This story is part of a digital issue of Queer Kentucky surrounding Harm Reduction and its intersection with the LGBTQ+ community.⁠ Check out the full digital issue here.

Picture this: It’s 2015, you’re twenty-one years old, it’s a  Saturday night in Louisville, and you were invited to some mansion party. The floor is shaking from the bass; there is glitter all over the place; there are folks dressed in leather; you are wearing only a plaid t-shirt and some jeans and have somehow lost your shoes. There is sex happening in the bathroom, someone is putting their ass in a cake on a picnic table in the front yard, and someone hands you a glow stick bracelet with a knowing nod. 

You’ve never been in a situation like this, but feel inclined to ride it out. Some of the night passes, and a cute person is sitting on a wooden swing in the backyard, looking at you with the eyes and offering you a light blue pill. Next thing you know, you are lying on the ground with them, and your hair is acting as a pillow against the grass. Maybe you think to yourself, “Yeah, this is it. This is what I needed.” 

Now, picture this: You are at a queer bar on a busy corner street. You and your friends have just downed so many PBRs that none of you can feel your face anymore. Now, you have to go to the bathroom. Someone is standing by the door, sweating and pacing. You’re an empath, so you start to feel uncomfortable with them. They’re scratching their arms. The door opens, and they go in. 

You wait a while and knock on the door, asking if they’re okay. No answer. You really have to pee. You check to see if the door is unlocked and open it. They’re passed out on the floor. You crouch, move your hand over their mouth, and feel no breath. There is a needle that is covered in black goo and blood next to the toilet. You yell for help, and a person runs in. They ask if they are breathing; you answer, “No.” They rummage through their purse, pull out a spray, and put it up the person’s nose. “If she doesn’t wake up in a few minutes, we call an ambulance.” Two minutes pass, and the person jolts awake. 

What did you learn? To take care of others and ourselves is of the utmost importance. Even when we aren’t sure what to do, we have tools. Seeing that person on the floor with a black goo’ed-up needle tripped me to understand that there are safe ways for people to do their drugs. As someone who was medically transitioning at the time, I received more than enough clean needles to share with others. I carried them everywhere I went after that. I found friends who had access to Narcan, and I carry that everywhere. 

It’s not my place to sit in judgment, nor do I tolerate anyone else sitting in judgment for me for my previous drug use. Whether you are using drugs for fun or survival, the fact is – use them safely. That’s the real T on harm reduction.  

Queer folks have been the most vulnerable population, most directly impacted by unsafe substance use, and the most in need of community care.  From the AIDS crisis to the ongoing criminalization of sex work and drug use, we know what it’s like to be abandoned by government constituents, public health workers, social workers, organizations that utilize us for clout, and family members who want to care for us when it’s convenient.

Queer folks, particularly Trans-BIPOC folks, are disproportionately affected by homelessness, poverty, and substance use. We have a more challenging time accessing quality, non-judgemental care. These factors make the spread of disease easier within our communities. 

When we talk about harm reduction, we’re talking about protecting each other from HIV, Hepatitis B & C, overdoses, and many other risks associated with substance use. When we talk about harm reduction, we’re talking about needle exchanges, safe injection sites, fentanyl test strips, all of which make sure no one gets left behind because of a choice they made. We’re talking about acknowledging the trauma, discrimination, and mental health implications that often lead to substance use. Instead of punishing people for coping, we should be prioritizing and providing safer ways for them to do so.

When we realize our collective power to care and share care, we can make the world a much better place. Many of us didn’t ask to be on this planet, and somehow, we aid to be here. We must ensure safety in understanding, restorative care, and overall health and well-being. This is for everyone.

So, for the homies that will… 

Here are some practical steps to reduce harm in your life and in the lives of all you may come across:

1. Carry Narcan: Opioid overdoses are killing our folks, and a dose of Narcan can literally bring someone back from limbo.  
2. Support Needle Exchanges: These programs aren’t just about providing clean needles; they’re about making sure that people are using drugs as safely as possible. It’s not just “here’s a syringe, good luck” – it’s about education on safer injection practices, reducing the risk of infections and abscesses, and providing people with alcohol wipes and sharps disposal containers. It’s about making sure that no one is reusing or sharing needles, which cuts down the transition of HIV and Hep C. Many needle exchanges serve as community hubs, offering health screenings, overdose prevention training, and connections to housing and support services.   
3. Know Your Substances: If you’re going to do drugs (or be with people who do), educate yourself. Know the differences between drugs, understand the risks of mixing them, and test them for contaminants. You never want to think you’re doing one drug but actually be doing something much harder.
4. Create Safe Spaces: Whether it’s a house party or one night out, designate a sober person to check in with everybody; bring water or snacks, and get you home safely if need be.
5. Decriminalize and Destigmatize: Support decriminalization efforts, advocate for safe consumption spaces, and don’t treat people like they’re less worthy of respect, dignity, and a quality life because they use drugs or have in the past.

We’ve come a long way from the days when the media only showed drug users as tragic figures doomed to die. But we need more stories, ones that don’t just focus on the struggle but also on the community, resilience, and radical care that harm reduction exemplifies. Queer history is built on mutual aid, and that doesn’t just mean throwing dollars at each other. During the height of the AIDS crisis, when the government wouldn’t lift a finger, it was queer folks, sex workers, and activists who distributed medication, educated one another, and built networks of care. That’s what we needed then, and it’s what we still need today.

At the end of the day, it’s about real, radical love. It’s about making sure that when the party’s over, everyone makes it home safely. 

photo provided by Mo Vivian

Mo Viviane (she/they) – Born in Lebanon, Kentucky. She is an artist who focuses on expansion while using ancestral tools of storytelling, sound frequency, and much more. Their work focuses on the abstractions of life and death and the correspondence to the creativity process. She utilizes laughter and crying as medicine, hoping to make the world a more sustainable and loving place.

If you want to read more from them, their poetry chapbook titled death:ing is out for purchase, and you can find them on Medium and Instagram by visiting: linktr.ee/moviviane.