My fellow Odyssey writer and close friend, Erica Galluscio, introduced me to the existence of Bluestockings a while back, but I only thought to visit it very recently. Just off of East Houston on Allen Street on the Lower East Side, Bluestockings is marked by a quaint blue bench, often occupied by patrons of the store. Its storefront window exposes the small tables and rows of books inside, inviting passersby to drop in. The appropriately blue awning proclaims its role as a bookstore, café, and activist center.

Upon entrance to the intimate space, the well-organized shelves and smell of coffee entice one to stay for hours on end. I would be lying if I said I haven’t done exactly that. Bluestockings’ book supply includes titles on an array of social justice and radical political thought discourses: racial politics, queer studies, feminism, anarchism, environmentalism, among others. It hosts a broad variety of events held for educational purposes, discussion of modern-day injustices and social policy. It's also an established safe space since its opening in 1999.

Opponents of safe spaces are many. They have made their opinions known far and wide. Fears of a developing liberal echo chamber abound; distress over the “pussification” of society rampant. Rather than directly address these concerns in a formulated response, I will talk separately about safe spaces in a personal light.

I do not feel safe in the company of my endlessly wonderful partner, Rowan. He, as a person, does not make me feel unsafe — I’ve never felt any safer than in his arms. But to go out in public with him, at any and all times, provokes a feeling similar to one felt during a protest march, or while speaking before a crowd. Holding hands with him is a political statement and an unwanted one, at that. I feel no desire to get political or be purposefully subversive when I just want to go out on a date with my boyfriend.

And yet, without fail, every date in public is a political statement in the face of overwhelming opposition. I am not being thrown out of restaurants or physically assaulted on the bus, no. But I am subjected to unrelenting, unwavering stares of unabashed disapproval. Some stares wax, dare I say, murderous in their intensity. Across the aisle in the subway car or from the other side of the gallery in a museum. The stares express disgust, disapproval, disdain.

Maybe some do not find this threatening or worthy of qualifying as discrimination. So be it. But one cannot deny the intent of strangers on the train when they glare at me and my partner for sharing a chaste kiss on the lips. Their intent is to make me — us — feel uncomfortable for existing in the same vicinity as them. And with the countless stories of queer people verbally harassed or physically assaulted in public spaces, I cannot afford to assume that a stranger is just a casual onlooker.

A safe space, to me, is not a place where my beliefs go unchallenged. On the contrary, safe spaces allow free and constructive thought where one’s beliefs can be discussed sans ad hominem attacks, so long as one is seeking valid discussion. A safe space is where I can hold my partner’s hand and not feel the burning glares of people I don’t know, who may or may not be thinking about hurting me.

A safe space allows me to be unapologetically myself and to formulate my next move as a political activist when I am ready to take it. Bluestockings has given this space to me. If you’d like to visit or support the entirely volunteer-run store, please take a look at their website and consider donating or buying from their online market. And if you do visit in person during the week, you might find me there a lot more often from now on.