Microsoft Word - 07 queering_praxis.docx


International Journal of Child, Youth and Family Studies (2021) 12(3/4): 170–202 
DOI: 10.18357/ijcyfs123-4202120344

QUEERING CYC PRAXIS: WHAT I LEARNED FROM LGBTQI+ 
NEWCOMER, REFUGEE, AND IMMIGRANT STUDENT 

EXPERIENCES IN CANADA 

Nancy Marshall 

Abstract: This exploratory autoethnographic study, undertaken by a White straight 
cisgender child and youth care practitioner, seeks to understand the experiences of 
LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students in Canada. It highlights the 
nuances of creating safe spaces for young people who experience harm due to the 
intersections of systemic racism, xenophobia, transphobia, and homophobia. The 
overarching finding of this study reveals a culture of silence. Queer newcomer, 
refugee, and immigrant youth in Canada are often reluctant to disclose or explore 
their queerness due to their fears of discrimination and violence. This fear exists 
notwithstanding the pride Canada takes in its efforts to protect LGBTQI+ rights. 
Inspired by findings from interviews with two women, one who supports LGBTQI+ 
newcomers, refugees, and immigrants to Canada, and one who researches policy 
affecting all Canadian refugee experiences, I utilized a self-reflexive deep-dive 
approach to learn about the events and policies that have shaped LGBTQI+ 
newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students’ access to postsecondary education in 
Canada. Central findings in this study point to barriers emerging from 
homonationalism, colonization, religion, culture, race, White-centred gay–straight 
alliances in schools, and immigration policies pertaining to sexual orientation and 
gender identity expression (SOGIE). These findings problematize the White, 
Westernized, liberal, out-and-proud policies that child and youth care practitioners 
are accustomed to. 

Keywords: queer theory; feminism; political self-reflective praxis; postcolonial 
contexts; decolonizing CYC practice; LGBTQI+ refugee, newcomer, immigrant 
student experiences 

Acknowledgments: I would like to express my heartfelt gratitude to the many researchers, child 
and youth care practitioners, family, and friends who have supported my work on this project. I 
thank the reviewers and editorial staff of the IJCYFS for their efforts in helping me make this 
project possible. I thank Tanitia Munroe and her team of researchers for their inspirational work 
that has been invaluable to me in my growth as a White child and youth care practitioner. I thank 
my professor, Roopa Trilokekar, for her guidance and encouragement to publish my work. Finally, 
I thank my participants for their time and energy in educating me and providing me with resources 
needed for my journey out of heterocisnormativity. I dedicate this paper to LGBTQI+ newcomer, 
refugee, and immigrant students who, out of necessity, remain silent about their identities and 
traumas — I want to let you know that I am listening. 

Nancy Marshall is a PhD candidate in Education at York University, Keele Campus, 4700 
Keele Street, Toronto, ON M3J 1P3. Email: nancymar@yorku.ca



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Prior to this special issue of the IJCYFS, it seems few scholars in the field of child and youth 
care (CYC) have explored the idea of queering our care. This is surprising given that queer theory 
and queer activism have flourished in academic and justice-oriented social service fields in North 
America for close to 30 years, since the height of queer activism in the 1990s (Berlant & Warner, 
1995). Admittedly, if anyone had asked me how I might queer CYC before embarking on this 
study, I would have had nowhere to begin, given my uninformed privileged place of 
“heterocisnormativity” (Lee, 2018, p. 61). It was not until I dedicated myself to intentional and 
focused learning from the critical perspectives of CYC scholars working to disrupt oppression and 
normativity in our field that I came to realize there is much more to CYC practice than what was 
taught to me in school. This realization led to my undertaking the personal and professional 
research journey that I describe here. 

I made this journey in response to calls from colleagues asking CYC educators and CYC 
practitioners (CYCPs) to engage in a more politicized and historicized CYC praxis with young 
people (Amponsah & Stephen, 2020; Igbu & Baccus, 2018). Igbu and Baccus (2018) argued that 
“an intentional relational CYC praxis must call on the profession and practitioners to name and 
discuss white heteropatriarchal supremacy” (p. 62). The emphasis on praxis — applying theory 
and knowledge to our practice skills — resonates strongly with my renewed sense of CYC 
responsibility as a White straight cisgender and non-disabled settler with European colonial roots, 
who, after more than 10 years of practice, has only recently begun to notice the harmful impacts 
of my lagging CYC education. For me, this important journey is what queering CYC is about. 

My answer to the call to engage in a more politicized and historicized CYC praxis is long 
overdue and I take inspirational cues from other White cisgender CYCPs and scholars who have 
already begun to respond (see, e.g., Gharabaghi, 2017; Hillman et al., 2020; Mackenzie, 2020; 
Skott-Myhre, 2017; Vachon, 2018). Using an autoethnographic approach, I discuss the personal 
and professional insights I derived from writing a short graduate study paper on the experiences 
of lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, queer, intersex, and other non-heterocisnormative 
(LGBTQI+)1 newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students in Canada, many of whom are racialized. 
Inspired by the Black queer CYCPs and educators currently leading the research in this area (see 
Munroe et al., 2018a, 2020), I aim to answer the following research question: How do newcomer, 
refugee, and immigrant student experiences inform me as a White straight cisgender CYCP 
supporting multiply marginalised young people? 

 
1The ‘+’ sign following the acronym LGBTQI is an increasingly common symbol in the English language to 
represent many diverse and evolving queer identity terms. While LGBTQI+ is not wholly representative of queer 
identities in other languages and cultures; as an English speaker and author, I use it throughout this paper for 
convenience and clarity (see Social Protection & Human Rights, 2015). I will also use the term “queer” 
interchangeably with LGBTQI+ to represent the vastness of queer identities globally. I have intentionally left out 
“two-spirited (2S)” as this refers to North American Indigenous community members, as opposed to the newcomers, 
refugees, and immigrants who are the focus of my analysis (see Khaki, 2018). 



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The objectives of this study are twofold: (a) to uncover the White colonial roots of queer 
intolerance that continue to oppress LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students in 
Canada; and (b) to share how a personal self-reflexive learning journey can help minimize biases 
that impede the ethical care of marginalized young people. I begin with my inspiration for this 
research topic followed by key conceptualizations of queering, along with the historical, political, 
and theoretical contexts that shape LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and immigrant experiences in 
Canada. I then provide a detailed description of my research approach, including a reflexive 
analysis of self discoveries, which I offer in conversation with data collected from two 
professionals in the fields of LGBTQI+ newcomer and immigrant support and refugee research. I 
conclude with implications for practice and thoughts on the potentials for queering CYC practice. 

An Inspired Process 

My focus on LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and immigrant student experiences was first 
inspired by the research of my school-based CYC colleague Tanitia Munroe and her team, which 
included a panel of Black queer youths. Shortly before beginning my study, I had listened to an 
interview (Munroe et al., 2018a) in which Munroe and her team discussed research aiming to 
dismantle nonfinancial barriers for Black queer students transitioning from high school to 
postsecondary education (PSE) in Canada. At the time, I was beginning an important personal and 
political journey out of heterocisnormative thinking in CYC practice that is now documented in a 
paper co-authored with two CYC colleagues Shadan Hyder and Matty Hillman (see Hyder et al., 
2019). Shadan, Matty, and I had become aware of a growing schism in our field between academia 
and practice, one articulated by Thom Garfat in a listserv on CYC-Net as “a growing reality gulf 
between ‘those who are doing’ and those who are ‘thinking about the doing’ ” (CYC-Net, 2010, 
11th paragraph from the end). This schism continues to be discussed at professional gatherings, at 
conferences, and in publications (Hyder et al., 2019; Loiselle et al., 2012; Vachon, 2020). Tanitia 
and her research team, along with countless others leading work in the area of politicized praxis, 
have helped me to understand the false dichotomy between the academic “thinking” and the 
practical “doing” elements of our work. I now confidently align myself with CYCPs who bring 
critical theory to critical practice — those who do the practical work of supporting young people 
through intentional, theory-driven, political praxis (Loiselle et al., 2012). 

Background 

The Politics of Queering 

While this study maintains a focus on the experiences of LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and 
immigrant students in Canada, my learning from these experiences extends beyond the LGBTQI+ 
community. In its adjective form, the term “queer” is commonly used as an umbrella term for 
2SLGBTQI+ identities (Khaki, 2018). As a verb, “to queer” connotes both a theoretical and 
practical critique relevant to the field of CYC: “to queer” means to reveal, contest, and resist the 
normative structures that underlie many human oppressions, including those that lie outside the 
realm of sex and gender politics (Vachon, 2020). But before the term “to queer” expanded beyond 



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LGBTQI+ communities and research, Berlant and Warner (1995) explained that an important goal 
of queering was to aspire to create more open and accepted “queer publics” that could “afford sex 
and intimacy in sustained, unchastening ways” (p. 344). Largely, this advocacy for queer publics, 
which emerged as a response to the injustices underlying the AIDS epidemic of the 1990s, offered 
a way of “bringing a queerer world into being” — a world that would respect the safety and 
belonging of all genders and all orientations in regard to loving one another (Berlant & Warner, 
1995, p. 344). Indeed, Vachon (2020) noted that the kinds of care found in the queer histories of 
the HIV/AIDS era hold value for CYC practice, particularly when we reflect on how queer 
communities came to look after each other at a time when no one else seemed to care. This is a 
form of community care that, in many ways, mirrors the relational work we do in the life spaces 
of young people (Garfat & Fulcher, 2016) who often have nowhere else to turn (e.g., those in 
residential care, youth juvenile detention, shelters). 

