50 Pictures of Queer Joy at 2023 LGBTQ+ Pride Celebrations All Over the World

As we wrap up Pride Month, let’s take a visual journey through some of the many celebrations that happened worldwide! What you will experience below represents not the full spectrum of Prides that occurred this year but instead, a spectrum of Prides captured on film that we have legal rights to post on our website!

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West Hollywood, CA

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Washington DC

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Sao Paulo, Brazil

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Los Angeles, CA

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Louisville, Kentucky

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Lisbon, Portugal

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New York, NY

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Bangkok, Thailand

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Bari, Italy

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San Francisco, CA

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Avellino, Italy

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Provincetown, Massachusetts

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Toronto, Canada

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San Juan, Puerto Rico

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Nashville, Tennessee

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Genoa, Italy

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West Bengal, India

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Zurich, Switzerland

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Manila, Philippines

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Wilton Manors, Florida

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Mexico City, Mexico

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Rome, Italy

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Paris, France

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San Salvador, El Salvador

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Mumbai, India

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Austin, Texas

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Quiz: What’s Your Pride Vibe?

It’s Pride — ever heard of it? Perhaps you’d like to browse Autostraddle’s ongoing Pride package this year, called RAGE PARTY, because it’s about the multitudes contained by Pride, a nexus of immense joy and immense anger, of recreation and resistance. But today? Today, we’re having just silly, goofy fun with one of my famously “upsetting” quizzes in which I ask you a series of chaotic questions and then probably drag some aspect of your personality.

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LGBTQ+ Documentaries To Watch This Pride Month That Aren’t the Most Obvious Ones

Our Pride theme this year is RAGE PARTY, an explicit acknowledgement of the complexity and expansiveness of Pride as a site of simultaneous recreation and revolution. It’s a time to hold each other close as we fight our oppressors. Rage on! In that spirit, I’ve rounded up some LGBTQ+ documentaries on queer resistance, history, and activism for a simmering Pride night in.

There are a lot of watch lists and documentary recommendations geared toward Pride floating around mainstream media right now, so I’m trying to focus on entries I didn’t see come up as often on those (kinda basic tbh!) lists. As a result, you might have to deviate from some of the more popular streamers like Netflix and Hulu to seek them out, but they’re worth the hunt. Time to sign up for Kanopy! I’ve put the docs in order of year released, and we’ve got films from 1989 to today! Check out over three decades of queer and trans real life stories! The list is, of course, far from exhaustive. So please feel free to shout out your favorites in the comments, even if they’re hard to find!

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Tongues Untied (1989)

An experimental documentary that centers Black gay men, Tongues Untied uses poetry, performance, music, spoken word, art, and narrative to unspool Black gay life and challenge homophobia and racism. It’s an excellent starting point for this list and is available on Kanopy.

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Last Call at Maud’s (1993)

Later in this list, you’ll find a shoutout to the more recent docuseries, The Lesbian Bar Project. But if you want to deep dive dyke bar documentaries, start here with 1993’s Last Call at Maud‘s, which touches on lesbian culture and spaces from the 1940s to 1990s, centered on the iconic defunct lesbian bar Maud’s in San Francisco. It’s available for rent or purchase on Prime Video.

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Bloodsisters (1995)

Yes kink at Pride, and yes to this 1995 leatherdyke documentary that plunges into the lesbian BDSM scene in San Francisco in the 90s. For Autostraddle, Daemonum X wrote of the documentary, which is available to stream on Kanopy:

“Leatherdyke is a sexuality, and those of us who identify with it are automatically associated with perversion. When you’re turned on by filth, blood, and pain, no matter how hard you try you simply cannot bring it back from the margins. You cannot make dyke SM sexuality respectable in the eyes of society, and for many of us that’s even part of the appeal. The risks and the stigmatization of waving your freak flag have only moderately improved in the last twenty-five years. The watered down, mainstream ideas of kink have only moved the needle so far. Leatherdyke sexuality carries an inherent politic of anti-respectability and for that it has always been ahead of its time.”

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Brother Outsider: The Life of Bayard Rustin (2003)

This documentary would make an excellent companion to the primer on queer labor activism: Gay at Work: Queer People and the Labor Movement, written by Daven McQueen for Rage Party. It’s available on Kanopy and additional apps.

