I thought a lot about how to write this piece because it is not easy to think of myself as an ally to my queer friends. This is only because it is, to me, completely unfathomable that we, in this century, in 2026, still need to be allies. Honestly, there is convenience in moving on with our lives, turning a blind eye to injustice, and even questioning the mere existence of campaigns like the pride month. Many even sit at a table full of conservatives and laugh at their horrible jokes so that we, ourselves, are accepted. Because, of course, no one is 100% perfectly fitting into any of these rules. In fact, that is how most of us choose to live everyday: In comfort and convenience.
But…
Even if I wanted to, I would not be able to close my eyes, shut my mouth and ears, and move on. I have had too many people in my life, since early childhood, who suffered everyday just because their families were ones of these prejudicial people. Friends and family that I can’t turn my back on, and that taught me I can’t turn my back on anyone, even if I don’t know or like them.
I come from a very, very, veeeery small town in the countryside of Brazil, with the majority of its population constantly defending the phobias that were brought by the priest during the Sunday masses. Cities like mine, either larger or smaller, are spread everywhere in Brazil, so you can imagine how life would have been for a queer child to grow up in the 90s and early 2000s in these towns. To be queer was definitely NOT an option. To be good, to be accepted, there was only one path. You had to be well-educated, meaning passive and obedient. You had to step away from artistic movements because they were deemed, by society, to be full of transgressive people. Finish school with the highest possible grade. Choose a good course for University, preferably the ones with real advantages for society, like law or medicine (there is irony in this sentence). During this time, heteronormativity and the expectations to form a nuclear family were high: meet the love of your life, engage in a cisgender heterosexual relationship, then, of course, get married and have children. Preferably, your partner (which is a term that back then would be contested) should come from your social status. Anything slightly out of this order, was too progressive, unacceptable, only chosen by very few people who knew the consequences would be judgment and even exclusion.
But as I said, queerness was around my life everyday. I grew up with queer cousins, classmates, my mom’s best friend is queer, some teachers were too. People whom I deeply care about and that always carried a sad expression, who would never bring a plus one, who would be bullied for showing some signs that they might not be super hetero macho/feminine. I knew what they were going through. And the only reason I knew is because, somehow, I was able to create a safe space where they could be themselves. I guess, then, that this is what it means to be an ally.
What is it then about this “safe space”?
I believe… Actually, I strongly believe that to be an ally and provide a safe space to others does not only mean to be an attentive listener and a shoulder to cry or arms to hug. Safe spaces need to be expanded until it becomes the entire world. It means we, as allies, need to step up: It means speaking up assertively, showing up physically at protests to add to the body count, and casting our votes with the struggles of others in mind. It means protecting those of us who love beyond heteronormative expectations, those of us who do not conform with gender norms. Allyship does not mean taking the lead or showing queer people the way, they already know what’s best for them better than we do, but by actively creating opportunities to amplify their voices and recognition when fear for their safety, or fear of other repercussions that come with being outed, holds them back.
In daily life, meaningful change begins with small, deliberate actions. It means choosing to boycott homophobic and transphobic authors while intentionally elevating queer voices in our reading lists. It also means challenging gender-normative assumptions in our daily language by actively practicing correct pronouns and gently correcting ourselves and others until using they/them or other neopronouns becomes easier and second nature. Allyship begins with not questioning the names people choose for themselves and of course, never deadnaming someone. Deadnaming means calling someone by their dead name, usually the birthname given to transgender people when they’re born. Deadnaming can be very triggering and causes gender dysphoria and anxiety. It’s never about us and our weak memories, this is serious, and real allies take it as such!
I would also add having tough conversations with our grandparents, parents, little cousins, siblings, and friends. Challenging outdated misconceptions around a dining table can do wonders! Also, supporting LGBTQIA+ venues that are owned or frequented by queer people is one of the best ways to practice allyship: Queer venues are vulnerable habitats and safe spaces, and we need to help keep those businesses running, but always acknowledging that we are guests in these spaces, and act respectfully. I’ll turn my allyship in practice up a notch here and say we should pause and question our dating preferences even, and why we are attracted to the gender we are attracted to: Is it nature? Or culture? Or religion? Or all of them? Questioning is healthy, so we can also take time to question why queerness is criminalised in several parts of the world despite it being a natural way of being human, based on consent.
In geosciences, it means to foster a work/research environment where all expressions of queerness are welcomed. To openly talk about it. To question the lack of representation. To actively ask: “Why don’t we have any/more openly transgender people in our working groups?”, for example. To advertise pride parades, to create events, to show to others that we no longer conform with outdated rules and any more nonsense. To boycott any type of activity that encourages discrimination. To bring ideas, workshops, knowledge, and awareness to the spaces where we work, study, and hang out.
Allyship also means intentionally voting for queer representatives and fiercely challenging the reality of so many nations, including my own, where being queer is legal on paper, but still feels like a crime in practice. In these places, hate crimes are so frequent and ignored that queer people have no choice but to leave their homes every day fearing they might not return. Living with this terrifying reality is heavy, but it fuels my purpose. I am determined to be someone who builds safe spaces, hosts community events, encourages empathy, and, just as I am doing right now, has the courage to write about these truths openly.
The geosciences do not lack queer scientists; perhaps the question is, how many feel safe enough to come out in professional settings? However, the discipline still falls short when it comes to building and maintaining and nurturing an inclusive community for LGBTQIA+ people their allies. Disparities persist across different countries, generations, and subfields. Despite this, I am confident that by stepping up individually, we can dismantle these inequalities much faster than we think. I have chosen to use my voice as an active ally, both online and offline, and I hope you will choose to join me.
P.S: I want to dedicate this piece to my uncle Valdek, to my friend Gaspar, to my cousin/brother Artur, to congresswoman Erika Hilton, and to those who are not yet comfortable being “out”. I love you all with all my heart.