On a broader scale, queering has long been formulated through an intersectional lens. For 
example, the late Reverend Sheikh Ibrahim Farajaje, a much-loved and well-respected queer 
theologian, professor, and spiritual leader throughout the rise of queer activism and scholarship 
(Hamilton, 2020), defined queering as a way of “continually and simultaneously considering all 
of our own intersectionalities including … race, class, gender, … environmental issues, animal 
rights, sexualities, spiritual practices” (Farajaje as cited in Khaki, 2018, 4:02). In a similar vein, 
Alex Wilson, Indigenous professor and scholar, has called for queer reflection through traditional 
Indigenous land-based knowledge as a way back to precolonial anti-discrimination: “When you’re 
on the land, all the socially constructed hierarchies around gender, around sexual orientation, 
around race, or around class disappear. The land engenders itself and we engender it” (Wilson & 
Laing, 2018, p. 134). Wilson’s land-based education offers a solution to the “epistemicide” that 
not only cut off Indigenous people from the land, but cut off everyone from the knowledge that all 
belong (Wilson & Laing, 2018, p. 133). Queering in these ways brings humanity back to its roots 
before the onset of modern colonialist projects of human categorization based on ideas rooted in 
power dominance, capitalism, racialized political policies, and conformity to White heterosexual 
European norms (Lugones, 2010). 

Ultimately, queering reminds us that there is “an invisible heteronormativity” underlying our 
politics, professions, and knowledge (Berlant & Warner, 1995, p. 348). Rooted in layers of history 
and politics on a global scale, this heterocisnormativity creates innumerable barriers for 
marginalized young people in Canada and all over the world. 

The Intersections of Race and Queerness in Canadian Schools 

Despite the diversity in Canada, Black queer newcomers continue to experience “triple times 
the difficulty” than their White queer counterparts due to racism and colonial oppression (Karlene 
Williams-Clarke as cited in Munroe et al, 2018a, 18:55). For this reason, queer racialized students 
are often forced into cultures of silence that protect them from abuse, torment, and even death 
(Cruz, 2008). Research on racialized newcomer, refugee, and immigrant student experiences is 



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still in its early stages in Canada. To my knowledge, Munroe and her colleagues (2018a, 2018b, 
2020) were the first to discuss the complexities of newcomer, refugee, queer, and trans identities 
from the perspective of CYC in educational settings. In education research, the intersections of 
racism, structural inequalities, and attitudinal barriers have been identified as key factors limiting 
the success of all Black and other racialized students in Canadian schools, regardless of whether 
they are newcomers or not (James & Turner, 2017). Other studies, such as the seminal report on 
homophobia, biphobia, and transphobia in Canadian schools, Every Class in Every School (Taylor 
& Peter, 2011), found that LGBTQI+-identifying students with racialized backgrounds experience 
more barriers than their White peers due to the intersections of their sexual orientation, gender, 
race, religion, poverty, and cultural norms. The added layers of precarious newcomer status, 
complicated immigration processes, and adjustments to new communities compound the 
challenges for racialized newcomer students to Canada (see Munroe, et al., 2018a, 2018b, 2020). 

Religion and cultural norms can contribute to a culture of silence among Black and other 
racialized queer students who fear reprimands and isolation from their communities, families, and 
peers if they come out as queer (Cruz, 2008; Munroe et al., 2018b, 2020; Taylor & Peter, 2011). 
Taylor and Peter (2011) also found that LGBTQI+ youth of colour were 14% less likely than their 
White peers to know “LGBTQ” students who were “out” and 17% less likely to know of supportive 
staff members and teachers (p. 21). In fact, heteronormative religious and cultural ideologies (e.g., 
those stemming from right-wing Christian and Islamic fundamentalism) can be powerful silencers 
of queer rights in public education. This was evidenced in 2018 in Ontario when lessons on 
LGBTQI+ sexuality were removed from an updated sexual education curriculum (Alphonso, 2018; 
CBC News, 2019; Levinson King, 2015; Munroe et al., 2020). In Canadian schools, this form of 
silencing results in a lack of visible minority students, whether in queer–straight alliances (QSAs) 
across the country, or in localized initiatives like Toronto’s Safe And Positive Spaces2 (Munroe et 
al., 2018b, 2020). Sadly, the Whiteness of these spaces purported to be safe for queer students 
exacerbates the exclusion of queer students of colour (Munroe et al., 2018b). Furthermore, Munroe 
(2018a) noted that the experiences of Black queer and trans newcomers in particular tend to be 
“silenced and invisible” (12:45). This is unacceptable given that three quarters of newcomers 
seeking services in urban areas like Toronto are racialized (Munroe et al., 2018a). Additionally, 
60.2% of first-generation Canadians and 29.8% of second-generation Canadians are visible 
minorities (Statistics Canada, 2011). 

Some students feel postsecondary schools are more inclusive than high schools for Black and 
other racialized queer students (Munroe et al., 2018b). However, college and university campuses 
also struggle with racism, homophobia, transphobia, and stigma within White heteronormative 
school climates (Ecker et al., 2015; Patrick, 2014). In fact, a recent Canada-wide survey found that 

 
2“Safe and Positive Spaces” is a Toronto District School Board initiative: https://www.tdsb.on.ca/Elementary-
School/Beyond-the-Classroom/Safe-and-Positive-Spaces 



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queer student centres vary greatly across Canadian PSE campuses and often lack the supports that 
students from different backgrounds require (Ecker et al., 2015). 

Histories of Colonial Heterocispatriarchy 

Long histories of colonial “heterocispatriarchy” (Lee, 2018, p. 63) are directly responsible for 
the challenges LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students face in Canada. Colonially 
imposed sodomy laws, stemming from long-standing relationships between state and religion, 
have worked to surveil and criminalize queerness around the world for centuries (Ahmed, 2015; 
Blake & Dayle, 2013; Gamble et al., 2015; Lee, 2018; Mendos, 2019; Murray, 2014; Nicol, 2014). 
A history of capitalism has further contributed to the heterocispatriarchal legacy of queer 
oppression by placing value on heterosexual patriarchic family norms (Lee, 2018; Lorde, 1984; 
Lugones, 2010). This power-driven colonial history of criminalizing same-sex relations and queer 
identities was enforced over 400 hundred years ago by British colonialist powers (and French 
colonialists, although to a lesser extent3) in countries throughout Asia, Africa, and the Americas 
(Nicol, 2014). In other countries, such as those with a Muslim-majority population, men in 
positions of power have propagandized heteronormative interpretations of religious texts such as 
the Quran (Ahmed, 1992; Khaki, 2018). These interpretations continue to perpetuate harmful 
views of queerness in several Canadian immigrant communities today (Levinson King, 2015). 
There are close to 70 countries worldwide where LGBTQI+ identities are persecuted by law, and 
in 12 of these countries, queer sexual relations are punishable by death (Mendos, 2019). 
Immigrants from all of those countries reside in Canada with varied newcomer, refugee, and 
generation statuses (Statistics Canada, 2019). 

Canada as a “Safe Haven”  

Of course, LGBTQI+ newcomers, refugees, and immigrants to Canada also experience 
discrimination due to the cultural, familial, and religious norms that afflict even countries where 
the persecution of queer identities is not official policy. Many countries, including Canada, do not 
criminalize same-sex relations or gender identities, yet homophobic and transphobic violence 
persists (Ecker et al., 2015; Gamble et al., 2015; Munroe et al., 2020; Taylor & Peter, 2011). The 
global history of queer intolerance sparked by British and French colonial conquests had a 
profound effect in Canada. Canada’s mission to “civilize” Indigenous people through the 
residential school system was rooted in colonial heterocisnormative religious values dating back 
to 16th-century Europe and is responsible for the erasure of queer acceptance in Indigenous 
communities (Wilson & Laing, 2018; Woods & Yerxa, 2016). The same values are responsible 
for suppressing ancient traditions of queer acceptance in Commonwealth countries globally 
(Human Rights Watch, 2008; Nicol, 2014). Indigenous scholars (see Wilson & Laing, 2018) and 
queer activists (Woods & Yerxa, 2016) have begun to unveil Indigenous histories of queer 
acceptance. Yet, as Alex Wilson pointed out, it can be “a delicate topic to discuss” when elders 

 
3See Human Rights Watch (2008) This Alien Legacy for a complete history in brief: 
https://www.hrw.org/report/2008/12/17/alien-legacy/origins-sodomy-laws-british-colonialism 



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and other Indigenous community members have internalized heteronormative values that deny 
queer rights (Wilson & Laing, 2018, p. 134). Indeed, it is ironic that descendants of 
heteronormative White colonial settlers in Canada now celebrate queer pride while in the 
historically queer-accepting Indigenous communities, it is necessary to fight for queer rights and 
belonging (Woods & Yerxa, 2016). This cruel irony plays out in former British colonies around 
the world while present-day Britain enjoys a reputation of upholding queer rights (Ahmed, 2015; 
Mendos, 2019). 

