My Name is Briona Jenkins and You Will Never Forget My Name.

Briona (Bri) Jenkins, the new Partnership Manager at Austin startup Civitech, has been dubbed the love child of Oprah, Beyoncé and Michelle Obama. And one need not look far to understand why. In preparing for our interview, I merely had to google the first four letters of her name before the internet took over and sent me directly to her webpage www.brionajenkins.com. And on her page, you will discover that not all superheroes wear capes. Instead you will find a 29-year-old, queer, spiritual, black woman who is unapologetically and successfully using her voice to speak on behalf of and to make space for the LGBTQiA+ community, people of color, and women. She has lived in Texas a mere three years and yet in 2019 she was nominated in January as one of Austin's Top 40 Under 40, she received the Rising Star Award from the Austin LGBT Chamber of Commerce in December and, on the morning we spoke, she had just received an invitation to speak at the Austin 2020 Women's March. AND, she recently launched her podcast, "Tea with Bri" on Apple and Spotify.

When I was first asked to write this piece for PFLAG, I wondered if I would be able to discover anything about Bri that was not already beautifully laid out on her webpage and I was nervous to meet this woman who clearly is not afraid to have hard conversations and tear down walls. I decided that the best way to get to know her, and to share her story, was to throw out the scripted questions and just have a conversation. I was told in advance that if she made me laugh and cry, then I have done my job. Well, I laughed, and I cried.

Bri has never been a stranger to service. Her godfather is a pastor in her hometown in Connecticut and her godmother has always been dedicated to helping the homeless. Bri recalled seeing her godmother giving money to the homeless and she remembered her words, "They asked for money, it is not my job to judge what they do with it. My job is to help them get where they need to go." Bri says she idolized her godmother for that. And, at the age of 15, when Bri lost her mom to cancer, she learned firsthand what it meant to receive support from one's community as her family and friends swooped in to help Bri and her birth father deal with the loss. But it wasn't until she was in college, taking a mandatory class in sociology, that she began building the fire of advocacy and activism that had been kindling inside her. What started out as the pursuit of a business degree and a desire to open her own restaurant quickly turned into a dedication and a degree in social work.

In college, Bri turned her semester long internship into a year-long assignment working with children from birth to age three and children in inner city pre-schools where she would screen for learning disabilities and behavioral issues. When she graduated in 2012, she entered the non-profit world by working for an organization that served adults with children with developmental disabilities. From there, she worked for a branch of the YMCA in Bridgeport, CT where she was hired to be a case manager for people who were experiencing homelessness. Her job was to help them find benefits and part time jobs with the goal of getting them housed. Bri took only three months to house all of her clients.

In September 2015, Bri came to Dallas to attend the wedding of a college friend. As luck would have it, one of her best childhood friends had moved to Texas, Austin specifically, with his boyfriend and he invited her to visit. Bri was skeptical, "It's hot, it's Texas, there's nothing for me there," She responded. Her friend urged her to come and to give the city a chance for four days. That was all it took. Bri visited Austin, fell in love with the city and decided to move without so much as a job or a plan. She ultimately landed a job with Foundation Communities, a group that provides affordable housing in Austin, a week before she moved here in May 2016. A year later she moved onto working for the United Way doing development work. After six months she was let go unexpectedly. "… I am a big believer that the universe provides," she recalls. And provide it did. She was let go on a Monday but by Friday that same week she applied for an opening at Out Youth, an organization she had her eye on, and in a week, she had gone through two interviews and was offered a job. "It was the universe telling me that they wanted me somewhere else," Bri says.

When Bri made the leap in mid-2016, a tumultuous election year, to start a new life in a new city, she found herself questioning her identity and struggling with her faith. It would not be long before tragedy forced her to look even deeply inward and finally start living her authentic self.

Bri's connection to Out Youth wasn't merely because it is a community non-profit organization. It was personal for her as a queer woman. Unlike much of today's youth, who seem comfortable with their identity at ever earlier ages, Bri did not come out until she was 26. It was a tug of war between her faith and her feelings that kept her from coming out. Tragedy would ultimately become the catalyst that gave her the courage to openly live her authentic life.

