In the clip, our guest DK Green was talking about standing up for trans people when a nasty joke is made at their expense. He was calling for allies, the same simple request minority communities make everywhere: if you can’t stand in our shoes, at least don’t step on them.

This particular video landed on the wrong side of social media. Disagreement on a trans‑related post is so common it wouldn’t have stirred us. What concerned us was the sheer hatred: derogatory attacks, refusal to let DK finish a sentence and a complete unwillingness to hear him share his story.

A clip of just a few seconds and still, they couldn’t hear him. DK was offering his experience generously and openly. For anyone who hasn’t listened to the full episode, I encourage you to do so.

DK is kind, funny, and deeply committed to serving this world by answering foundational questions and defining basic terms around gender and sexuality. To deny him respect is a shame. His insight can be a starting point for anyone who feels lost in the domain of gender and sexuality, especially those who don’t have LGBTQ+ people in their environment but genuinely want to understand.

His insight can be the starting point for everybody who feels lost in the domain of gender and sexuality, who doesn’t have someone from the LGBTQ+ community in their environment but wants to understand.

I’ve never fully grasped the idea that marginalised communities “do not owe the mainstream an explanation”. In other words, a minority member does not owe anyone definitions of gender, sexuality, race, religion or anything else. I used to wonder how then anyone outside that community was supposed to learn and grow closer to those whose identity feels far from their own upbringing.

But the degrading verbal assault on that recent clip made something clear: it doesn’t matter how many times you explain yourself if the listener refuses to be accountable for their listening.

This wasn’t DK’s first time hearing such comments, it was the hundredth. Anyone asked to repeat the same explanation a hundred times will eventually refuse the hundred‑and‑first, not out of anger, but out of exhaustion and dismissal of their humanity.

This is what scholars call epistemic exploitation.

Epistemic exploitation

Although Audre Lorde recognised this experience in the 90s, the term “epistemic exploitation” was officially named in 2016 by Nora Berenstein. She describes the recurring expectation that people with more social power demand that people with less power constantly explain their oppression.

“Black and Third‑World people are expected to educate white people as to our humanity. Women are expected to educate men. Lesbian and gay men are expected to educate the heterosexual world,” she writes.

Learning from someone’s first‑hand experience is valuable and hearing a story that belongs to them is often the best way to understand. So what is Berenstein pointing to? She’s naming the expectation: the demand that marginalised groups must prove they deserve a seat at the table while simultaneously being denied that seat through oppression.

Berenstein argues that “the very serious function of racism is distraction”, though this applies to all forms of discrimination. It keeps you explaining your reason for being, over and over, instead of allowing you the human right to define that being for yourself. How does one build a future when their present is rejected as unreal or inauthentic?

Consistently having to call for help or simple support, because many don’t see why you’d need it, is dehumanising. It’s as if you are a strange creature from a far‑off land whose information plaque visitors squint at before moving on.

When DK speaks about trans jokes, he’s not signing up to educate every hostile commenter. His story is not a public service for those who refuse to listen; it’s a gift for those willing to. He doesn’t owe that story to anyone but himself.

Yet there is immense benefit, and actually a crucial need, for minorities to keep sharing their stories. For this reason, I propose shifting the language from “owe” to “offer”. Instead of asking whether marginalised communities owe an explanation, reframe it as a statement: when marginalised communities offer their stories, thank them for opening up, being vulnerable in a hostile world, and pay it forward.

This reframing removes the implication of debt and burden. It places accountability and reciprocity on those receiving the story. Marginalised groups are not responsible for fixing others’ ignorance. Yet they still come forward. They find outlets to leave a mark, a statement, an all‑inclusive view of the world. Because they are so often shut down, their willingness to keep showing up calls for respect and care.

Contact

Why do we, at Biting Lemons, step into environments that may attract hatred? Why do people like DK say “yes” to being vulnerable? Because connection cannot be built in isolation.

In 1954, psychologist Gordon Allport wrote that when people from different groups meet and interact, prejudice can decrease. At the time, researchers believed this required equal social status, shared goals and support from authorities.

Later, researcher Thomas Pettigrew found that simple contact, without conditions beyond a non‑hostile environment, promotes tolerance and understanding. His findings highlight not only cognitive shifts but emotional ones: “Your stereotypes about the other group don’t necessarily change, but you grow to like them anyway.”

People often dislike each other, that’s true. We hold prejudice, assumptions, mistrust, bitterness. We cannot like everyone, but the least we can do is co‑exist and accept each other. This is the most basic request of any group: you don’t need to understand us, but at least accept us for what we are.

Pettigrew goes further: enough time in the presence of someone you dislike might not change your mind, but it could change your heart.

With that said, I’m almost certain that anyone who listens to any full episode of Biting Lemons, with whichever colourful guest we have, would find themselves warming to them. An hour of someone’s story offers enough meaningful contact to accept them, even if fully grasping their world takes time.

Narrative humility

In fact, you don’t need to fully place yourself in someone else’s shoes to hear them. Their story is not yours to own. This is what Dr Sayantani DasGupta calls “narrative humility”: the idea that one never masters someone else’s story.

For medical workers, this means not simply diagnosing based on professional knowledge, but pausing to listen to the patient’s story. It’s recognising a relationship exists.

Part of narrative humility is asking yourself what role you are playing in this story, what your responsibility is and what you expect to hear. This helps you tune into both the speaker’s intentions and your own expectations.

With minorities, listening with humility means acknowledging you approach their story with your own perceptions and accepting that some things may remain beyond your grasp. It asks for modesty and a willingness to keep working on that relationship, responsible only for holding their story with care.

DK chose to offer his story. He didn’t owe it to us as a platform, nor to those who attacked his humanity. For those who only saw the clip, I encourage you to watch the full episode. It contains gold.

Establish contact with an environment that isn’t yours, be humble and say “thank you” when someone decides you are worthy of their story.

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