When it comes to newcomers who are seeking asylum, Canada too takes pride in its reputation 
as a safe haven for LGBTQI+ refugees (Gamble et al., 2015; Lee, 2018, 2019; Murray, 2014). 
Nevertheless, queer asylum seekers continue to face barriers to successful settlement, including 
access to housing, education, employment, financial stability, and acceptance of refugee claims 
(Gamble et al., 2015; Lee, 2019; Munroe et al., 2020 Murray, 2011). One of the most significant 
barriers for LGBTQI+ refugees is the Basis Of Claim form (Immigration and Refugee Board of 
Canada [IRB], 2018a; Immigration.ca, 2013), a requirement that asks claimants to prove the 
legitimacy of their claim within 15 days of arrival4. Queer and trans refugees often have trouble 
producing such evidence becuase in their countries of origin, any indication of their true gender 
identity or sexual orientation had to be hidden (Bielski, 2017; Dearham, 2017; Gamble et al., 2015; 
LaViolette, 2009; Mulé & Gates-Gasse, 2012; Murray, 2011, 2014; Rehaag, 2008). A further 
barrier, Bill C-31 (Protecting Canada’s Immigration System Act, 2012), was intended to protect 
Canada’s immigration system from false refugee claims through a list of 42 Designated Countries 
of Origin that were — unjustifiably in my view — deemed adequate protectors of human rights 
and freedoms and therefore not eligible for asylum claims related to sexual orientation, gender 
identity, and gender expression (SOGIE; Gamble et al., 2015; Lee, 2018; Mulé & Gates-Gasse, 
2012; Smith, 2012). Fortunately, Canada has since “removed all countries from the designated 
country of origin list” (Government of Canada, 2019). However, rigid homonationalist 
constructions of who qualifies as an “authentic refugee body” (Murray, 2014, p. 29) continue to 
linger in the public consciousness. 

Improvements to the LGBTQI+ refugee claimant process have included new guidelines that 
help Immigration and Refugee Board of Canada (IRB) officers understand the harm SOGIE 
claimants encounter due to intersectional marginalization and unrealistic requirements that they 
prove their queerness through the Basis Of Claim form (Government of Canada, 2017; IRB, 
2018b). The new guidelines were “inspired and informed” (Government of Canada, 2017, para. 3) 
in part by the seminal work of Nicole LaViolette (2009), a law professor and researcher who was 
dedicated to dismantling barriers for SOGIE refugees. They address the unique barriers SOGIE 
claimants face when cultural, religious, and family backgrounds contextualize queerness in ways 
that do not conform to some IRB officers’ understanding of LGBTQI+ expressions of identity 

 
4Due to the impacts of COVID-19, the Basis Of Claim forms have been granted temporary extensions at the time of 
this writing (see “Practice notice on the temporary extension of time limits for filing the Basis Of Claim form”: 
https://irb.gc.ca/en/legal-policy/procedures/Pages/practice-notice-temporary-extension-boc-form.aspx) 



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(IRB, 2018b). According to the guidelines, IRB officers are now trained to understand the “non-
linear process” of refugee claimants’ diverse understanding and acceptance of their own SOGIE, 
which can differ widely from Westernized understandings of what it means to be queer (IRB, 
2018b, Section 3, para. 1). However, human rights organizations have declared that these 
improvements are not enough: many queer migrants continue to fear rejection of their SOGIE 
claims by the IRB and seek entry to Canada through other means, such as temporary work and 
study visas, which can be difficult to obtain (Gamble et al., 2015; Lee, 2019; Mulé & Gates-Gasse, 
2012). Additionally, many migrants who are eager to flee but do not have the resources to obtain 
a visa, nor the resources to make the long trip to Canada, are forced to live in limbo in refugee 
camps close to their home countries (Amuke, 2015). The impact of COVID-19 is not likely to 
diminish for long the influx of new immigrants to Canada. Recently, the government of Canada 
pledged to open its borders to over one million refugees and newcomers over the next 3 years 
(Harris, 2020). 

Immigration Terminology in Canada 

As this study is focused on newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students to Canada, it is 
important to clarify the terminology that defines their experiences. In Canada, the term 
“newcomer” or “recent immigrant” refers to a person who has arrived in Canada within 5 years of 
the latest census count (Statistics Canada, 2010). Refugees (also “Convention refugees”5) are those 
whose refugee claims have been officially accepted by the IRB, while “refugee claimants” are still 
awaiting decisions on their claims (Gamble et al., 2015, p. 12). Recent immigrants can also be 
holders of temporary resident visas (TRVs), which include student and work permits (Lee, 2019). 
In official statistics, first-generation immigrants include not only newcomers and refugees, but also 
Canadians born outside of Canada to Canadian parents (Statistics Canada, 2011). Second-
generation immigrants are defined as “individuals who were born in Canada and had at least one 
parent born outside Canada … third generation or more refers to people who are born in Canada 
with both parents born in Canada” (Statistics Canada, 2011, p. 3). 

Theoretical Context 

Vachon (2020) invited CYCPs to queer our care work: to “consider a queer CYC imagination” 
(p. 64) — an imagination that he argues can open possibilities for thinking and doing our work 
differently, perhaps more politically, within the CYC ethic of “making moments meaningful” in 
the “minutiae” of young people’s everyday life events (Garfat & Fulcher, 2016). I aim to queer 
my own practice by making connections between (micro) moments with young people and (macro) 
systems of politics that influence their lives. To do this, I aspire to what Amponsah and Stephen 
(2020) referred to as “an informed allyship” of action led by the communities I aim to support (p. 
10). As a White straight CYCP, I am grateful to the CYCPs who have taught me that an informed 
allyship requires a historicized and politicized theoretical grounding (Amponsah & Stephen, 2020; 

 
5“Convention” refers to the UN Convention Relating to the Status of Refugees (UN Refugee Agency, n.d.) 



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Igbu & Baccus, 2018). For this paper, I draw on queer and feminist postcolonial thinkers who have 
thought deeply about the ways in which modern nation-states create precarious conditions for 
citizens through rigid notions of legitimate citizenship based on heterocisnormative conformity 
(Butler, 2009; Butler & Spivak, 2007; Lugones, 2010; Puar, 2013). These frameworks are 
concerned with the “dynamics of power” and “why some forms of sexual life are so much more 
possible than others, and why some seem to embody the unthinkable and even the unlive-able” 
(Butler, 2009, p. iv). 

Puar (2013) explained the power maintained by White Westernized nations through a lens of 
homonationalism, a concept that recognizes modern and illusive “progress for gay rights … built 
on the backs of racialized others” (p. 337). Homonationalist rhetoric creates a binary of “us” versus 
“them”: a way of othering queer outsiders who do not seem to “fit” White Westernized views of 
queerness (Murray, 2014; Puar, 2013; White, 2013). For example, visions of a monolithic 
homophobic Islam are socially constructed as somehow more deviant than the homophobia found 
in White Westernized nations (Puar, 2013). Meanwhile Islam, a religion already subjected to 
xenophobic White European supremacist views of “Oriental backwardness” (Said, 1978, p. 43), is 
richly diverse, and not the inherently queer-phobic religion many have made it out to be (Khaki, 
2018). In the Middle East and elsewhere around the world, centuries of British and French colonial 
conquests have suppressed queer sexualities for the purpose of colonial capitalist gains that thrive 
on White heteronormative family values (Lee, 2018; Lugones, 2010). 

I further look to a queer of colour analysis (Munroe et al., 2020) to disrupt the deeply 
problematic notion of Whiteness “as the entry point into goodness”, which has been constructed 
through centuries of White colonial European oppression (Amponsah & Stephen, 2020, p. 7). This 
history reminds us that we cannot do our work solely from the dominant White neoliberal 
perspective manifested in the out-and-proud advocacy embedded within queer rights discourse 
across Canadian and global societies (Munroe et al., 2018a, 2018b, 2020). Rather, we must unsettle 
“White settler privilege in practice” (Mackenzie, 2020, p. 96) as we learn to respect the silence 
that queer newcomers and immigrants rely on for survival (Cruz, 2008; Munroe et al., 2020). The 
oppression of LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students is rooted in a historical 
colonial racism that falsely generalizes non-Westernized subjects as dangerous, strange, and 
uncivilized “others” (Blake & Dayle, 2013; Lorde, 1984; Lugones, 2010; Said, 1978). Through a 
lens of queer and feminist politics, subjects who are falsely constructed to be dangerous, strange, 
or uncivilized based on their non-conformity with White heterosexual norms are more accurately 
depicted as positive and necessary resisters of “the coloniality of gender” (Lugones, 2010, p. 746). 
Reframing stigmatized notions of non-Westernized and non-heteronormative subjects in this way 
is fundamental to queering CYC practice. Reframing young people’s “dangerous” behaviours as 
forms of resistance is not entirely new to CYC practice (see, e.g., Brockett & Anderson-Nathe, 
2016). However, reframing stigmatized notions of “strange” or “queer” into sources of pride for 
racialized newcomer, refugee, and immigrant queer young people is perhaps a new and important 
endeavour for our field. 



