Support a Black Trans Woman's Return to New York

TL;DR Queer Medievalist from New York gets into the English PhD program at Northeastern University in Boston. Suffers trauma because of the racist and transphobic abuse of her roommate. Forced to leave Northeastern University because of severe mental health issues. Needs to return to New York to heal and reset to return to academia.

I went to Boston as a burgeoning academic, originally from New York. After a lot of hard work and persistence, I was accepted into the English PhD program at Northeastern. I was excited because I could study and research the subject I loved. In general, I study medieval literature using a feminist and/or queer lens with a specialization in researching transgender identity in medieval literature. Now I was headed to work with an amazing medievalist and a feminist academic who were interested in my research. They served as academic mentors, and the fact that they were strong women inspired me. My first assistantship was with the founder of the Digital Transgender Archive, which archives the historical existence of gender-non-conforming and transgender people. Better yet, I was awarded a stipend to live off and so I only needed to focus on going to lectures and conducting research. I felt that I was on my way to making my contribution towards a better and more accepting world. However, what I didn’t know was that my identity would play a major role in impeding my progress—my identity as a Black Trans Woman.

Now I had heard the stories about Boston being racist and bigoted, but I didn’t want to make that judgment unless I saw it myself. In my mind, I was simply moving from one progressive city to another. I went from having a large friend and support group, in New York, to one friend in Boston. But I have always been an outgoing and friendly person. I figured that I would be able to make new friends and relationships, which I could build into a new, healthy support network. I took an Uber after my bus ride from New York to Boston. Ironically, the driver was also a transplant from New York. He started giving me advice about living in Boston and stated the differences between Boston and New York. “No one here is nice,” he said. I tried to shrug it off.

While Northeastern University was great, it did not have graduate housing. So, I had to find my own living space in a new city. I rented a room in a shared third-floor apartment in East Boston. The landlord seemed nice, though she made some slightly racist statements; I chalked it up to her being a much older woman. At the time, only one other woman was living in the apartment. The landlord described her as “very particular.” I figured I would keep to myself and let her keep to hers. She didn’t need to be my first new friend in Boston and I was comfortable with avoiding interaction with them. The apartment was nice, with a lot of light. I thought I would live well here. My room was perpendicular to one door leading to the bathroom and the bathroom was across from the “very particular” roommate. Now, this door arrangement may seem insignificant, but it would start compromising my housing and living situation.

For the sake of clarity, let’s call this “very particular” roommate, “N.” As a few days passed, I would see N, N would see me, but we never interacted. I wanted to keep avoiding interaction with her because I was busy with my PhD program. Regarding the program, things were going well, and I met a lot of other academics that I wanted to work with or start friendships with. Back at home, I was content keeping to myself until N forced her way into my life. After about a week in the apartment, I received an email from the landlord informing me that N had issues with me and that she, the landlord, wanted me to leave. I was caught off-guard, but I remained calm because I thought that I would have no problem compromising on whatever bothered N. The landlord explained that she had received many calls and messages with complaints about me closing the bathroom door, taking a shower, and flushing the toilet at night, which bothered N. Just a week in of cohabitation, and N was already trying to kick me out of my housing.

After receiving the email, the landlord would suggest several compromises, but each subsequent compromise became more unreasonable than the last. The landlord asked me to avoid using the bathroom at night. It seemed a little outlandish, but I wanted to attempt to keep the peace. I told her that I would try but there would be times when I just must use it. To adhere to this outlandish request and attempt to keep the peace, every night, before leaving school, I would make sure to empty my bladder. I would try avoiding bathroom use when N was home. However, there were times when I had to use the bathroom and I couldn’t compromise. N continued to complain to the landlord and then things became more unreasonable. The landlord proposed that if I had to use the bathroom at night, I wouldn’t flush the toilet afterward. This was becoming ridiculous. The next proposal was that if I went to the bathroom, I wouldn’t close the door because the sound bothered N. That “broke the camel's back” and understandably, I was not willing to sacrifice my privacy so she wouldn’t hear a door close. Even though it seemed ridiculous, I did not think it was malicious, but N would later prove me wrong.

