Pansy Collective
Seventy-two hours after Hurricane Helene hit North Carolina on September 29, I found myself in Winston-Salem with my boyfriend. My Asheville home had been damaged by a fallen tree, forcing me to flee. The city I left had no power, water, or cell service — only flooding, devastation, and loss of life. I was able to leave my neighborhood only because neighbors with chainsaws and trucks cleared a path just hours after the storm. A few days later, at an Indian restaurant called Dilbar, I asked if their card system offered cash back so that I could get gas. It didn’t, but the server kindly handed me a $20 bill.
Half-asleep, I glanced at my boyfriend’s phone, which displayed a meme: a screenshot of a text that read, “You know our systems are broke when 5 gay DJs can bring 10k of supplies back before the national guard does.”
As the image circulated widely, I soon discovered that the five DJs — only two of whom are actually DJs — are part of the queer mutual aid organization Pansy Collective. Within 48 hours of the storm, they had partnered with the Mutual Aid Disaster Relief network, which was formed after Hurricane Sandy. Alongside The Pinhook in Durham, NC, they gathered physical donations and purchased additional supplies with the funds they raised. Long before FEMA had any presence in Western North Carolina, Pansy Collective distributed six truckloads, two trailers, and a box truck filled with non-perishable food, water, cleaning supplies, diapers, gas and gas cans, toiletries, batteries, and hygiene products to various hubs, including remote mountain locations where residents were unable to leave.
Pansy Collective is an all-trans artist collective that was founded in 2016 as a response to the rising fascism in the United States following Donald Trump’s election, with the mission to support those most affected by oppressive policies and hateful ideologies. Initially, the group organized punk shows, workshops, and teach-ins on subjects like harm reduction and understanding RICO and the law while also providing mutual aid funding for community members in emergencies, culminating in an annual benefit music festival called Pansy Fest. The festival features a lineup of entirely LGBTQ+ artists and educators, with 100% of its proceeds going toward grassroots community organizations in Western NC.
Ri, a Pansy Collective organizer, says that the collective’s remarkable ability to respond so quickly to devastation caused by Helene came from experience gained during the COVID-19 pandemic. “The framework of community care became a central concern across the country when COVID hit, and COVID kind of radicalized people too, Ri told Them. “The networks of mutual aid have grown and continue to have a strong presence in Asheville because Covid just happened.”
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Moving forward, the collective wants to continue being a lifeline for as many types of people affected by the storm as possible. With funds from the influx of support that came after Helene, the group will keep redistributing aid as they simultaneously launch a bailout initiative for people arrested during the crisis of the storm, as well as a service worker and sex worker microgrant program for those left out of work.
Ironically, Western North Carolina has gained a reputation as a “climate haven” for its cooler temperatures and protection from extreme weather events like hurricanes, drawing wealthy land buyers from climate-impacted states like California. Despite the devastation from Hurricanes Frances, Ivan, and Jeanne in 2004, Asheville has made little progress in strengthening its infrastructure against future flooding. Over the past two decades, rising tourism and outside wealth have reshaped the city, driving up housing costs as worker wages remain low. Meanwhile, the city has dedicated a large chunk of its resources to criminalizing houseless people, while many residents are struggling to get their needs met. In response, community members — including houseless individuals and current or former drug users — have embraced mutual aid, building survival-focused practices rooted in harm reduction and redistributing funds.
After Hurricane Helene, this community network proved its strength and importance, with local businesses stepping up, too. Queer haven Rosetta’s Kitchen, for instance, became a free soup kitchen and distribution spot, while Neng Jr’s, led by transmasculine chef Silver Iocovozzi, provided hundreds of free hot meals. Firestorm Books, a cooperatively-run bookstore and trusted community space since 2008, also stepped up during the crisis, using its physical and online platforms to share reliable information and support others’ creative efforts. Co-op members also transformed the space into a temporary distribution center stocked with food, hygiene products, and emergency supplies. With power and cell coverage down after the storm, people shared information through handwritten notes posted on the bookstore’s windows, which started to resemble a patchwork quilt of central information.
Even before Helene, Firestorm has always been more than just a bookstore — it’s a hub for political education and radical community events, founded and operated primarily by queer and trans people. But Libertie Valance, one of the original members of Firestorm’s co-op, makes it really clear that they are not the revolution — they are infrastructure. “As a result, our collective tries to support folks who are doing impactful work,” they told me, “and not do too much of our own grandstanding or self-promotion. We also want to be a project that demonstrates a consistent, radical political analysis without being inaccessible to folks who may be showing up with different ideas or experiences. For me, it’s a huge success to reach people who aren’t (yet!) queer anarchists ready to see the whole system burned down.”
In the context of disaster, Valance and their collective were ready to welcome anyone who needed aid, noting that they even had an unexpectedly positive encounter with an unnamed right-wing advocate who’d previously tried to shut down their co-op. People from across Western NC gathered there, irrespective of political views, to collect supplies and redistribute them throughout the mountain communities surrounding Asheville.
These frameworks of solidarity are crucial in times of disaster, especially in the often-overlooked Southeast where queer and trans communities build housing networks, food distribution systems, and mutual aid efforts to support one another amid ongoing disenfranchisement. Valance also highlighted that Appalachians, regardless of identity, have long relied on these practices for survival. “It’s important to remember that mutual aid has always been practiced in our region,” they explained. “The Cherokee, whose land our co-op exists on, practiced gadugi (ᎦᏚᎩ) — the tradition of sharing tasks and working together to empower the community — long before settlers arrived in what we now call Western North Carolina. When I moved to Asheville from a more rural part of Appalachia in 2005, I encountered deep practices of mutual aid among Latine folks who organized giving circles, community defense, cooperative housing, and more.”
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Many queer Southerners feel the pain of being judged by outsiders, often erased and seen through a false lens that claims all Southerners are bigots or MAGA supporters. During crises, like the recent devastation in Appalachia, the political division and scapegoating often intensifies around the country on social media, overshadowing the real human suffering involved. However, in the aftermath of Helene, Ri experienced a shared humanity. He recounts how two tattooed trans folks set out to deliver water and insulin to someone stranded on a mountain in Clyde. When they needed help, a group of local “good ol’ boys” on ATVs offered them a ride without hesitation. These moments remind us that Southerners often unite, understanding what it means to be marginalized, and come together in times of need, regardless of politics.
Although government aid has begun trickling in, most relief efforts in Asheville remain powered by neighbors, activists, and small businesses. County officials have directed those in need to turn to the nonprofit Beloved Asheville rather than relying on assistance from the county. With the obvious traditional capitalist systems faltering, and a chaotic government response, mutual aid has stepped in to bridge the stark class divide in Western North Carolina.
Trust is the cornerstone of running a mutual aid collective. It requires faith that people know what’s best for themselves and that the community can trust the collective to be transparent about resources. Living by the principle “we take care of us” may mean that, on rare occasions, someone might misuse the aid — but ultimately, a need is still being met. As more people participate in mutual aid, these values of solidarity and care will become ingrained in daily life. Asheville and Western North Carolina exemplify a community built on reciprocity, not a retreat for the wealthy escaping climate disasters. Those engaged in this vital work deserve the opportunity to stay and live comfortably as they actively create a future defined by care, not crisis or political lines, in Appalachia. And while not all mutual aid efforts are queer-focused in the area, queer people are at the forefront of many of them — and they’re here to stay, come hell or high water.
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Originally Appeared on them.