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I apply these queer and feminist postcolonial frameworks to my previous self-reflexive work 
using the feminist maxim “the personal is political” (see Hyder et al., 2019). I extend my work by 
taking note of Amponsah and Stephen’s (2020) reference to Audre Lorde’s (1984) important 
advice: “Reach down into that deep place of knowledge inside [ourselves] and touch that terror 
and loathing of any difference that lives here. See whose face it wears. Then the personal as the 
political can begin to illuminate all our choices.” (p. 113). Reaching inward to challenge our own 
inner biases is a necessary step toward restructuring the normative hegemony of CYC practices 
wherein White straight cisgender CYCPs may “non-consciously” commit microaggressions due 
to the privileges they hold (Vachon, 2018, p. 15). Queer, feminist, and postcolonial frameworks 
join the personal with the political in ways that help me understand how to truly make moments 
meaningful for the young people I support. Through this project, my own way of reaching inward 
was operationalized through autoethnography. 

Methodology 

An Autoethnographic Approach 

Autoethnography involves the application of critical self-reflexivity to qualitative research — 
“stories of/about the self told through the lens of culture” (Adams et al., 2014, p. 1). The inclusion 
of self in autoethnographic research is political: it aims to disrupt the colonialism reproduced by 
and through more traditional research methods that have historically represented cultures without 
critical reflection on power imbalances between the researchers and the often marginalised 
communities they study (Adams et al., 2014). 

For the purposes of this paper, I applied an autoethnographic lens to a qualitative research 
assignment I completed in the Winter semester of 2019 for a graduate course in the Faculty of 
Education at York University. The assignment required us (the students in the graduate class) to 
seek further understanding of postsecondary student experiences that were distinctly different from 
our own. We were given the choice to either interview postsecondary students directly or to 
interview organizations and student centres that supported student success. I chose to interview 
staff members from organizations that supported or researched LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and 
immigrant students’ access to PSE in Canada. I found that this assignment aligned with the social 
justice aims of self-reflexivity in autoethnography, which encourage researchers to “interrogate 
the intersections between self and society” and “the personal and the political” (Adams et al., 2014, 
p. 2). As a result, two distinct research phases unfolded. In phase one, I used a semistructured 
qualitative interviewing method with each participant to gain their unsolicited insights, which were 
based on their positionality and expertise about PSE access for queer newcomer, refugee, and 
immigrant students in Canada (Creswell, 2013). In autoethnographic research, this can be referred 
to as a “topical interview” approach that works to either confirm or counter the researcher’s own 
understanding of the research area (Adams et al., 2014, p. 54). In phase two, I applied an 
autoethnographic analysis to the interview data for the purposes of determining my inner 
professional growth out of heterocisnormative CYC practice. 



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Unlike many autoethnographic researchers, I did not engage in the direct ethnographic style of 
community fieldwork before interviewing my participants (e.g., collecting notes and 
observations). However, I had been employing an autoethnographic “keeping notes” approach 
(Adams et al., 2014, p. 3) for years, both in my fieldwork as a CYCP and as a budding academic 
interested in exploring my White CYC fragility (Vachon, 2018). I had typed notes and handwritten 
journal entries to draw from for self-reflexive analysis. By adding the element of self-reflexivity 
to this work, I aimed to reveal the ignorance that can accompany one’s place of privilege and 
power in society, something that is particularly important for White straight cisgender colonial 
settlers in Canada to come to terms with. 

Recruitment 

To recruit participants in phase one, I used a convenience sampling approach (Lavrakas, 2011). 
Based on my literature review and prior community contacts, I emailed six organizations and 
centres across Canada that I knew employed workers who would have experience and knowledge 
about queer newcomer, refugee, and immigrant experiences and who I thought might be interested 
in speaking with me. In my message, I stated that I was undertaking research for a term paper on 
the inclusion of newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students who identified as LGBTQI+, and that 
I thought their organization could provide invaluable insight. I stated that my aim was to 
investigate and increase advocacy for the inclusion of these students who face myriad barriers. In 
total, two individuals from two organizations agreed to participate in this study. One agreed to a 
45-minute face-to-face interview and the other responded asynchronously via email discussion. 

My choice to recruit staff members rather than students was informed by my having learned, 
through my literature review, that LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students are often 
silent about their experiences due to fear of discrimination, abuse, and isolation (Cruz, 2008; 
Munroe et al., 2018b, 2020; Taylor & Peter, 2011). I further understood that LGBTQI+ newcomer, 
refugee, and immigrant students to Canada are an extremely vulnerable group. I felt that an 
interview process with these students would require much more relationship-building and trust 
than I would be able to offer as a graduate student completing a short research assignment. 

Ethics 

Ethics approval was acquired through the Human Participants Review Sub-Committee at York 
University, which conforms to Canadian Tri-Council Research Ethics standards. Participants in 
the study consented to having their comments and recommendations included in future 
publications and presentations that could better inform graduate students, researchers, and student 
service professionals about the diverse experiences of LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and 
immigrant students in PSE. I provided participants with an opportunity to review their 
contributions to my analysis in each phase of the study. 



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Participants 

Both participants were in positions of managerial leadership in their organizations. The first 
participant I interviewed (in the face-to-face 45-minute interview) was a Black Jamaican 
immigrant to Canada who identified as queer and female. The second participant was a White 
Canadian researcher who identified as female but did not disclose her sexual orientation. 
Throughout this article, the participants will be referred to by the pseudonyms “Addy” (from 
organization A) and “Bailey” (from organization B) to protect their anonymity. The organizations 
they worked for were different in scope of service, practice, and focus. Addy worked for an 
organization that directly supported 2SLGBTQI+ communities with an additional focus on 
supporting LGBTQI+ newcomers, refugees, and immigrants. Bailey worked at a university centre 
for refugee studies and research. 

Data Analysis 

After collecting data from each of my interviewees, I conducted more targeted reviews of the 
literature and of my own personal notes documenting my journey in political self-reflexive 
practice. I organized my findings using an autoethnographic thematicizing approach, which 
encouraged me to pause, reflect, and connect important personal and professional learning to my 
collected data (Adams et al., 2014, p. 68). I repeated this thematicizing several times over until I 
was satisfied that I had invited enough vulnerability within myself to effect lasting personal change 
(Adams et al., 2014) in moments of my practice with young people. I was drawn to this process of 
analysis as I felt it aligned with the CYC tenet in relational practice of “making moments 
meaningful”, which asks CYCPs to utilize everyday moments in their relational practice with 
young people to create opportunities for growth and positive change (Garfat, 2016, p. 2). The 
results that follow detail moments of reflexivity interwoven with knowledge gained from my 
research participants. 

Findings 

But, It’s OK to Be Queer Here! 

Throughout my CYC career, I have taken pride in my relational work with young people. Even 
on days when I felt my interventions and moments with young people had gone awry, I 
commended myself for learning from my mistakes. I believe in equal rights and I have striven to 
denounce racism, ableism, and homophobia in the spaces where I work. I often volunteered at Gay 
Pride events in my community and participated in QSA and Safe and Positive Spaces events at the 
school where I was employed. On more than one occasion, I had supported queer and questioning 
students in their coming out process with the aim of relational safety; I took care to check in with 
the “co-created space” (Garfat & Fulcher, 2016, p. 16) between myself and them with the aim of 
ensuring that they perceived me as a safe and non-judgemental person. I introduced them to activist 
voices from queer rights movements and was proud when I could assure them that, for the most 
part, it is safe to be queer here in 21st-century Canada. 



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I was therefore stunned to learn of the lack of safety in Safe and Positive Spaces within 
Canadian schools where Black queer students “are targeted” (Munroe et al., 2018b, 4:00). Despite 
my years of experience supporting LGBTQI+ students, I did not know that Black queer students, 
more than their White counterparts, avoided designated safe spaces at school. I wondered how 
Black students could be more at risk of isolation and abuse than White students. Did it have 
something to do with religion? With culture? Was it possible that Black communities are generally 
less queer-friendly than White communities? (This particular thought scared me — just thinking 
it made me feel I was racist.) Despite my limited education in history and global politics, I knew 
that some countries had extremely homophobic policies and criminalization laws, and that some 
of these were African and Asian countries from which many newcomers to Canada have 
emigrated. Yet I had not spent much time reflecting on these issues or how they might impact the 
students I work with. 

One of the first discussion points in my interview with Addy centred on these issues as she 
commented on her experience supporting queer people from Jamaica and the Caribbean who were 
at risk of abuse and isolation in Canada: 

This is a very heavily Catholic community that doesn’t recognize queerness as 
something that is acceptable, and that’s brought here as a cultural norm to Canada 
even though they are now supposed to be in a place where hate and rejection is not 
acceptable…. 

