by Ray Rico
For over two decades, Mx. Renae Taylor has been a fierce voice for Black trans liberation and HIV advocacy. From their beginnings in small-town Mississippi to national stages, Taylor’s story is one of survival, truth-telling, and radical love. In this interview with Focus, they share the struggles, triumphs, and dreams that continue to fuel their activism.
Q: Can you share a bit about your journey and how you became involved in advocacy and activism?
My journey into advocacy wasn’t something I chose—it was something I lived into. I grew up in a small town in Northeast Mississippi, where being Black, queer, gender nonconforming, and poor wasn’t just difficult, it was dangerous. Folks called me slurs before they learned my name. I had to figure out who I was without language, safety, or support.
I didn’t have role models who looked like me, so I became the person I needed. For over 20 years now, I’ve done trans advocacy and HIV prevention work across the South—where resources are scarce, stigma runs deep, and yet the spirit of our people remains unbreakable.
My activism is rooted in survival and in love—deep, revolutionary love for Black trans and queer folks who deserve joy, care, and dignity. I don’t do this for recognition. I do it because we deserve better.
Q: What inspired you to use your personal story to uplift others?
For so long, no one told my story. Growing up, survival often meant silence. I didn’t see myself in the media, in classrooms, or in spaces that claimed to be “inclusive.” I knew what it felt like to be erased.
So I started speaking. First quietly, through writing and one-on-one conversations. Then louder—on stages, in conference rooms, in organizing spaces. I realized that when we tell the truth about our lives, we create a path for others to do the same.
Our stories are bridges. They’re medicine. They’re proof that we’ve been here all along. For me, it’s not just about telling my story—it’s about creating a world where Black, trans, disabled, and marginalized folks see themselves reflected with care and complexity.
Q: How has living with HIV shaped your perspective on resilience and community?
Living with HIV shifted everything. Suddenly, I wasn’t just Black, trans, and disabled—I was also carrying a virus that carries heavy stigma. I’ve seen people weaponize it, but I’ve also seen radical love and healing.
HIV taught me that resilience isn’t just about being strong. It’s about knowing when to rest, when to reach out, and when to demand more. It taught me to build family from scratch, to fight for access to care, and to see people as whole human beings.
I’m not just surviving. I’m thriving, organizing, and building a world where no one has to carry this alone.
Q: What challenges have you faced in your advocacy work?
Whew—there are many. I’ve had to navigate racism in queer and trans spaces, and transphobia in Black spaces. Too often I’m told I’m “too much” or “not enough.” Being a Black, Southern, nonbinary trans person living with HIV and disability means constantly fighting to be heard, even in so-called progressive spaces.
On top of that, the Deep South is underfunded and over-policed. We’re doing liberation work with half the resources, but carrying the full weight of oppression.
How do I push through? By remembering why I started. By building community that pours into me. By refusing to compromise my truth. My existence is resistance, and that keeps me moving forward.
Q: What progress have you seen in the HIV conversation, and what still needs to change?
We’ve moved from silence and shame to more open conversations about treatment and prevention. We have tools like PrEP, PEP, and U=U that save lives. People living with HIV are talking about thriving, not just surviving.
But progress is uneven. Black and Brown trans folks, poor folks, and Southerners are still left behind. Too often the people making decisions about our lives don’t look like us or understand us.
We need more Black trans leadership, healthcare that sees our whole selves, and an end to stigma in every space—clinics, churches, families, even progressive circles. Progress without equity isn’t justice.
Q: What message would you share with those newly diagnosed with HIV?
Take a deep breath. You are going to be okay. HIV is not the end of your story—it’s a part of it, but it doesn’t write the whole book.
You are still worthy of love, intimacy, joy, and dreams. You are not broken. You are not dirty. You are not alone. There is a community of us who have walked this road and are here to walk it with you.
Living with HIV doesn’t mean giving up. It means learning to live differently—with purpose and care. You still belong. You are still powerful.
Q: How do you practice self-care while being a source of strength for others?
Self-care is survival. It’s not a luxury. For me, it means saying no without guilt, logging off social media, lighting a candle, and being present in my body. Sometimes it means planting seeds or dreaming about land and tomatoes. Sometimes it’s calling in my people who remind me I’m not alone.
Strength isn’t about how much I carry. It’s about how I heal, rest, laugh, and love. Being strong doesn’t mean being superhuman—it means being real.
Q: What legacy do you hope to leave?
I want my legacy to be rooted in liberation, joy, and truth. I want Black, trans, Southern, disabled folks to know we were never too much or not enough.
I hope people say: “Mx. Renae Taylor didn’t just fight for justice—they fought for belonging.” I want my story to give others courage, to spark organizing, to remind the next generation that they are never alone.
I want my legacy to grow like heirloom tomatoes—tended with love, rooted in community, and feeding generations to come.
Q: What role does community support play in the lives of people living with HIV?
Community support is everything. It’s the difference between surviving and living. It’s meals, presence, advocacy, and love. It interrupts the silence stigma creates.
For allies: listen. Learn. Show up beyond World AIDS Day. Fight for our rights when funding is cut and laws are weaponized against us. Allyship means building a world where dignity doesn’t require being “strong.”
Q: What advice would you give the next generation of activists?
Don’t lose yourself trying to save a world that wasn’t built for you. Build your own. Protect your peace. Rest and joy are not distractions—they’re sacred.
Know your why, but let it evolve. Surround yourself with people who pour into you. And don’t be afraid to dream big—dream sanctuary, not just survival.
I want the next generation to know: we’re rooting for you, fighting beside you, and leaving the porch light on.
Read Renae’s book and support them with their passion for writing and sharing stories.
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