“I took photos of Boston and visited relaxing locations to cope”

Now this is where the story gets a bit darker. After the chain of events with the bathroom, N started to directly express her racism and transphobia. Every time she would see me, she would say something racist or transphobic to me under her breath until eventually it was no longer said under her breath. She was vicious and did horrible things, like taunting me by saying “Oh you want to be a woman so bad, don’t you?” and “You wish you were a woman.” The racism also spilled out of her throat but I will not repeat any more of the hate she sent my way. She told me she would call the cops on me which I perceived as a threat considering that she was a white woman and I was a black trans woman in majority-white Boston. Every day that school was over, I knew that I was coming home to a very hostile environment. I am known to be tolerant to a fault so I kept trying to ignore her. I told the landlord about how N was behaving but she did not believe me. I even suspected they could be related because of the landlord’s permissiveness. Eventually, we had a third roommate, an international student from China. Let’s call her “S.” It wasn’t long before N started saying racist things to her as well.

"I was invited to speak on a panel at the Leslie Lohman Museum back in NY. It was a much-needed break from the situation in Boston"

A year passed, and I found myself traumatized by N’s abuse. I was filled with severe anxiety and fell into depression. My academic life began to fall apart. I became afraid to leave my apartment or even my room. I became unhealthily distrustful of everyone around me. I would try to go to class, but the trauma was too much for me so I would try to attend virtually instead. Once, when I found the strength to attend class in person, S reported to me and the landlord that N even tried to forcefully enter my room. After that, going in person felt even harder. I became heavily distracted from my academics, writing papers became incredibly difficult, and I did not finish several classes. The landlord maintained N’s innocence but then buckled when confronted with the fact that two of her tenants were consistently reporting the abuse. By the landlord’s realization, the damage had already been done. I felt broken, like that outgoing, friendly, academic had died from the moment I got off that bus from New York.

The landlord told me that she would have N move out but that process was delayed and uncertain. The date N was expected to leave kept extending for months and months. I was unsure if N was ever going to leave but I knew that I needed to move out of the situation as soon as possible. Similarly, S had come to the same conclusion. S got out first; I was happy for her but with S gone, I returned to being N’s sole target of abuse. The landlord agreed to allow me to move to the first floor. “That’s where I put my Black girls,” my former landlord said, in a probably misguided attempt to reassure me but this only left me feeling alienated.

During the last few months of my occupancy on the third floor, I went into survival mode. I would try to avoid N, I was used to that, but now with the focus of making it to my moving date. If she threw her poisonous words at me, I committed to ignoring her. If I saw her, acted like she wasn’t there. Ignore what she says and does, just get to your move date. Of course, N did not make it easy. This time, when she would let her racism and/or transphobia fly, it felt like she had been saving her worst for the final months that I was within her target range. She then began stacking countless bags in the living area, as high as she could get them, barely leaving a path to the kitchen, bathroom and the front door. I had no idea what she was doing but I didn’t care. My focus was to only make it to my room, where I felt a semblance of safety.

It was finally the day I could start moving things to the first floor, however, N did everything in her power to make it as hard as possible to complete this task. My moving game plan was to adopt an “A to B” mentality. The plan was to throw a bunch of things into my suitcase, take it to my new room on the first floor, and just dump everything out wherever and then repeat. It was early in the morning, and I hoped she had already gone to work. I listened out from behind my door, one of my usual tactics for avoiding her, and I did not hear anything. I was ready to take my first full suitcase downstairs, so I left my room. Unfortunately, as soon as I did, she popped out of her room, which was a very terrible surprise. What happened next would become a deep emotional scar among other scars that, to this day, would fill me with intense pain.