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Screaming Queens: The Riot at Compton’s Cafeteria (2005)

Three years before Stonewall, trans folks and drag queens fought back against police violence at Compton’s Cafeteria in San Francisco’s Tenderloin. It’s considered one of the first documented instances of large scale queer resistance to police harassment in U.S. history. It’s available on Kanopy.

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T’Ain’t Nobody’s Bizness: Queer Blues Divas of the 1920s (2011)

The iconic queer author Jewelle Gomez narrates this exploration of Black queerness in the 1920s blues boom, exploring the lived experiences of icons like Ma Rainey, Bessie Smith, Alberta Hunter, and Ethel Waters. It’s available on Kanopy.

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United in Anger: A History of ACT UP (2012)

“United in Anger isn’t just a film, it’s a teaching tool for future activists,” Gabby wrote for Autostraddle in a review of the Sarah Schulman-produced documentary about ACT UP that utilizes footage compiled by the ACT UP Oral History Project. Pair it with a copy of Let the Record Show. It’s available on Kanopy.

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Call Me Kuchu (2012)

This documentary focuses on queer life in Uganda, including the effects of violent church-backed homophobic legislation in the country. It covers the 2011 murder of activist David Kato and its aftermath. It’s available on Kanopy.

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Kiki (2016)

Regarded as an unofficial “sequel” to Paris Is Burning by critics, Kiki similarly follows ballroom and drag culture in NYC, focusing on LGBTQ youth of color. It shows the various intersecting conflicts trans youth of color face as well as immense trans joy and community, making it a perfect fit for Rage Party. It’s available to stream on Kanopy.

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Check It (2016)

This documentary follows the Check-It, a street gang formed by ninth graders in Washington D.C. in 2009 that consists of trans and queer Black teens who have been rejected by their families, subjected to homophobia, transphobia, racism, and pushed into extreme poverty and homelessness. It’s available to stream on several different apps.

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Dykes, Camera, Action (2018)

For my queer cinephiles! This documentary explores lesbian cinema, featuring filmmakers like Barbara Hammer, Vicky Du, Cheryl Dunye, Desiree Akhavan, and many more! Queer resistance and queer art go hand in hand, so dive on into this exploration of queerness on screen. It’s available on Peacock.

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I Hate New York (2018)

This documentary follows the lives and work of activists and artists Amanda Lepore, Sophia Lamar, Chloe Dzubilo and T De Long, and it’s title is a tongue-in-cheek critique of the ways the powers at be have sought to erase trans life and spaces from New York City, including efforts like the shutting down of Cats II and Sally’s Hideaway in Times Square in the 90s. It’s available to stream on Tubi.

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Changing the Game (2019)

Following three trans teen athletes as they compete in their respective sports and confront transphobia and other obstacles, Changing the Game feels like an urgent documentary as youth athletics continue to be a staging ground for rampantly transphobic legislation throughout the country. It’s available on Hulu.

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Sylvia Rivera: She Was More Than Stonewall (2019)

This full documentary is available on YouTube via CT Trans History and Archives.

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Always Amber (2020)

This coming-of-age documentary follows genderqueer teen Amber and a group of trans teens in a way that gives them a lot of agency and room for exploration of their own identities. Drew Burnett Gregory wrote of it: “This documentary is about a person and it’s about a generation and it’s about a future that is yet to exist. It’s a political declaration that all people regardless of age should get to determine how they present and how they’re addressed and who they are.” It’s available to rent or purchase on Prime Video in the UK and Apple TV.

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Your Mother’s Comfort (2020)

Trans activist, politician, and leader Indianara Siqueira fights to save the LGBTQ+ homeless shelter for trans sex workers she started in this international documentary set against the backdrop of the election of a far right president in Brazil. The film is available to stream on the apps Hoopla and Revry.

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My Name Is Pauli Murray (2021)

This documentary about an important Black queer and trans elder who has so often been erased by dominant history narratives is a necessary deep dive on their many contributions to Black liberation and civil rights. It’s also not without its problems, explored with nuance by Autostraddle Editor-in-Chief Carmen Phillips in her review, which notes Pauli is misgendered throughout parts of the film, something that’s grappled with and pushed back against by some of the trans folks interviewed in it. If you’re going to watch, I highly recommend reading Carmen’s review as a companion piece to understand some of these flaws. It’s available on Prime Video.

