founded in 1956 by a right-wing evangelical — has a predominant presence in Seoul, few Seoulites think to ask why. Likewise, even the most cosmopolitan Westerners often fail to ask themselves why so many Koreans in America are adopted (one out of every 10). Nevermind that another 10 percent of the Korean-American population are GI brides, mostly former prostitutes married to soldiers hosted by U.S. military bases.

So how is an adopted Korean cinephile to feel when, knowing all of this, she sees South Korea score four major Oscars? When the country that sold her wins big in the country that bought her? When the country that doesn’t know she exists creates a groundbreaking work of art, a blend of Hitchcock and Kurosawa K-mashed into a cinematic genre-f—, and it receives film’s highest honor in the country that so rarely casts people who look like her?

A photograph taken of Mee-ok for the cover of the California Girl Scouts of America Calendar, circa 1990. (Photo: Mee-ok)

In a way, it doesn’t feel like anything. It’s like if China won. Who cares? What even is South Korea anyway? BTS? A hanbok? An old Korean woman telling me I should get married while I stand there looking like a stereotypical lesbian in a country that erases gay people too? It feels like when I was a kid and something Korean happened, like the Olympics, and people looked at me as though I was supposed to feel some kinda way. And I really just don’t. Angry? Meh. Sad? I guess. It is, after all, another reminder that, in an existential sense, there is no country for adopted Koreans.

After a moment of stillness, however, I do get the feels — exactly as I did three years ago when I learned that, decades earlier, Bryant Gumbel had spilled the Korean tea about adoption during the country’s greatest moment of pride: the 1988 Seoul Olympics. “Though the Koreans enjoy showing off their country to the world during these Games,” he stated over international airwaves, “there are some aspects of their society they’d prefer we not examine so closely, and one of those concerns the exportation of Korean orphans for adoption abroad.”

In his two-minute report, he described adoption as “embarrassing, perhaps even a national shame.” The media, including the New York Times, published stories criticizing the commodification of children and, for the first time, international adoption was placed under a critical lens: The narrative shifted from agencies, governments and Western parents to adoptees, no longer the secret in Korea’s basement.

One such adoptee is Adam Crapser, who was literally tortured in a basement by his first set of American parents until he was six years old, when they abandoned him. His second parents were somehow worse. Thomas Crapser was convicted of 34 counts of rape, sexual abuse and criminal mistreatment, for which he received a sentence of 90 days in jail, a $5,000 fine and two years probation. Dolly Crapser received only probation.

After the Crapsers kicked Adam out at the age of 16, he broke back in to recover his Korean baby shoes and Korean Bible, his only possessions when he arrived in America at the age of three. The Craspers called the police, and Adam served over two years in jail.

Years later after marrying and having three children, Adam learned that he was never granted citizenship. And he isn’t alone: he is one of the estimated 50,000 adoptees currently living in the United States as an undocumented immigrant due to a lack of government oversight. When he tried to renew his green card in 2015, he was deported under the Obama administration and now lives in Seoul, where he is suing the Korean government and Holt International for gross negligence. Who’s The Host in this story?

Undated photo of Adam Crapser around the age of 3 with his sister. (Photo: AP/Adam Crapser)

And there are more of us, more stories told by Korean adoptees over three continents in many languages, describing myriad lives that all begin the same way: We lose our mothers, our country, everything but our faces. And our voices, which communicate in different mediums: News & Documentary Emmy-nominated filmmaker Deann Borshay Liem, Belgian animator Jung Henin, Swedish graphic artist Lisa Wool-Rim Sjöblom and a growing community of Korean adoptee memoirists such as Jane Jeong Trenka, Nicole Chung, Jenny Heijun Wills and, soon, myself.

So watching “Parasite” win the Oscar, I feel empowered and proud, but not for the reasons anyone might think.