They largely live in the closet because of their Catholic communities. People are 
only “out” here in these walls [gesturing around the lobby of the organization where 
she worked]. Once they leave this space, it [queerness] is not a thing for them — 
they are not permitted or allowed. 

Addy’s comments confirmed my assumption that the apprehensions experienced by queer 
newcomer and immigrant students were rooted in religion. What I did not know was that it was 
not a matter of religion alone. Through further research, I learned that colonialism plays a large 
role in complicating the history of homophobia in countries around the world. 

Commonwealth laws, such as the 1864 Offences Against the Person Act of Jamaica6, have 
been established through centuries of colonial power concerned with bringing heteronormative 
nuclear-family norms into law as a way of regulating sexual acts for the purposes of moral 
civilization and economic benefit (Blake & Dayle, 2013; Lee, 2018). In fact, much of the global 
colonial spread of legally imposed homophobia and transphobia began in India in 1861 with the 
implementation of Section 377 of the criminal code by the British Lord Macaulay (see Human 
Rights Watch, 2008), which had its roots in King Henry VIII’s Buggery Act of 15337 (Nicol, 

 
6https://www.ilo.org/dyn/natlex/natlex4.detail?p_lang=&p_isn=73502&p_classification=01.04 
7https://www.bl.uk/collection-items/the-buggery-act-1533# 



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2014). In the context of the Caribbean, these laws were perpetuated in Christian missionary 
projects to civilize African slaves in preparation for colonialized Caribbean life (Blake & Dayle, 
2013). In a country like Jamaica, where the majority of the population are of African descent, such 
“civilizing” missions had a great impact. Historically, same-sex marriages were accepted and seen 
as contributing to economic stability in parts of Africa; lesbian partnerships in the former Kingdom 
of Dahomey provided one example of this (Lorde, 1984). Thus, it is possible that African slaves 
brought over to Jamaica in the 18th and 19th centuries to serve the aims of Western capitalist 
modernity (Blake & Dayle, 2013) were robbed of their queer-friendly heritage in the name of 
colonialism and assimilation. 

Before learning this history, I knew intuitively that queer intolerance could not simply be a 
matter of culture, religion, or race, but I lacked the essential knowledge that would tell me precisely 
why. I began to understand the deep-seated roots of colonial heterocispatriarchal oppression and 
how seriously it impacts the lives of queer newcomer and immigrant students in Canada. My 
ignorance of White heterocispatriarchal queer oppression globally was a form of internalized 
racism; this ignorance allowed me to practise from a place of heterocisnormative privilege under 
the flawed assumption that other cultures were inherently more homophobic than my own. 

Addy continued to discuss the consequences that religious belief systems can have on queer 
newcomers to Canada, particularly when they are courageous enough to express their gay pride 
alongside their Canadian peers. She explained that international students, for example, risk losing 
everything when they enjoy their new-found freedom of expression on queer-friendly campuses: 

They run out of money because their parents found out they were queer — they are 
caught up in the power of being out in Canada and their parents find out through 
social media or other people who snitch on them and they no longer get their school 
fees paid. I have heard horror stories of parents coming here to physically harm 
their children. 

Research on the experiences of queer international and immigrant students in Canada is emerging. 
Patrick (2014) found that queer international students are often relieved to be able disclose their 
queerness here in Canada after hiding their identities in their home countries. Queer international 
students who transition from high school to PSE in Canada often find that college and university 
campuses are the first places they feel comfortable expressing their identities (Munroe et al., 
2018b). However, these students still face immense risks; Canadian PSE queer student support 
centres have yet to develop adequate supports specific to the unique challenges confronting queer 
international and immigrant students (Ecker et al., 2015). 

After the interview with Addy, I tried to recall the many QSA and Safe Spaces events I had 
participated in during my school-based CYC career. I could not remember there ever being Black 
students in attendance. Cannary, a Black queer lesbian member of Munroe’s (2018b) research 
team, offered an explanation: “Often queer people who are of different nationalities feel like they 



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have to choose between their queerness and their racial identity” (Munroe et al., 2018b, 30:05). As 
an immigrant herself, Cannary explained that she could not speak freely about her identity if she 
wanted to be accepted and loved by her family. Clearly, many Black queer and newcomer students 
did not feel safe expressing their queerness here, and were in a quandary: they either suffered in 
silence or risked dangerous consequences by coming out. As I learned about these experiences, I 
reflected that, up until this point in my career, I had been practising a “more traditional liberal 
homonormative lesbian/gay studies approach” (Vachon, 2020, p. 67) that did nothing to address 
the challenges queer newcomer and immigrant students faced. I recalled how all that I had learned 
about LGBTQI+ issues came from textbooks taught by White straight cisgender teachers. I had 
been missing the deeper “queer critiques” that extend beyond pink T-shirts and rainbow-coloured 
triangles (Vachon, 2020, p. 68). A queer of colour critique has taught me that silence is a survival 
skill for many students and that my out-and-proud advocacy risked putting these students in danger 
(Munroe et al., 2020). I reflected on moments I had shared with LGBTQI+ youth, thinking I was 
supporting them with my message, “It’s OK to be queer here!” Were any of them newcomers? 
Had I put any of them at risk of harm in my efforts to care? 

It Really Is a Colonial Thing 

My deep dive into the colonial roots of queer oppression continued as I exchanged emails with 
my interviewee Bailey in February of 2019. Bailey raised concerns about regressive changes to 
sexual education in Ontario: 

So, LGBTQ students face barriers because of the retrograde move by the 
government to revert back to the 1998 curriculum, which does not acknowledge, 
teach, or promote inclusion of LGBTQ students. 

As an Ontario-based CYCP in schools, Bailey’s concerns were not new to me; however, I realized 
there was much more that I needed to learn about the historical roots informing the Conservative 
government’s 2018 decision to rescind the updated and more progressive sex education curriculum 
that had been introduced by the Liberal government several years earlier (CBC News, 2019). I 
recalled my own frustrations with this “retrograde move” and the Conservative promise of more 
consultation with the curriculum’s opponents, identified as “mainly faith groups and socially 
conservative family organizations” (Alphonso, 2018, para. 4). Less than a year prior to this repeal, 
I had supported a male-identifying Middle Eastern Muslim newcomer student at the high school I 
worked at. He was joyful, bright, and full of energy. He was also quite vocal about his non-
acceptance of gay rights, which he told me came from his family’s culture and teachings from the 
Quran. This was my first experience working with a student who was so openly anti-queer in a 
school that prided itself on affirming LGBTQI+ rights and identities. The fact that he was Muslim 
reinforced my internalized bias that Islam was a homophobic religion. My experiences with this 
student, coupled with Bailey’s concerns about the lack of LGBTQI+ inclusion in sex education 
curricula, prompted me to dig further into the history behind religious queer intolerance. It also 
helped me to unpack my own Islamophobic assumptions. 



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I remembered reading about some Muslim immigrants to Canada who had been quite vocal 
about their opposition to the updated sex education curriculum. I reviewed the media coverage and 
found an article detailing some handwritten letters in Arabic that had circulated in the Greater 
Toronto Area (Levinson King, 2015). One letter claimed, “It will teach Gay-Trans propaganda 
starting in grade 1 [age 6]. Destroy the idea of gender, natural law, heterosexual family normalcy” 
(Levinson King, 2015, para. 7). 

The importance of protecting “heterosexual family normalcy” was what my student had tried 
to explain to me earlier that year. Because I felt my relationship with this student was good, we 
had often engaged in difficult dialogues about queer rights and homophobia at school. On one 
occasion, I came to tears listening to him engage in homophobic jokes with classmates. When he 
later apologised, I understood that he was likely grappling with the conflicting messages he was 
receiving at school and from his community. Due to his effeminate manner, I had also been 
wondering whether he was questioning his own sexual identity. I had empathy for what he might 
be going through but had not challenged myself to learn more about Islamic perspectives on 
LGBTQI+ rights and freedoms. 

After my exchange with Bailey, I reviewed notes from an elective undergraduate course on 
women and gender in Islam that I had taken. I had learned that there were false stereotypes 
regarding women in Islam and wondered whether there were also falsely constructed histories of 
anti-queerness. I searched the assigned text, Women and Gender in Islam (Ahmed, 1992), for 
evidence of queerness in Islam’s history. I discovered that Islam’s reputation as a monolithic anti-
feminist and anti-queer religion was unjust and unfair in many ways and that colonialism played a 
major role in constructing this history of Islam. 