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Rebel Dykes (2021)

Set in 1980s London, Rebel Dykes is immersed in a specific punk lesbian scene and explores the intersections of politics, sex and the erotic, activism, art, and music. It’s available to watch in the UK through the BFI’s website.

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The Lesbian Bar Project (2022)

The Lesbian Bar Project is an ongoing campaign to champion the few surviving lesbian bars throughout the U.S., and part of that campaign included a short documentary as well as a three-part docuseries. The three-part docuseries is available to stream for free on the Roku channel and is worth checking out if you too are invested in the decline of the dyke bar, a topic we cover here at Autostraddle in myriad ways.

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The Stroll (2023)

Made by trans directors Kristen Lovell and Zackary Drucker, The Stroll centers Black trans sex workers in NYC’s Meatpacking District, exploring the neighborhood’s history of violent policing, gentrification, community care, and queer and trans resilience. It’s available to stream on Max, starting June 21.

Gay at Work: Queer People and the Labor Movement

feature image photo by  Xavier Lorenzo via Getty Images

June, obviously, is Pride. But this year, it’s also the start of what’s gearing up to be a Hot Labor Summer. Yes, as Amazon Labor Union president Chris Smalls declared in late May 2022, last summer was also a Hot Labor Summer, but there’s more than enough union power to go around. As a former labor organizer, I’ve been filled with a lot of hope seeing workers stand up to their bosses and better in their workplaces – especially queer and trans workers, without whom the current surge in the labor movement simply would not be possible.

When I started a union campaign at a previous job with some of my coworkers, it was, in some ways, a shot in the dark to express our frustration with a difficult (and often toxic) workplace. Over the months, it became a way to take back my sense of self as a queer Black person in a job that prioritized straight, cis, white identities to the detriment of everyone else — to fight for a workplace where I and my coworkers would be treated with respect and dignity. Later, working as a staff organizer on a different union drive, I watched other oppressed workers come into their power in the same way as they realized that they deserved better than their bosses would ever let them believe. And now, all of us are lucky enough to witness that on a national scale and maybe even join the fight ourselves.

In the past few weeks, we’ve seen queer writers take center stage in the ongoing WGA strike, bringing Pride to the picket lines as they demand a more sustainable future for marginalized writers in Hollywood. After showing solidarity with WGA strikers over the past months, members of SAG-AFTRA, including its many queer actors, voted overwhelmingly to authorize a strike if the Alliance of Motion Picture and Television Producers doesn’t accept a satisfactory agreement in their current contract negotiations by June 30. The potential for a nationwide UPS strike in August is also heating up, which would be the biggest work stoppage in U.S. history.

Okay, so maybe it’s more of a Hot Strike Summer, but in any case, the labor movement in the U.S. is popping off, and queer people are part and parcel of the fight. We’re no stranger to a righteous struggle, after all — I know I don’t have to remind you that Stonewall was a riot. A Pride rage party would not be complete without diving into the history of queer labor leaders whose dedication to the working class, even when their identities put them at risk, led to many of the rights and protections we have as queer workers today. Let’s get into it.

Early Struggles

To kick off our tour of queer labor leaders, we have to go back almost 120 years to 1905, when 12-year-old Pauline Newman, a Lithuanian immigrant to New York City, was hired at the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory. Newman, who had a “blunt aggressiveness and fondness for masculine dress,” was an outspoken union advocate even as a young teen, eventually becoming the first woman organizer hired by the International Ladies Garment Workers Union. She organized up to and in the wake of the devastating Triangle Fire, having known many of the girls who died in the disaster. She was a fierce organizer for the rest of her life, working for both the ILGWU and the Women’s Trade Union League. Through her work in the latter, she met Frieda S. Miller, who would become her partner for the next 50 years as both women dedicated their lives to improving the lives of working people.