The truth is, when the light shines on South Korea, particularly from the constellation of American movie stars, it’s a moment for us adoptees to share the limelight, to be seen by the two powers and cultures that erase different parts of us. It’s a moment to show ourselves, our shared history. We are the secret, broken umbilical cord — the connective tissue — that these two nations endeavor to forget, even as Kim Jong Un routinely shakes his mostly broken stick, as threatening as a baby rattle. There is no South Korea without us, and yet we will never truly be Korean.

But we can be American, or so we are told. We can even win best screenplay, best director, and best picture! Just not best actor or actress. We can be anything but the Korean face that never lets us forget that we came from a place that forgot us. In this, there is a lackluster redemption, like winning the popular vote but losing the election.

Garrett Nissen points to a baby picture of his father, Christian Nissen, who was adopted from South Korea, Sept. 12, 2018. The photos were part of a ceremony for a memorial park in Paju, South Korea. (Photo: Kim Gamel / Stars and Stripes)

It makes sense that Bong would end “Parasite” with a broken fantasy, an impossible dream from a broken boy’s broken brain. Adoptees, too, have a fantasy: That America will someday hold the South Korean government and private adoption agencies accountable for hiding information, changing our names so that our birth families can’t find us and shifting our birth dates to make us younger and more marketable; that the Korean government will stop with its empty gestures, like setting up an “adoptee outreach” department with no English speakers or offering DNA tests to adoptees overseas while banning Korean birth mothers from being tested.

In a way, Bong feels more international than national, more like me than an actual Korean. A subversive outsider, a spiritual exile.

Perhaps as we, like him, speak our truth to the world, we can find a place in it. Maybe someday the world’s hosts will realize they are just parasites by another name, and my native and adoptive countries will reckon with their past. And maybe, when the virus clears — leaving so many truths exposed — the real healing can begin.

About Mee-ok

(Photo: McKenzie Johnson)

Mee-ok (pronounced “mēˈōk”) is the winner of the 2019 Construction Literary Magazine Contest for Nonfiction and was selected as a finalist for the 2019 Annie Dillard Award for Creative Nonfiction as well as the 22nd Overseas Koreans Literary Awards sponsored by the South Korean Government. She has been or will be featured in the LA Times, Boston Globe Magazine, River Teeth’s “Beautiful Things,” Cincinnati Review, American Journal of Poetry, Korean Quarterly, and Michael Pollan’s anthology for Medium, where her piece was named Editor’s Pick. She is currently a contributing editor at Passengers Journal and the recipient of the 2021 Voices of Color Fellowship at the Martha’s Vineyard Institute of Creative Writing, as well as a visiting lecturer at the Frank Lloyd Wright estate, Taliesin, where she is a former Writer in Residence. She is also featured in the docuseries [Un]Well on Netflix.

Envisioning Collective Liberation

Yu Gwan-sun took an active part in the March 1, 1919, independence movement against Japanese colonial rule in Korea. Dying in prison at 17, she became a national hero. Credit: NY Times

In August, KQTxNYC hosted “Together Apart: A Reflection Space on Reunification, Independence, and Liberation”

Honoring Past Liberation Struggles 

August 15th, marked the National Liberation Day of Korea from Japan's occupation (1884-1945). In South Korea it is known as Gwangbokjeol (광복절, "The Day the Light Returned"). In North Korea it is known as Chogukhaebangŭi nal (조국해방의 날;  Liberation of the Fatherland Day). It is notable for being the only Korean public holiday celebrated by both South Korea and North Korea.

Last month, Olivia Ahn (KQTxNYC), a third-generation Korean and Chinese American community-based care practitioner, created and facilitated Together Apart: A Reflection Space on Reunification, Independence, and Liberation in observance of the 75th National Liberation Day of Korea. Participants from all over the globe dialed in to unpack the meaning of this day together, and to envision: “What would a liberated Korea look like to you?”

Image: A participant led google slide from "Together Apart: A Reflection Space on Reunification, Independence, and Liberation in observance of the 75th National Liberation Day of Korea." The round taegukgi symbols are an indicator of collective resonance.