Ahmed (1992) explained that in the ancient Middle East (circa 6000 BCE and into the 2nd 
millennium BCE), many cultures worshipped female goddess figures within societies that elevated 
the status of women. Some feminist theories have suggested that over time the decline in women’s 
status, along with the eventual “decline of the Goddess” (p. 13), were the consequences of 
emerging labour market needs that commodified women’s reproductive means into the “property” 
of men for capitalist gain (p. 12). The rise of Islam in the 7th century adopted the patriarchal 
practices of monotheistic religions already in place, which assigned a male pronoun to one God; 
Islam, among other religions, effectively displaced a polythiest religion in the Middle East that 
worshipped three goddesses and a varety of family structures that were not limited to patriarchal 
family customs. Ahmed noted that “Mesopotamian, Persian, Hellenic, Christian, and eventually 
Islamic cultures each contributed practices that both controlled and diminished women”; each 
culture “borrowed the controlling and reductive practices of its neighbours” in ways that viewed 
the female body as “exclusively biological … a sexual and reproductive being” (p. 18). According 
to Ahmed’s account of the history, when Islam conquered Middle Eastern and Mediterranean 
regions, it assimilated “the scriptural and social traditions” of existing cultural norms into “the 
corpus of Islamic life” (p. 4). Ahmed provided one example of “how easily and invisibly scriptural 
assimilation could occur”: in its account of the creation of humankind, the Quran does not mention 



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whether the man or the woman came first or stipulate that Eve was born of Adam’s rib; yet, 
traditionalist translations in Islamic literature written after Muslim conquests do depict Eve as 
“created from a rib” (p. 4). 

Ahmed’s feminist perspective of this history provides evidence of how patriarchal 
interpretations of religion, including (but not limited to) Islam, became culturally entrenched to 
serve the purposes of male dominance and capitalist colonial power that had been emerging for 
centuries. Male members of Muslim societies became primary interpreters of some of the more 
vague passages in the Quran and did so through a heteronormative patriarchic lens that valued 
male-headed households and heterosexual family norms. 

For decades, queer Muslim activists have pushed back against heteronormative readings of the 
Quran. In a TEDx Talk on queer Muslim perspectives, gay Muslim refugee and lawyer El-Farouk 
Khaki (2018) explained that when the Quran’s message of peace is interpreted through patriarchy 
and power, it is often used to justify hate against Muslim LGBTQI+ people. Khaki described this 
as a form of “spiritual violence and spiritual abuse” (4:31) that he had struggled with in childhood 
until he learned to resist the message that “you can’t be gay and Muslim” (1:30). As an activist 
and human rights lawyer in Toronto since the early 1990s, Khaki has promoted an inclusive and 
accepting Islam with evidence from the Quran that depicts Allah as a queer-affirming and 
accepting God of all people regardless of “our social location, our physical location” (9:35). To 
make his argument, Khaki cited evidence of Mukhannathun (effeminate men) in Muhammad’s 
quarters (3:10) and the fundamental principle of Tawhid, “the unicity of God” (9:15). Khaki 
interpreted Tawhid in the context of chapter 50, verse 16 of the Quran to mean “we are all 
interchangeable as human beings” (9:33). Through this lens, Khaki defined social and physical 
locations as “arbitrary distinctions” (9:38). His view aligns with Indigenous perspectives on the 
importance of queering land-based education, which understand arbitrary hierarchal 
categorizations of gender, sexual orientation, race, and class as modern colonially constructed 
concepts created for economic and capital gain (Lugones, 2010; Wilson & Laing, 2018). 

Looking back, I wonder how I might have used this knowledge in my interventions with the 
Muslim student I supported. I am grateful for the motivation Bailey gave me to finally confirm 
what I thought could be true but needed to investigate further: Islamic and Muslim ways of being 
in the world can be as queer-affirming as any other culture and religion. Furthermore, violent 
heterocisnormative practices present in Middle Eastern nations are rooted in religious and cultural 
practices that existed long before the rise of Islam. Ironically, these practices shape the Western 
colonial powers that appear to be queer-friendly today. 

In our email exchange, Bailey stated that there is “plenty of related potential for discrimination, 
exclusion, and hate without SOGI [sexual orientation and gender identity] curriculum promoting 
equality, inclusion, and legitimacy.” I found myself reflecting on how the education system can 
effectively promote “equality, inclusion, and legitimacy” while also respecting young people’s 
religious and cultural belief systems. As a White CYCP who does not observe any particular faith, 



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I know it is not my place to educate Muslim students on the history of their own religion, 
particularly when I have only begun to scratch the surface of this long and complex history. It is 
important I take the lead from my Black and Brown colleagues who try to ensure that newcomer, 
refugee, and immigrant students gain access to information about their sexuality in school curricula 
(Munroe et al., 2020). I also know that an important first step in promoting queer rights and 
inclusion in education is to equip myself with the knowledge needed to become an informed ally 
to these communities (Amponsah & Stephen, 2020). Europe’s history, my history, of colonial 
supremacy has decimated human rights through its imposition of White European values and 
deprecation of anyone who presents as an outsider to traditional White heteronormative and 
patriarchic norms (Blake & Dayle, 2013; Lugones, 2010; Puar, 2013; Said, 1978). It really is a 
colonial thing, and it is my responsibility to understand this. 

Prove It! 

The following two sections of analysis relate specifically to queer newcomer and refugee 
students in Canada. Both Addy and Bailey identified SOGIE refugee issues that have unsettled my 
image of Canada as a safe haven for queer newcomers and immigrants. I begin with Bailey’s 
explanation of why SOGIE newcomer and refugee issues are such an important area of research 
in Canada: 

A man is under threat of the death penalty in Iran if he is found … having sex with 
another man; others are tortured or persecuted in other ways until they have to 
leave. Where can they go and how they are welcomed (or not) are important 
questions … and Canada often excludes SOGI asylum seekers as much as it accepts 
them. 

With my limited knowledge of refugee issues in Canada, I wondered what could be exclusionary 
about Canada’s policies protecting such vulnerable asylum seekers. Following Bailey’s 
recommendation, I reviewed seminal research in the area of Canada’s SOGIE refugee laws (see, 
e.g., LaViolette, 2009; Murray, 2011, 2014; Rehaag, 2008). I learned that queer asylum seekers in 
Canada experience a disproportionately unfair “burden of proof” compared to claimants seeking 
refuge from war, violence, and other types of oppression (LaViolette, 2009, p. 454). 

The burden of proof identified by LaViolette (2009) is the Basis Of Claim form (IRB, 2018a; 
Immigration.ca, 2013), formerly called the Personal Information Form (PIF), that requires 
claimants to narrate evidence of their need for asylum within just 15 days of their arrival in Canada 
(Bielski, 2017; Gamble et al., 2015). For SOGIE claimants from countries where queerness is not 
tolerated, or is even criminalized, the task of proving their queerness becomes impossible, since 
they have had to hide their identities to survive (Dearham, 2017; Gamble et al., 2015; LaViolette, 
2009; Mulé & Gates-Gasse, 2012; Murray, 2011, 2014; Rehaag, 2008). To complicate matters, the 
Canadian definition of what it means to be queer can differ from definitions of queerness in other 
cultures. For example, queer terminology, along with queer lifestyle choices, activities (sexual or 
otherwise), and social norms, will be different depending on which country a refugee comes from 



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(Murray, 2011; Rehaag, 2008). Thus, claimants are caught in a dilemma: whether to be honest 
about lacking the kinds of proof that would satisfy a Canadian adjudicator’s notion of queerness, 
or whether to create a credible narrative of queerness, even though the process of “becoming” 
Canada’s version of queer may not feel genuine to their own experiences (Murray, 2011, p. 131). 
Either way, they risk not being believed by the IRB and having to return to their home countries 
(LaViolette, 2009; Murray, 2011, 2014; Rehaag, 2008). 

In 2017, the IRB announced improvements to reduce the burden of proof after examining “the 
harm individuals may face due to their non-conformity with socially accepted SOGIE norms” 
(Government of Canada, 2017, para. 2). However, lack of evidence for LGBTQI+ eligibility 
continues to be a significant barrier for many claimants, particularly those from countries with the 
strictest criminalization laws (Lee, 2018). When I discussed the improvements to the SOGIE claim 
process in my interview with Addy, she explained that the changes had had little impact on the 
newcomers she supported: 

The [PIF] changes in 2017 have not changed anything — they [SOGIE refugees] 
purposely forget their experiences and this is difficult for the IRB because there is 
no proof … there is this idea of not being queer enough. It must be physical, based 
on stereotypical ideals. 

I found examples of purposely “forgetting” and “not being queer enough” in several studies. 
Murray (2011) detailed the experience of a woman from St. Lucia who forgot to include on her 
form an incident in which a man threw a rock at her while calling her a “sodomite”, which resulted 
in her getting stitches. Although this was a significant piece of evidence that could have helped 
her claim, the trauma associated with the incident caused her to block it from her memory. She 
had remembered the incident by the time of her hearing, but was prohibited from recalling it “since 
it wasn’t in her PIF” (p. 132). In another example, I learned that it is common for a gay man from 
Africa to pretend to be heterosexual by marrying a woman and having children, because that is the 
only accepted way of having a family in many African countries (Gamble et al., 2015). Finally, I 
found graphic accounts of the “physical” proof needed to satisfy the IRB. For example, it is not 
uncommon for claimants to be asked intimate details about their sexual past. In one study, an IRB 
adjudicator asked: “ ‘When was the first time you had sex?’ … ‘How did you feel?’ … ‘Tell me, 
because I wasn’t there. Tell me.’ ” (Dearham, 2017, p. 11). 

