The first time I was pepper-sprayed was at a nightclub in Brooklyn. My friends and I were out—a respite from the trenches of community organizing to reset with joy, exemplifying what it means to stay rather than surrender.

I was in my early twenties—young, queer, Brown, and living on the edges of Crown Heights, Brooklyn. I’ve always believed—and still believe—that joy is critical to infrastructure. Even when our proximity to formal power is limited, joy allows us to practice freedom in small doses. Joy reminds us that our existence is not reducible to survival alone.

That night, we were at a queer party in a club that did not host us often. The promoters were friends, trying something different. Intentional, and we trusted them. We trusted that our presence could shift a room. Black and Brown queer bodies filling a space that had not always welcomed us. Dancing. Sweating. Becoming.

It felt small.

It felt enormous.

Then a group of neighborhood men entered and released pepper spray into the vents. My eyes burned. My throat tightened. The music cut midbeat, and bodies immediately moved to exit. Someone fell, someone else stumbled over them. After the initial screams, I remember thinking: Breathe. Get out. Just breathe.

The police took time to arrive. The EMTs took even longer, not demonstrating what it means to stay.

Outside in the night air—coughing and checking in on each other—we felt the absence of care, as my friend—who is trans—shook on the floor, struggling to breathe.1 They were questioned before being assisted. There were disputes over ID. Over legitimacy. Over who we were and what we were doing in this neighborhood, our home.

Still today—long after the burn has subsided—I reflect deeply on what it means to build community in a place that does not want you, within a system that will respond to your harm with suspicion rather than care.

Read the full article about the courage to stay by Sadé Dozan at Nonprofit Quarterly.