"Photo from my short trip back home in New York"

I tried to ignore N and rolled my suitcase right past her. She said hurtful things, but I kept on moving. I made it just outside of the apartment when I heard a click behind me. After taunting me, she locked the entrance door after I exited. However, I always kept my key on me, a good practice; it was something I developed during my time with N. I took that heavy suitcase downstairs, entered my new room, and just dumped everything on the floor. I did not care where things were placed. I just wanted to complete the move as quickly as possible. I took a deep breath and braced myself for my next run upstairs. I unlocked the door to the third-floor apartment, and she came out of her room to be hateful. I made it to my third-floor room and packed my suitcase for the next trip down. I left that room again and she popped out with her hate again. I left the apartment again, and I heard another click behind me. I took that heavy suitcase downstairs, entered my new room, and just dumped everything on the floor. I did not care where things were placed, I just wanted to complete the move as quickly as possible. I took another deep breath and braced myself for my next-next run upstairs. I unlocked the door to the third-floor apartment, and she came out of her room, again, to be hateful. I made it to my third-floor room and packed my suitcase for my next trip down. I left that room again, and she came out with her hate again, again. I left the apartment again, and I heard another click behind me. Downstairs, dump, breathe. Upstairs, hate, pack, hate, leave, and I heard the click behind me. I don’t remember how many times I did that. Eight? Maybe ten? It turned into a torturous loop, where N followed the script religiously. I guess she had nothing better to do. I finally took my last suitcase downstairs, not because I was done moving downstairs, but because I couldn’t take it anymore. The cleaning ladies and the landlord’s handyman would later bring the rest of my things down. Truth is, I didn’t care what I left up there, I just wanted it to stop. I cried in the first-floor room when I had finally had enough.

Sadly, even though the landlord had changed her tune about N, the damage had already been done. Academia was barely an afterthought, and I spent three months unable to leave my bed. From then on, I tried to return to the person and good student I was before coming to Boston. However, I couldn’t find her. I had more unfinished classes, and more unfinished work, and became negligent in all my responsibilities. I just couldn’t. This was coupled with a two-year wait time to receive gender-affirming care. During this entire ordeal, I had been patching together transgender treatment and hormones, but eventually, I started losing my hair. In discussion with the university, we thought it was best that I left. With that, I lost my entire reason for moving to Boston in the first place. I couldn’t find a job but I don’t know if I would have been able to work anyway. More months of debilitating depression followed. I did have a therapist during this time, which kept me somewhat afloat, but it wasn’t until I moved downstairs and enrolled in Partial Hospitalization services that I saw any start to my recovery.

"One of many murals at Northeastern University. 'Ars et Scientia' by El Mac"

I stayed in the first-floor apartment for a year, and I didn’t know if the landlord removed N as she said she would. While looking for my mail amongst the pile of mail for the building, I sometimes come across her name. Not that I was triggered, but whenever I saw it, there was a little twinge. My mental health recovery wasn’t going fast enough, and I was running out of time and money. I realized that to truly recover, I needed to leave this building, and likely, Boston entirely.

There was too much pain in this building and too much trauma. The frequency in which my race and gender heavily impacted my everyday, was much higher here than back in New York. Of course, I would never say anything bad about Boston, the city, and Bostonians, the people, but sadly my experience was painful. Then, I came across some luck. My cousin in New York offered to put me up while I tried to recover and reset. The problem is now getting back to New York and moving all my things there. And so, I am here to ask for your help.

I will readily admit that I made some mistakes. I am not confrontational, I am risk averse, I should have prepared more before leaving New York, I am not great at standing up for myself, but worst of all, I will ignore my pain and try to push through things without realizing that I need to give myself more care. So, I am striving to take the time and effort to properly address my issues.

My agreement with the landlord is that I will move on December 20th 2024. Of course, many expenses accompany my decision, but I know that to begin healing, I must return home to New York. I plan to return to academia; I want to continue my research in queer, feminist, and transgender medieval literature. After a lot of therapy sessions, I realize that I can’t give up on myself because of what happened, because that’s what N would’ve wanted, that’s what all the racist and transphobic people of the world want. I deserve better. I deserve a fulfilling life. I want to get back to my life goals, and that begins with returning to a safer place: New York, my home. If you can find it in your heart, I humbly ask for your assistance with my return and the next steps. Thank you for your time, from a “recovering” burgeoning academic.

"Photo taken in Northeastern University's quad. It was amazing to see the LGBTQ+ support and a reminder to not let that bad situation make me retreat into silence"