Learning of the ways in which queer asylum seekers to Canada have to prove their sexual 
identity, relive their traumas, and “become” Canada’s version of a credible queer person has helped 
me recognize the extent of my heterocisnormative privilege. It is difficult to imagine telling a 
complete stranger, within 15 days of arriving in a strange country, the intimate details of your 
personal life, sex life, and past traumas. Moreover, even if SOGIE claimants are successful in 
proving their LGBTQI+ identity, they can wait years for their permanent resident status, which 
hinders their ability to get access to services such as formal education. Addy explained: 



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A lot of people take the free entry-level English courses that are offered but end up 
doing dishes or bartending or something because they have other factors that 
intersect such as race and language skills, gender, identity … 

Indeed, newcomers to Canada scramble to find adequate means to support themselves as they wait 
for the necessary temporary resident visas to work and attend PSE in Canada (Munroe et al., 2020). 
Meanwhile, they face racism and homophobia as they attempt to prove their worthiness to stay in 
Canada (Gamble et al., 2015; Lee, 2019; Munroe et al., 2020; Murray, 2014). They are often told 
that the PSE credentials they acquired in their home countries are not transferrable to Canada, or 
that, for trans-identifying newcomers, their credentials are unacceptable because the name on their 
documents does not match their perceived sex or current name (Munroe et al., 2018b, 2020). 

Such burdens of proof, placed disproportionately on the shoulders of queer newcomers, 
exemplify Bailey’s concern that Canada excludes SOGIE asylum seekers as much as it accepts 
them. 

Are They Really Refugees? 

For several years prior to this project, I had engaged in heated debates with people who 
believed that large numbers of newcomers take advantage of liberal policies to “fake” their way 
into Canada. Sadly, I lacked the knowledge and details to justify what I felt to be true: there is no 
such thing as an illegitimate or fake refugee. After learning about the struggles SOGIE refugees 
encounter when trying to prove their queerness, I can understand why people think refugees are 
“faking it”, because they often are — just not for the reasons people think. Rigid and unjust 
immigration policies have given SOGIE refugees little choice. In our interview, Addy explained 
that queer migrants “must come from their country of origin through treacherous paths, so they 
find ways to fake their way in”. Addy explained that “faking their way in” meant that queer 
migrants are often forced to find creative ways to avoid dangerous and precarious immigration 
routes and refugee camps, particularly if they are from countries with strict and violent anti-queer 
policies. Countries like Uganda, for example, enact strict regulations that prevent LGBTQI+ 
citizens from safely emigrating or seeking refuge (Gamble et al., 2015). Thus, queer migrants are 
often forced to falsify documents and to find the financial means to obtain the proper temporary 
resident visas (TRVs) in any way they can, although these bring no guarantee of stability in the 
destination country (Lee, 2019). Indeed, Lee’s (2019) study revealed that, despite success in 
securing TRVs, many LGBTQI+ newcomers to Canada live precariously; barriers due to racism, 
xenophobia, and cisnormative policies prevent them from finding stable work and study 
opportunities, and they live in constant fear of deportation once their visas have expired. 

For Global South migrants who cannot find the means to obtain TRVs, fleeing to the closest 
refugee camp with the support of a human rights organization often becomes the only viable option 
(Gamble et al., 2015). Unfortunately, this route is neither safe nor reliable, causing many queer 
migrants to avoid this option if at all possible. The Envisioning Global LGBT Human Rights 
Canadian research team (Gamble et al., 2015) detailed the story of Ugandan refugees who fled to 



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the neighbouring Dadaab refugee camp in Kenya when the Ugandan government passed its short-
lived (BBC, 2014) Anti-Homosexuality Act in 2013. These Ugandan LGBTQI+ citizens arrived 
in Dadaab, a place meant to be a temporary first point of safe asylum, only to suffer “homophobic 
attacks” by administration officers and other camp residents (Gamble et al., 2015, p. 10). Not only 
did these refugees live in miserable and violent conditions, but they also lived without much hope 
of safe or smooth resettlement. The extent of this problem was well-documented by the United 
Nations Refugee Agency (UNHCR), which found that there were “13 million refugees spread 
across the world — with over 586,000 in Kenya as of May 2015 — and that only 100,000 of the 
global refugee population can be resettled annually” (Amuke, 2015, para. 8). 

Addy explained that, for some refugees, the only alternative to the arduous immigration paths 
described above is the international student visa — a popular TRV option for many queer 
newcomers to Canada, even those from countries deemed less dangerous and more tolerant of 
LGBTQI+ rights and freedoms (Gamble et al., 2015; Mulé & Gates-Gasse, 2012; Murray, 2014). 
Prior to my interview with Addy, I had learned that the increased desirability of TRVs for queer 
and trans migrants to Canada was due, in part, to the implementation in 2012 of the controversial 
Bill C-31, which enacted a “designated country of origin” (DCO) practice that erroneously 
classified 42 countries around the world as safe for LGBTQI+ citizens, thus preventing many 
SOGIE asylum seekers from making a refugee claim (Smith, 2012; Murray, 2014). In fact, Bill C-
31 was “profoundly unsafe” because it denied SOGIE refugees their right to protection from 
countries that did not criminalize same sex relations per se but that discriminated against 
LGBTQI+ citizens in other violent and oppressive ways (Mulé & Gates-Gasse, 2012, p. 20). 
Fortunately, in 2019, Bill C-31 was found to be in contravention of the Canadian Charter of Rights 
and Freedoms and was finally rescinded (Government of Canada, 2019, para. 2). 

At the time of my interview with Addy in April of 2019, Bill-C31 had not yet been rescinded. 
Addy explained that despite its aim of deterring false asylum claims from presumably “safe” 
DCOs, Bill C-31 did not succeed in deterring LGBTQI+ newcomers in need of asylum: 

Bill C-31 has had no impact, people are still making it here but are very creative in 
ways they get here and how.… They have done their research and that is why some 
are here as an international student and not a refugee. 

Although Addy did not specify what she meant by newcomers getting here in “creative ways”, I 
had read stories of international students falsifying their income and other documents as necessary 
in efforts to prove they had sufficient funds for studying abroad (Lee, 2019), which can amount to 
over $10,000 per year of study8. Indeed, all TRVs require proof of substantial finances (Gamble 
et al., 2015; Lee, 2019), absence of a disqualifying criminal record9 (Lee, 2019), and a clean bill 

 
8See https://www.immigration.ca/financial-requirements-for-international-students-to-study-in-canada 
9https://www.canada.ca/en/immigration-refugees-citizenship/services/immigrate-canada/inadmissibility/overcome-
criminal-convictions.html 



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of health, including the absence of HIV/AIDS (White, 2013). This means that queer refugees 
escaping countries like Uganda, where same-sex acts are criminalized, would, at minimum, face 
complications in obtaining a TRV if they had ever been convicted of engaging in such an act. 
Similarly, anyone with HIV/AIDS would need to either forge their medical records or try their 
luck at a SOGIE asylum claim, which, as I explained earlier, may force them to fabricate evidence 
to “prove” they are queer. All of these examples reveal the circumstances in which queer 
newcomers find it necessary to “fake” their way into Canada. 

The more I learned, the more ashamed I became of just how little I knew about the resiliency 
of queer newcomers who manage to come to Canada to build a new life. I now had a better 
understanding of how policies like those underlying Bill C-31 developed within the context of 
what Murray (2014) referred to as the “genuine/authentic versus fake/bogus refugee discourse” in 
the Canada refugee system, which draws on narrow presumptions “to determine who does and 
who does not qualify as a refugee” (pp. 25–26). This discourse influences the complex system of 
“forced-migration” whereby LGBTQI+ asylum seekers are structurally sorted into multiple 
precarious immigration categories, blurring the lines between newcomers and refugees (Lee, 2019, 
p. 77). Two separate newcomers may both be fleeing persecution and violence from their countries 
of origin due to their sexual orientation and identity expression, yet one could qualify as refugee 
and the other as an international student or temporary worker. 

I further reflected on how queer and trans migrants who arrive via the “treacherous paths” that 
Addy had described bore the burden of “proving” their queerness within two weeks of arriving. 
To avoid this, many queer asylum seekers overcome tremendous hurdles to become an 
international student. The question of whether they “fake” their way in, or whether they are really 
refugees, becomes a moot point — some newcomers may not fit Canada’s narrow definition of a 
SOGIE refugee, but are certainly worthy of protection. 

As a White straight cisgender CYCP aiming to become an informed ally, I am again grateful 
for the knowledge to finally verify what I felt to be true but could not adequately explain: there is 
no such thing as an illegitimate or fake refugee. It is critical that CYCPs supporting queer 
newcomers to Canada gain knowledge of immigration policies that not only raise barriers to entry 
but also create unnecessary stigma associated with the “fake refugee” discourse. I am reminded 
once again of my privileged place of heterocisnormativity and how easy it would be to remain 
ignorant and silent on these issues. More than ever, I am reminded of my CYC responsibility to 
learn all I can about the communities I support. 

Can’t We Just Work with the Children? 

