“Do not be daunted by the enormity of the world’s grief. Do justly, now. Love mercifully, now. Walk humbly, now. You are not obligated to complete the work, but neither are you free to abandon it.” – Rabbi Tarfon
On November 6th, 2024, I woke up, checked the news, and very promptly threw my phone across the room. The pathetic clatter of my phone case was drowned out by the ringing in my ears and the tightness in my throat. I kept saying, “I can’t do this again,” over and over. I thought to myself, maybe if I said it enough times, the bad dream would end and things would return to the badly patched veil of partial normalcy. I still can’t explain the dense panic and rage that filled my head. It was too heavy. In some ways, it still is. The only thing I knew for sure, was that I’d felt the same way when I was fifteen, queer, and living in south Texas.
My story is not necessarily new or original. I’ll be the first to admit I am not the only one who has done this work under the hostility I lived with for several years. In 2017, I founded my high school’s Gay-Straight Alliance (GSA) with the help of a few other students and a wonderful advisor. During the last half of my high school career, I worked early mornings and long nights to gather resources, history, and support for the rag-tag group I had started. Somehow, the GSA flourished into a beating heart of the school and students felt safe to be there. By the time my term as president ended and graduation approached, there were anywhere from twenty to fifty students, faculty, and staff attending regular meetings. During those meetings, we often danced, sang, laughed, cried, and raged when necessary. Living through historical event after historical event while coming of age is not for the weak and we often had a front-row seat to each other’s pain. More than that, we kept each other safe when nobody else would. When I return to the rolling hills of my hometown, I often run into people who were a part of the GSA, and they update me on their lives. Glad tidings of gender-affirming care, partners, degrees, and more make me smile.
Living through historical event after historical event while coming of age is not for the weak and we often had a front-row seat to each other’s pain. More than that, we kept each other safe when nobody else would.
I’m twenty-three now, and when I look back, I don’t regret my decision to come out as queer and start the GSA. I do sometimes wonder if my teenage years would sparkle in the way I was promised they would if I didn’t receive death threats from my peers, have slurs thrown at my back in the hallway, and hear my teachers saying horrible things about me and the GSA. It’s hard to relearn that I deserve to live after hearing the opposite from the people around me. Anti-queer sentiments follow me around like an unwanted shadow, often rearing their ugly heads in therapy or when I’m feeling especially low.
I’m often scared of what’s happening and even more scared of what’s to come. I fear for the GSAs that are getting wiped away from schools across the United States. I fear for the queer kids who are losing their communities as fast as they appeared. I fear for the queer elders who are watching their history be revised before their very eyes. I fear for the queer people who now feel unsafe to come out of the closet or pursue the life they deserve. Because that’s exactly what this administration wants. They want us to feel as though there’s no hope and drain us of our spirit so they can move forward with removing us from the conversation. Anti-LGBT policies have ruled my life and affected my mental health in ways I’m still trying to understand. But even in the face of oppression, queer joy has buoyed me, and reminded me that I have as much of a right as anyone else to occupy space.
I fear for the queer people who now feel unsafe to come out of the closet or pursue the life they deserve. Because that’s exactly what this administration wants.
In the darkest days of the AIDS crisis, activists said they went to funerals in the morning, protested in the afternoon, and danced all night. The dancing allowed them to reset and prepare for the fight the next day. Dancing in clubs, classrooms, and friend’s living rooms keeps us alive. The queer joy that comes with living is a privilege and a life source. It’s necessary for keeping up the good fight. I can’t go back and change what happened to me in high school, but I can find ways to move forward (mostly out of spite).
More often than not, I struggle to do the work or read the books or the news. But the joy that comes from homegrown basil on a friend’s risotto recipe is deceptively powerful. Climbing into a warm bed with a woman I love at the end of the day fuels me for tomorrow. The deep communion shared with my community over glasses of wine and ghost stories is enough love to sustain me for the fight ahead. My joy is not dependent on who sits in an office hundreds of miles away. My love is not conditional on ink drying on a piece of paper. My queerness is not dictated by the policies of those who wish I would just sit down and be quiet.
My joy is not dependent on who sits in an office hundreds of miles away. My love is not conditional on ink drying on a piece of paper. My queerness is not dictated by the policies of those who wish I would just sit down and be quiet.
The next few years are going to be hard. There’s no getting around that. There will be tears, frustration and anger, but there will also be sunshine, drag brunches, and cute dogs. There will be dishes to do and people to love. And at the end of this, we will come together again and dance the longest nights away.
That is how we get through. That is how we survive.
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