You move through the world with boldness, only to be met with ignorance and resistance.

At times, it feels like you have two choices.

Play it safe, and keep your head down or you can venture out, and carefully search for places that feel safe, and feel like where you belong. 

But those safe spaces don’t just pop up, they are bravely created by brilliantly bold people, who risk it all for the sake of joyfully living out loud. 

Jahmila Martin, a first-generation Caribbean-Canadian and a proud lesbian, gravitates toward events where care, and safety aren’t just values, they’re the foundation. “In my early twenties, I mostly went to straight events. The all-ages jams and the clubs we had back then,” she says. “But as I got older, I wanted to be in spaces that centered my community. That’s where I felt the safest.”

She fondly mentions Toronto staples like Yes Yes Yall, but it was Gyal Segment, a party that celebrates ‘BIPOC queer womxn’ that really made her feel like chosen family on the dancefloor. “In that space, I’m able to sing my heart out and dance my heart out, without the fear of being groped or things like that. Everyone respects personal boundaries, even while dancing.”

“I find joy in spaces and places that I feel at home in. Anywhere that there is love out loud, consideration, and places that I feel safe and secure in. That’s what joy looks like for me,” says Darynel Beckford, a regular at a few of Toronto’s underground queer Black events.

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For many like Darynel and Jahmila, these spaces are more than parties — they’re lifelines in a city that too often feels cold and fragmented. It’s not just about the right music or the perfect aesthetic. It’s about safety, affirmation, and community.

According to a recent study, 85% of Black queer Canadians report experiencing racism in 2SLGBTQ+ spaces, sometimes in the very spaces Black queer Canadians historically led and fought for.

For Black queer folk, it can feel like one layer of disappointment after another. 

You feel the hurt of anti-Black racism in white queer spaces and then you face the pain of queerphobia within parts of your own racial or cultural communities.

Many of the rights that 2SLGBTQ+ people thought were set in stone are being rolled back. Corporate DEI commitments are disappearing, and sponsors are pulling support from Toronto Pride. 

“It's disheartening”, says Lyss West, cofounder of Gyal Segment. “At times, you want to give up. At times, you want to throw in the towel. At times, they will say, well, what's the point in trying when there's no change? Or, what's the point in doing it when they don't even see us anyways? But they do, right? We do. We do see the impact. We do see the difference. We do see the change. We also see how important this space is."

Black queer Torontonians like West are committed to building something louder, bolder, and more enduring: spaces rooted in kinship, intention, and liberation — one gathering, one chosen family, or dance floor at a time.

Along with her co-founder Leah Lue-Tenn, the pair have created more than a party, they’ve built a sanctuary. Gyal Segment paints a striking visual: Caribbean flags adorned on batty-riders sway in motion, as vibrant genres heard throughout the Caribbean linger like your grandmother’s Sunday cooking. The party is a bold, affirming space where Black and brown women can show up unapologetically, and skin out without shame. It’s a place where BIPOC women and their allies are seen, celebrated, and empowered to be their full selves, upheld by a strict zero-tolerance policy for homophobia, racism, violence, or any form of harm. 

Lue-Tenn, originally from Kingston, Jamaica and a proud Torontonian since 2013, conceived Gyal Segment in 2020. But with the world on pause due to COVID, she had to hold off on live events until 2022 to bring the vision to life. “I didn't really know how or where or when I would be able to create a space like that. I was still closeted at the time but I was helping other people put on events. Up until that point in my life, I had only ever put on straight parties in Jamaica and in Toronto itself,” says Lue-Tenn. 

Everything changed when Lue-Tenn and West crossed paths, forming not just a partnership, but a powerful force for representation and joy. Their first event was a success, drawing big crowds in just 10 days. “We hit the streets and got over three hundred people to come to our event. We did guerrilla marketing and put ourselves out there,” says Lue-Tenn. “This was the first time in my life that I had ever really put myself out there in the queer space in that capacity and honestly, the whole experience inspired me to come out to my family.”