Bri's faith is incredibly important to her, and it has been a central part of her entire life.Both her godfather, whom Bri considers her dad, and her uncle are pastors. But her relationship with faith is not an easy one and it is one she says she is still trying to figure out.

Bri describes her dad as loving and accepting. He has encouraged her to question faith, and they have had many conversations about how the Bible is interpreted. "He has told me my whole life that God loves it when you have questions because that is when He can show you who He is. That is when He can show you the other people who are out there." One of her dad's favorite sayings is "You have to see yourself beyond where you find yourself," and that is how she has lived her whole life. However, her uncle has preached whole sermons dedicated to saying that being gay is bad. Bri says that her uncle loves her, but there is always a sense of "I love you, but…" So, when she moved to Austin and sought a church to belong to, and as the 2016 election loomed, she wondered how long it would be before she would face "I love you, but…" if people got to know the real her.

Bri says that when she was growing up, religion was about relationship and it did not matter if that relationship was with a higher power, with a neighbor, with people whose faith was different. But she feels disheartened by it now. She says she sees people using the terms "Christian" and "Christianity" as weapons to divide communities. "There are people who call themselves Christians who are very anti-people of color, very anti-LGBTQiA+, very anti-women's rights. And that is hard." Bri says she has felt shame about being Christian, but not about being queer. "It's like I have denied my religion before it could deny me, and it's been a lot working through that." She says.

Bri continues to work through the tug of war between who she is and her faith, but she finds comfort in talking with her dad and friends in the LGBTQiA+ community who are struggling with the same issues. "I have felt slight tinges of not being accepted but I am a survivor who keeps moving forward and doesn't think about the bad things in life." Bri says that she thinks it is important to hone-in on your relationship with whomever you believe in. "I have found religion and spirituality in many ways."

On June 12, 2016, just two weeks after she moved to Austin, 49 people were killed and 53 were injured in a shooting at the Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida. Bri's best friend picked her up so they could sit vigil at one of Austin's gay bars. Bri, a woman who has never shied away from crying when the emotion hits her, found herself unable to shed a tear. She remembers wondering why she couldn't cry that day. She realized that was she wasn't only thinking about those queer family members that were lost, but also about the fact that it could have happened here, to the queer family in Austin. Bri says that she decided that she did not want to die for her family to find out she was queer. "I didn't want them to find out that way. I owed it to the people we lost that night to live my most authentic life."

Bri surprised her folks with an unexpected call which made them wonder what was wrong. In her words, she chickened out and couldn't tell them about her sexual identity. But, as every parent knows, a child cannot hide when something is bothering them. So, a chain of text messages followed. Bri's godmother asked her what was wrong and Bri told her that she was pansexual, or maybe bi, or queer, she didn't quite know. Her godmother's response was simply, "Yeah, but what's wrong?" Her godmother explained to Bri, "You are my kid and I love you and you being happy is the most important thing to me." Bri says that it was that moment when she understood that she has people who love her and will love her just as she is. She says she is grateful for that. The Pulse shooting was a heavy loss that made her realize that no day is ever promised and because no one knows what tomorrow will bring, she decided she would live true to her authentic self. "I needed to be grateful and full on who I am with no apologies," she says.

I asked Bri what she would say to young people who are struggling with their identity and to the parents of LGBTQiA+ kids who may be having a hard time accepting them. To the kids she says, "You are valid. You are Deserving. You are Loved. You are supported." In terms of the parents, she says that sometimes they need to mourn what they thought their child's life would look like. It is ok to mourn that version of life they imagined. However, they still have this child who wants to live their authentic self and so they need to mourn and move forward with this newer version of their kid. Bri says the parents who are typically having the toughest time accepting their LGBTQiA+ child are struggling because of their religion. In those cases, she reminds parents that the Bible teaches love and acceptance, period. She says she doesn't want to negate the belief in heaven, but she wants parents to ask themselves, in this life, whether they could live with themselves if they find themselves on their deathbed knowing they never accepted their child because they were so fearful where they are going after this place. "In this place, right now, in a very real setting, you know [your child] is here and asking for your support." She says for the parents who are just being awful toward their child, she simply asks, "Would you rather have a live kid or a dead kid? Do you want a kid who doesn't care about you?" Bri says she doesn't mind if the person she is talking to is uncomfortable. She adds, "I am willing to be raw and vulnerable and honest because I know that the work I am doing with you right now can benefit your kid and their life can look a whole lot different if I sit and have this hard five-minute conversation with you."