To provide context and grounding, Olivia shared a comprehensive history of Korea's colonization and the hard-fought journey towards liberation. They acknowledged the many independence fighters and activists who made this movement possible, including their kin and great uncle, Ahn Jung-geun, and the fierce 17-year-old independence activist, Yu Gwan-sun.

As the space came to a close, there was time for participants to remember their own kin, their own chosen family, and ancestors in a digital altar space. For those who were not able to attend, Olivia has generously provided a simple way for you to prepare a remembrance space of your own at home: 

  • Name and honor any ancestors, movement ancestors, or ancestral kindred who have inspired you and who you are grateful for in your Korean Queer Trans experience, lineage, and/or as an indigenous, diasporic person of Korea. (Note: They do not necessarily have to be blood-related to you or of Korean descent).

  • If you are so moved, you may simply hold space for them in your heart and spirit, or set an offering in their name at your altar space today (i.e., a piece of fruit, a sweet, a lit incense or candle, a love letter).

"When I ask these questions about the reunification and liberation of Korea, I turn to ancestors that I am spiritually bound through relation and non-relation by blood, heritage, and lineage. Today on Gwangbokjeol 광복절, do not just celebrate our liberation from Japan that was merely short-lived, but also deeply acknowledge and fight for the liberation that is still due unto us."

- Olivia Ahn, 안근생

A Step Toward Liberation Today: Preparing for the November Elections

In two months, we face one of the most important elections in our lives. The November 3 US elections will determine how queer/trans Koreans, our families, and our allies may survive the COVID-19 pandemic and how we will have access to immigration, jobs, health care, trans and queer rights, and safety in our communities. 

We encourage you to learn your voting rights, get involved, and support others in accessing voting options, especially as mail-in ballots may become available a safer option in your area. Please read the options below. Register to vote! 

  • National Mail Voter Registration Form -- English 

  • 전국 우편 유권자 등록 양식 -- Korean 

Key dates to remember 

  • Sept 24: National Voter Registration Day 

  • Oct 5: Last day to register to vote in most battleground states (GA, FL, TX) 

  • Nov 3: Election Day 

Voting by Mail 

  • NYT: Will you have enough time to vote by mail in your state? 

Get involved 

  • Ready to do more? Help reach key voters through outreach like phone banking and text messaging with like-minded people. Sign up with Seed the Vote.

Reading Recommendations

Many of us have been spending our time sheltering in place getting lost in a book. Here are two exceptional recommendations for your next read. Interested in discussing more? Check out the #reading-recs channel on the KQTx Slack!

Chuseok: Celebration of Harvest and Abundance

Talchum (탈춤) or t'alch'um could be characterized as a Korean dance performed while wearing a mask, mimicry, miming, speaking and even sometimes singing.

One of Korea’s three major holidays, Chu-seok is the 8th month of the lunar year and is also called "hangawi". In the past, families would gather together to enjoy time together and give thanks for a bountiful harvest. Traditional celebrations such traditional folk games such as samulnori (traditional percussion quartet), talchum (mask dance), ganggangsullae (Korean circle dance), and ssireum (traditional Korean wrestling) alongside special foods like songpyeon, a traditional rice cake made with finely ground new rice and filled with sesame seeds, chestnuts, or red bean, are commonly associated with this holiday. Other traditions include visiting ancestors’ graves and holding charye (memorial services) for them. Recently, a modern tradition of gift giving has become popular in Korea as well, echoing the traditions of appreciation for those around you.

How will you celebrate and appreciate Chuseok this year?

Share with us for our next newsletter!

Calls to Action

Join the national Slack

Donate! Support KQTx National Network

Image: Dave Young Kim, Mural, “Ohgane”

An Invitation to Define and Practice Jeong (정)

As the uprisings continue to reverberate, and the pandemic unfurls a second wave, many of us are taking the time to absorb the learnings of these past few months, digging deeper into the question of, “Where do we go from here?”

