by Anima Adjepong, PhD
Assistant Professor of Sociology
Simmons University

In 2016, I began making frequent trans-Atlantic research visits to Accra, Ghana. Since that first journey, every time I pass through Kotoka International Airport in Accra, I turn on my recording device. It is my sole comfort in the face of the harassment I expect to face as I pass through the national border. The first time I turned it on was when the British Airways gate agent stalled my check-in because he wanted to know if I was a footballer. While the question on its face might seem innocuous, as a trans* person, I was aware of its gender-policing subtext. I turned on my phone’s recorder because Perry was questioning me as if I had committed a crime. He asked to see multiple forms of ID in addition to my passport, questioned me about who paid for my airline ticket, and wanted to know why I was traveling. When he saw my recorder come on, he quickly informed me that I was not legally permitted to record “official security business.” His uncertainty about my gender was now a matter of national security. But nevertheless, he backed off. Perhaps it was the recorder, or my U.S. accent and passport. It’s hard to tell. Over the next year and a half, I visited Accra 3 more times, recording each interaction with agents at the airport. With the exception of my most recent visit in November 2018, I have always been harassed by some airport employee, whether from Ghana Immigration Service, the narcotics agent, or the gate agent checking me in. This harassment has always been because of my gender. On my last visit, I managed to pass through freely. But I was traveling with my partner, whose gender became a point of curiosity and conversation at immigration.
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by Danielle Antoinette Hidalgo, PhD
Assistant Professor of Sociology
California State University, Chico


TRIGGER WARNING!: rape, sexual violence, sexual assault, trauma

I don’t usually yell at the television, sit in front of the TV for 8 straight hours, post my real-time thoughts on Facebook over the course of an entire day, cancel every work-related meeting I had that day, have tear-filled conversations with my Mom about our own violent sexual histories, burst into tears upon hearing a single word uttered by a stranger, or sit in my (painful) memories for long stretches of time. This is not my daily, weekly or even monthly routine. But Thursday, September 27th 2018 was a special kind of day, one that literally forced me to confront, head on, what had been buried deep for well over 2 decades. Since then, I know so many of us have been in a similar space, grappling with pain that is often far too difficult and deep to confront at any one time. Honestly, the pain and rage is often so fierce and sharp that it feels like it is literally cutting me into pieces, ripping my chest apart and open a thousand times over. This entry is the beginning of my coming to terms with the avalanche that hit me on Thursday and hasn’t really gone away. It’s the beginning of some kind of clarity regarding how to move forward; some way that I/we/all of us might be able to use these moments of rage to support one another and contribute to some real social change. 

​February 27th was the third anniversary of Leonard Nimoy’s death. For most people, his name will conjure up images of “the Vulcan salute”—what a 1968 New York Times article described as a “double-fingered version of Churchill’s victory sign.” His parents were Ukrainian Jewish immigrants, and Nimoy drew from his Orthodox upbringing when creating the iconic gesture. In his autobiography, I Am Spock, he explains: “This gesture symbolizes the Hebrew letter shin, the first letter in the word Shaddai, ‘Lord.’”