Because this project began as a graduate term paper focused on the experiences of LGBTQI+ 

newcomer, refugee, and immigrant PSE students in Canada, much of what I discussed with Addy 
and Bailey pertained directly to considerations for institutions, teachers, and school-based 
practitioners. While deciding which considerations to include (too numerous for one paper), I was 
reminded of the listserv on CYC-Net (see CYC-Net, 2010) that had, at the time of this study, 



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sparked a lot of my thinking on the need to politicize my own CYC practice (see Hyder et al., 
2019). I was reminded that several participants on the listserv had shared concerns that the new 
political jargon of our field — words like “postmodern”, “mutual liberation”, and “intricacies of 
embodiment” — was perhaps unnecessary and too “hard to understand” (CYC-Net, 2010, para. 
2). One respondent agreed that he had “no idea what those words mean” and concluded, “I guess 
we’ll just work with the children” (para. 8). In 2010, when the listserv was posted, I would have 
agreed with this respondent. Now, with the knowledge I had gleaned from Addy, Bailey, and the 
many critical CYC scholars calling for more politicized, historicized, and critically self-reflexive 
CYC practices (Amponsah & Stephen, 2020; Igbu & Baccus, 2018; Loiselle et al., 2012; 
Mackenzie, 2020; Vachon, 2020), I understand that a historicized and politicized praxis is 
necessary if we hope to make moments meaningful for young people in truly ethical ways. If that 
work includes jargon, so be it. While I agree that academic jargon can, at times, be complicated 
and pose barriers to the accessibility of necessary discourse, I believe it is our responsibility to 
learn the jargon and engage with it when we can. I can no longer justify simply “working with the 
children” when I know that jargon can help improve our care of marginalised young people. 

I will first attempt to illustrate my point, without the use of jargon, by noting Addy’s 
recommendations to help postsecondary institutions create safe spaces on their campuses: 

Institutions that do have GSAs [gay–straight alliances] must be reminded that some 
of these students will not come out. They are working and going to school with 
their country people who might “out” them to their families, so they are not going 
to walk into a rainbow-coloured room and say “Hey, I am from Beirut and I’m a 
queer guy” … Provide broad supports so that I can pass by a table on any day and 
grab a leaflet that isn’t rainbow-coloured — that can tell me what I can do as a 
queer person to get help without having to come to one of your meetings or stand 
in the middle of campus … because that is going to label me. 

Addy’s suggestion for broader, more inclusive supports echoed suggestions from school-based 
youth workers, like Tanitia Munroe, who have identified that entering a so-called “safe space” can 
be dangerous for many students. Munroe recommended that, “Everywhere should be a safe space 
… not just a small room tucked in a corner” (Munroe et al., 2018b, 4:27). I fear that without a 
historicized knowledge of the impacts of colonial queer oppression, CYCPs will benevolently 
practice the same out-and-proud rainbow-coloured versions of queer rights that they are 
accustomed to (Vachon, 2020). While it is true that out-and-proud policies have served an 
important function in establishing queer rights in Canada, I feel these practices are perhaps now 
best viewed as apolitical neoliberal versions of queer rights that place queer newcomer, refugee, 
and immigrant students at risk of harm in this modern society that has been organized through 
colonialized heterocisnormative aims (Lee, 2018; Lugones, 2010). It is important for CYCPs to 
understand the jargon of historicized knowledge: terms like “heterocisnormative violence” caused 
by “the coloniality of power” (Lee, 2018, p. 61) can help us to mitigate the perpetration of further 
harm in the physical spaces where we work. 



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It is further critical for CYCPs and educators to reflect politically, and with intention, on our 
professional places of privilege. This became clearer to me after Addy expressed her frustration 
with some PSE institutions that have done outreach with the queer community: 

They found the queerest person they could find, and I also find that offensive. Just 
send anyone. They [queer students] need to know that no matter who you speak to, 
you are going to be safe.… The admissions staff do not have to be queer for them 
to help you. 

Addy’s advice contrasts with the call to hire more queer CYCPs (particularly queer Black CYCPs) 
who can mitigate the risk of isolation in Canadian schools (Munroe et al., 2018b). At the same 
time, Addy’s comment has helped me to understand that White CYCPs cannot get a “pass or a get 
out of jail free card” when it comes to issues of White colonial supremacy (Skott-Myhre, 2017, p. 
12). We certainly cannot expect to get a pass because the jargon is just “too hard to understand”. 

I conclude this section with some final recommendations from Bailey relating to queer-
inclusive sex education curricula in schools: 

All teachers must be required to teach the curriculum or ask for a different class to 
teach; this cannot be optional content, depending on the faith or views of the 
teacher.… Other SOGI kids and community leaders/resources should be part of 
school learning. 

This final recommendation reminded me how important it is for educators to set aside biases, 
assumptions, and prejudices in order to genuinely uphold the rights of queer-identifying students. 
It also reminded me how important it is to take the lead from Black and queer community members, 
to centre their needs, and to listen “across difference” so that we do not create atmospheres of 
insincere, uninformed, or performative Eurocentric allyship (Amponsah & Stephen, 2020, p. 10). 
This work can only be done when we take time to learn the social-justice-oriented and politicized 
jargon such as “LGBTQI+”, “queer” (adjective) and “to queer” (verb), “cisgender”, “SOGIE”, 
“neoliberal”, and so on. We cannot shy away from this important politicized work. 

Discussion 

Limitations 

It is important to acknowledge the limitations of this study. My findings do not reflect the lived 
experiences of LGBTQI+ newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students directly. Rather, they reflect 
my own views, experiences, and opinions as well as those garnered in conversation with two 
cisgender female participants, only one of whom is Black and queer. Nonetheless, I feel that 
consideration of the factors that led me to further study and reflect on these issues from the 
positionality of my participants’ expertise would be of value to CYCPs and CYC educators who 
are exploring ways to grow out of heterocisnormative practices. 



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Implications for CYC Practice in Education 

Knowledge of colonially influenced religious interpretations of queerness is integral to the 
CYC responsibility of supporting LGBTQI+ young people from all nations, backgrounds, and 
religions. As homonationalist discourses reproduce false narratives of “backward” and 
“uncivilized” nations in Africa, Asia, and the Global South (Lee, 2018, p. 63), false constructions 
of cisgender Muslim male sexuality (Khaki, 2018; Puar, 2013) have also justified what Edward 
Said (1978) described generally as feelings of “European superiority over Oriental backwardness” 
(p. 15). Of course, this superiority complex applies not only to socially constructed images of Asia, 
but also to other continents around the world, such as the construction of a monolithic 
“homophobic Africa” (Lee, 2018, p. 63). Knowledge and understanding of this history will not 
only work to reduce racism and xenophobia in our communities, it will provide avenues for CYCPs 
to work toward an “informed allyship” (Amponsah & Stephen, 2020, p. 10) that is genuine in its 
striving toward the decolonization of our care practices. 

Conclusion 

I have attempted to articulate the ways in which it is important to practise CYC within the 
context of the politicized and historicized influences that shape the experiences of LGBTQI+ 
newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students to Canada. I believe that this can be done through a 
queering of CYC that involves an intentional political praxis of decolonization. Similar to other 
White CYC settlers, I have come to realize that we “cannot just theorize about liberation and 
decolonization but must embody it, starting with ourselves” (Mackenzie, 2020, p. 82). In many 
ways, I see myself embodying in my work the 25 decolonized, historicized, and politicized CYC 
characteristics listed by Garfat and Fulcher (2016): “meeting them where they are at”, “reflecting”, 
“rituals of encounter”, and so on. Such “intricacies of embodiment” are integral to our work (CYC-
Net, 2010, para. 2). 

Finally, if we are to trust that there once was a wholeness to humanity before the hierarchal 
constructions of gender in the idealized vision of the White Westernized man (Lugones, 2010), 
and before the capitalist agendas of power and domination (Wilson & Laing, 2018), then the 
decolonial mission is a valuable one. For CYCPs, one way this can be done is through centring the 
resilience of queer newcomer, refugee, and immigrant students and through listening “for what is 
not being said” (Cruz, 2008, p. 67). If we learn to listen to their silence and do our own politicized 
self-reflexive work, we will disrupt invisible heteronormative structures in CYC practice. We can 
learn to queer our practice for the betterment of all. 

  



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Recommended Resources 

Vancouver-based Rainbow Refugee is a grassroots program to help settle queer and trans 
refugees: https://www.rainbowrefugee.com/. Its efforts are documented in the National Film 
Board’s Someone Like Me, a beautiful portrayal of the challenges faced by refugees and the 
volunteers who try to support them: https://www.nfb.ca/film/someone-like-me/. 

Founded in Canada in 2006 to address violence against LGBTQI+ people worldwide, Rainbow 
Railroad received charitable status in Canada in 2013, and in the United States in 2015. For 
information on how to support refugees in your area, visit https://www.rainbowrailroad.org/. 

For resources and ways to support queer and trans newcomers, Ontario CYCPs can visit 
Toronto-based The 519: https://www.the519.org/, and province-wide Rainbow Health Ontario: 
https://www.rainbowhealthontario.ca/. 

For insightful articles on queer and trans refugee issues, and more, visit Refuge: Canada’s 
Journal on Refugees: https://refuge.journals.yorku.ca/index.php/refuge/about. 

  



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