Last month, KQTs from many different regions joined a peer-led discussion hosted by KQTxNYC, facilitated with guest, Kristine Chong (MDiv), to explore the concept of, "Jeong," an often unspoken, uniquely Korean form of love, and solidarity. 

Participants each shared their definitions and experiences of jeong: from the sensory (sharing food) to the communal (bondage through struggle). They discussed the profound ways in which jeong has the potential to powerfully and lovingly connect us: to ourselves, and each other in solidarity.

So, what is jeong exactly, and how might we apply it to our movements today?

The discussion surfaced an opportunity: jeong isn't just a resource we merely have as Korean Queer Trans people of the diaspora, but rather, it’s an energetic power we have a responsibility to wield. 

Interested in exploring how you can wield jeong for yourself?

Try this self-jeong practice at home.

“The active calling of jeong, through the recognition of the self in the other, is a definite form of collaborative compassion. This collaboration with compassion is not one that seeks to maintain the status quo or to perpetuate oppression. Rather, such collaboration, born out of connectedness, seeks to work towards emancipatory praxis for all.”

- Wonhee Anne Joh

Recommendations from the KQTx Team

Many of us have been spending our time sheltering in place getting lost in a book. Here are two exceptional recommendations for your next read. Interested in discussing more? Check out the #reading-recs channel on the KQTx Slack!

An Invitation to Take Up Space: Contribute To Our Next Newsletter!

Do you have a burning to express yourself, but are lacking a forum to show off? We want to hear from you!

The KQTx newsletter team is currently soliciting content for a future newsletter. We’re looking for works of art, poetry, short stories, and more to include in our monthly digest of content. At present, there are no criteria other than it should be authored by a self-identified member of the KQTx community. To submit, please complete this form.

Finding Each Other: Building Legacies of Belonging

In April 2018, KQTcon became the first national gathering of Queer and Trans people of Korean descent (KQT) in the US, bringing together 200 KQTs and allies. Today, over two years later, a vibrant network of KQT groups and individuals have emerged—prompting our shift to rename KQTcon as the KQTx National Network.

Our KQTx family has activated especially during the COVID-19 pandemic and in solidarity with movements for Black lives. We are excited that our KQT Slack community has grown to 150 people, nearly as many people as there were at KQTcon, and many who were not able to attend in 2018! So, we are re-publishing a retrospective piece from KQTcon as a reminder of the work we are inspired to do. Below, we share highlights of KQTcon’s keynote speech: an unforgettable call to love and belonging by Mia Mingus, writer, educator, and community organizer for disability justice and transformative justice. 

“I think about what it means for those of us who continue to show up for this thing that we call “queer Korean community.” Even through our heartbreak and disappointments, even through our hesitations and fear. This is the kind of love and desire that I want us to continue to practice. This is the kind of hope that I want us to live into and pass onto the next generation of queer and trans Koreans who will struggle to find their place and wonder if they belong.”

Wherever you may be on your journey in navigating kinship and belonging with Korean Queer Trans community, we hope our network of resources and community spaces continue to be radically welcoming places for you to find each other and belong. Thank you for showing up with us. 

Read and listen to Mia Mingus’ full keynote presentation.

Upcoming Events

We're looking forward to seeing folx at a number of partner and KQT-led virtual events in August!

  • August 8 - KQT-DC hosts Game Night!  Join us for a virtual game night where we will play skribbl, a free online picture-drawing game! 🎨✏️

  • August 17 - NQAPIA, QTAPIA Healers Meetup This will be a space for Queer & Trans API Healers to gather and be in space and conversation with other healers.

  • August 19 - NQAPIA, Political Education: Power Mapping In this workshop you will learn how to identify where power sits in any given system and how to use this information to build your organizing capacity.

  • Facebook - White Circle
  • Instagram - White Circle

© 2020 by KQTx National Network