When I asked Bri what she would say to her 15-year-old self today, she pauses for a moment and then says, "Love yourself in spite of yourself. Don't let anyone or any pressure keep you from thinking that you have a right to be the most authentic version of you. You are beautiful. You are worthy. You are powerful." She smiles and adds, "And you are going to make Oprah so proud one day. Which is literally my one goal in life, to make Oprah just fall over herself thinking about Bri Jenkins."

Bri is a woman who lost her mom at 15, is always in recovery for an eating disorder, who took part in self-harm, who has felt suicidal, and who has depression and anxiety. In her journey toward self-acceptance, Bri made a conscious decision that she was going to walk into Austin and into its places knowing she belongs here no matter what anyone says. "I tie all of these things together when I meet people…you never know what people are going through." She says. "People are fighting battles that you know nothing about. Life can be very very very hard, but it can be so worth it, and I hold onto that every day. I want people to know that things can get better."

Enter Bri the politician. Bri says she has been obsessed with politics since she was 12 years old when she vividly remembers her class discussing the 2000 election between George W. Bush and Al Gore. She says that part of the class exercise involved raising your hand to indicate who you would vote for. Bri says she remembers thinking, "We go to the same school, we are friends, we grew up in the same community. We will all vote the same, obviously." She was surprised when she, a Gore voter, saw some of her friends voting for Bush. While her class election certainly raised in interest in running for office one day, she says that religion, is playing into it as well. But she also believes that her being black, queer and female is political in itself. Her existence is political. "There are a lot of people who don't even know me who already hate me for being one or more of those three. But I am a person who wants to give a platform to people who don't have that space."

When she moved to Austin, she had the mindset that anything is possible. But at the same time, the bathroom bill was being discussed as was a trans military ban, a Muslim ban, and reproductive rights were under attack. Bri notes that while Austin has an anti-discrimination ordinance, she could be fired anywhere else in the state for being queer. "My generation and the one coming behind me have been called lazy and that is an excuse people have used to negate how we are feeling." She adds that there is a sense that, "We should just sit back and wait our turn. We feel like, no. Now is our turn, now is our time because y'all aren't doing things right." Bri says that for the last three years she has been creating space for herself and she is not waiting to be invited into spaces. She is not asking for permission. She says that if her being somewhere makes someone uncomfortable, then she wants to turn it around and make people answer why they are uncomfortable. She says that fortunately she has been well received in Austin, but she also knows people are just seeing her, individually. She wants people to know that where there is one of her, there are millions more like her and that there is other work, and other people, doing great things who are not in the spotlight. "I want to use my platform not only for the groups I represent but [also] for the folks who are doing the work." Bri is eyeing City Council but she says she won't even consider adding her name to the ballot until she has fully educated herself. She is taking time over the next two years to attend the City Council and County Commissioner meetings and learn everything she can.

Bri shared a powerful story with me where she used her voice to stand up for all the women in her office during one of her early jobs. She recalled a male leader, whom she had been introduced to on three or four occasions, who could not/would not remember any of the names of the females in the office, no matter how many times he had met them. In preparation for an upcoming event, the women knew this man would be in attendance at the event and decided they would wear name tags. But not Bri. As Bri watched the man make his way around the room, calling her male colleagues by name without a hitch, she saw him looking at the name tags of her female co-workers before talking to them. She walked up to him and asked, "Do you remember my name?" She proceeded to call him out, pointing to the fact that he could remember every single one of her male colleagues' names but not a single female. "What does that say about you?" she asked. "My name is Briona Jenkins and you will never forget my name." She smiled and added, "And he sure as shit did not."

Oprah, if you are reading this, you need to give Bri a call and have her join you for a Super Soul Sunday!

Kristy Ashley