Content warning: This article discusses drug use and sexual assault.
Ask anyone in Pittsburgh, and most have heard the old adage to “look for the helpers.” In times of need, instead of turning to despair, we’re taught to find those who are working to comfort and heal, rather than those who do more harm. Whether it’s about looking for the light or being a good neighbor, we’re given countless instructions meant to socialize us into seeking the good.
But what happens when that “good” becomes a pathway to exploitation and drug addiction?
Growing up, the mantra instilled in many of us was that we are blessed to be a blessing to others. If you had something extra to give, it was your moral duty to help someone who was struggling. It seemed like a practical way to navigate a world filled with difference and vast income disparity: help those in need, and be a light in a world searching for something to believe in.
A light meant to bring warmth and hope has instead left many burnt. Queer youth are already more likely to experience homelessness than their peers, but Black queer youth are disproportionately impacted, due not only to homophobia but also systemic racism and discrimination. The statistics are stark, revealing how deeply homelessness affects Black youth who must navigate both family upheaval and institutional abandonment.
And as Black youth face housing displacement, their need to survive is increasingly manipulated and turned into avenues of harm masked by a facade of “help.”
When the story of Ed Buck became national news in 2024, many were shocked that a wealthy donor was implicated in the deaths of Black men in his home. But for the Black queer male community, this wasn’t a revelation. It was a confirmation. For years, survival has meant living out the “Backpack Boy” lifestyle.
The Backpack Boy trope refers to Black men and boys, of all sexualities, who are transient, often with all their belongings in a single backpack. They move from place to place, sometimes exchanging sex and drugs for a bed, a hot meal, or even just a shower. Many are exploited by men in positions of power who lace their “generosity” with cash, drugs, and sex, offering temporary relief in exchange for long-term harm.
The power dynamics are especially racialized. White men with connections and privilege often prey on vulnerable Black youth, using systemic inequality as a weapon. In NYC, adult performer Austin Wolf was sentenced for raping Black minors, coercing them into race play for cash while sexually violating them. In Philadelphia, the city was rocked by the murder of Josh Kruger, a well-known advocate, who was killed by Robert Davis, a 19-year-old Black teen. Davis claimed their relationship began years earlier, when he was still a minor, something supported by phone records.
Across the country, vulnerable Black men and boys are being exploited by men who offer shelter and drugs as bait, trapping an already marginalized population in cycles of abuse and trauma.
For many Backpack Boys, there seems to be no viable future. Some face rejection from family. Others are blocked by policies that deny them access to housing or public assistance. Shelters often sort beds by binary gender categories, which can force teen boys away from their primary caregivers or into unsafe situations. On top of that, Black boys are often perceived as older, more dangerous, or more aggressive than they are, leading providers to treat them with suspicion—or ignore them altogether.
Family abandonment and system failures mean that not only are these youth denied access to traditional support structures, they’re also overlooked by service agencies, which sometimes partner with or employ the very individuals who exploit them.
In Kruger’s case, he was connected to the city’s Office of Homelessness and had partnerships with multiple agencies tasked with protecting the same youth he allegedly harmed. Buck was a major political donor who not only funded public initiatives but also supported candidates who shaped housing and social policy.
Backpack Boys are in every city and neighborhood. They move from space to space, looking for rest—hoping to put their bag down, if only for a few hours.
And what’s worse? Many of us know and are in community with the men doing the harm. Whether it’s a party, a hookup, or a casual smoke, we’ve heard the stories. We’ve seen the signs. We’ve accepted these abuses as cultural norms instead of naming them for what they are: human trafficking and sexual exploitation.
We must acknowledge that Black men and boys are still incredibly vulnerable in our society. Their bodies and labor are commodified, used for entertainment, survival, and sport.
We must demand policies that house, educate, and protect Black men and boys.
We must reject a society that sees the Black body only as something sexual or experimental.
We must refuse to normalize Blackness as commodity.
And above all, we must create systems of transformative justice by holding exploiters accountable, centering healing, and building alternatives. Every Backpack Boy deserves to know he is valuable. That he is seen. We must find a better way so that a backpack is a backpack, not a sign of needing a temporary home.