Now, as Gyal Segment approaches its four-year anniversary on June 27, the founders reflect on the magic they’ve cultivated. Every gathering is a reminder of how far they’ve come and how powerful community can be. "What brings me the most joy is that there's always this moment where Lyss and I kind of just look at each other, and then we look at the crowd, and it's like you never really get over how people show up and how much fun they're having.” Lue-Tenn says. “Looking out at the crowd and just seeing the space that we created for all of these women to just have the time of their life. It literally doesn't matter if there are fifty people there, twenty people there, two hundred people there. I just feel so fulfilled looking around and just seeing people genuinely enjoying themselves.”

Carving out belonging in the Greater Toronto Area

Darynel Beckford, a 28-year-old queer immigrant from Jamaica who moved to Toronto during the pandemic, reflects on the culture shock of arriving in a new city and the challenge of finding queer-specific spaces that truly felt like home. This was especially difficult as they were just beginning to understand their own queerness.

“I was what you’d call a baby queer,” he explains. “A lot of the spaces I first encountered weren’t fully queer, or queer enough. They were queer-adjacent. You’d catch glimpses of representation here and there, but nothing that really made me feel at home.”

Darynel Beckford Photo by Devenae Bryce

Feeling the need for spaces that didn’t just nod to queerness but celebrated it boldly and unapologetically, Beckford set out to create something of his own, Pear’d Experiences which allowed his curating spirit to truly shine, while spotlighting Black artists within the city. “I wanted to build spaces that spoke more directly to the Caribbean experience, specifically the Caribbean queer experience, and to make room for the diaspora and for other immigrants like myself to feel seen and supported.”

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Like Beckford, Elisabeth Clarke, a multidisciplinary artist from Toronto, sought to carve out a space that speaks to her identity. Enter Stud Club: Photo Day, an event Clarke hosted in the Spring of this year. Designed as a celebration of identity and visibility, the event was created specifically for Black studs and masc-presenting women to be seen, celebrated, and captured in their most authentic form.

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“Having spaces where people can have deep conversations, and network and actually talk with one another — I think that's very important,” she says. “The more you connect with people who share that visibility with you, and share that same type of representation, the more you're able to build within these types of groups. That's another extension of creating liberation within our communities. And that's what I think parties and these fulfilling cultural moments [like Stud Club] within the 2SLGBTQ+ community do.”

Curating spaces and events that uplift and center the Black 2SLGBTQ+ community doesn’t come without its challenges. Noting some rough patches along the way, Lue-Tenn and West of Gyal Segment say they’ve encountered many roadblocks. “We have been through hell just to get the spaces that we're taking up now,” says Lue-Tenn, with West in agreement. “Four years ago, we would have never imagined being in these spaces. We've been able to take queer DJs and put them in spaces that they never thought they'd ever be able to play in. They're so used to playing in these underground spots and these hole-in-the-wall spots, but we're taking up spaces all over the city now. Like no other queer parties have happened there.”

With community at the centre, the duo express concern for mounting prices in the nightlife atmosphere and how it may affect their attendees. “We're at a point now where sometimes they [club organizers] reach out to us to come and hold our event, and we have to let them know: listen… just know that we're providing space for a marginalized group. They don't have the money, okay? They cannot afford eighteen-dollar drinks,” Lue-Tenn says. “We can't afford to come out of pocket for thousands of dollars just to be able to have our event in your space. We just want more venues to kind of understand and consider it as community work at the end of the day.”

Joy, resistance and affirmation. These spaces are built with intention and care, and stand as vital sanctuaries against systemic neglect and hostility. 

Groups like Gyal Segment, Stud Club, and Pear’d Experiences are offering platforms that centre Black 2SLGBTQ+ people without compromise. Alongside them, pillars such as the Toronto Kiki Ballroom Alliance and Blocko TO are consistently name dropped in conversations revolving around chosen family and safer spaces, which speaks to their longevity and cultural significance. 

In the face of adversity, Toronto’s Black queer community has never waited for permission to exist — it gathers, celebrates, and supports on its own terms. These events and collectives serve not only as expressions of pride but also as declarations of survival, visibility, and deep-rooted care.