Pushing forward into the 50s and 60s, the gay and Black liberation movements began in earnest, with leaders of both coming to the forefront through their work in the labor movement. One icon in all three arenas was Bayard Rustin, an often overlooked leader who worked closely with Martin Luther King Jr. and was a key organizer in the March on Washington. He directed the AFL-CIO’s A. Phillip Randolph Institute to integrate historically all-white unions and unionize Black workers.

Both Newman and Rustin, who were not particularly diligent about hiding their queerness, were often relegated to behind-the-scenes roles in the labor movement. It wasn’t until the 80s that Rustin began openly advocating for gay rights at the suggestion of his partner at the time, a commitment he continued until his death in 1987.

Trans Worker Power

Joni Christian was a General Motors assembly worker when, at 26, she received gender affirming surgery and came out to her coworkers. This was in the 60s, so it might not surprise you to learn their reactions were not positive. In a move reminiscent of recent attacks on trans rights, a petition was circulated at the plant attempting to bar Christian from the women’s restrooms.

As a member of UAW, Christian went to her union local and used her legal services to sue GM for invasion of privacy. She got the support of local president Gary Briner, won a settlement with GM, and improved her working conditions enough that she stayed at the company for another 30 years.

In the present moment of both relentless attacks on trans rights and a surge in union participation, Joni Christian shows us trans resistance is everywhere — from the streets to the workplace.

A New Generation

A lot has happened in both the queer liberation and labor movements since Newman, Rustin, and Christian, among other queer labor leaders like Harry Hay, Harvey Milk, and Leslie Feinberg, fought for their rights in the workplace. Queer and trans people have made historic wins, like marriage equality, and yet continued to see attacks against our rights, especially in the past few years. On the labor front, union membership declined steadily from the 80s onward;  it’s only been since the pandemic that we’ve seen a major resurgence in interest in the labor movement.

From Amazon workers’ historic election last year to the growth of graduate student unions across the country, workers have been busy fighting and winning. One of the most prominent examples has been Starbucks Workers United, the union of the coffee shop chain’s young, determined, and very queer workers. Many of the baristas leading the charge of Starbucks unionization are queer and trans, and with over 300 stores unionized so far, they’re making history in improving the working conditions of marginalized people across the country.

I live in Boston, and last year was able to attend a live reveal of the union election results of two local Starbucks locations. They both won easily, and seeing the workers, many of whom were my age or younger, many of whom were queer, celebrating their victory literally made me cry a little bit. Not just because of the unions they’d won — and what that power would mean for the future of their jobs — but because these are the same people I’d seen and have continued to see in the streets fighting for the rights of working and oppressed people in every other context. All these movements, whether for Black liberation, queer liberation, abortion rights, affordable housing, or labor, are intimately connected, and the struggle of queer labor organizers makes that abundantly clear.

‘Be the Change’ Creates Network of Care in Tennessee Prisons

Editor’s note: The author of this piece is a member leader in the Nashville chapter of Southerners on New Ground, which partners with Be The Change.

Tavaria Merritt is a community organizer, a pastor, a dreamer, and someone who loves her people deeply. Tavaria, who also goes by Varia and T, has lived that truth all her life, even in the most unstable of circumstances.

When Varia was incarcerated at South Central Correctional Facility in Clifton, Tenn., she saw the ways that she and other LGBT+ people in the prison were treated both by staff and other inmates, and she became passionate about organizing within the prison to help folks find supportive community, build power, and fight for better treatment inside.

“I was born to bring people together and show them what real love is about,” reflected Varia. “I had a desire to create something, and that is a community for the LGBT inmates here. If nobody was bold enough to do that, I was willing to stand against the odds. On June 8^th, 2014, I started something that had never been heard of within Tennessee prisons.”

She began by distributing a letter to everyone in her unit who she knew was LGBT. They came together to share their concerns and identify changes they desired to see within the prison. Together, the group became known as Be the Change LGBTQ Community. They began working to shift the culture at South Central to one where inmates and staff were more respectful of LGBT folks.

Today, Be the Change offers programs inside like support groups for trans women, addiction and recovery support, and those facing lengthy or lifetime sentences. They work to prepare folks for release by connecting them with outside resources and supporters. They host weekly services in affiliation with the Unitarian Universalist Church where all are welcome to connect with their spirituality — it’s the first and only affirming religious service at the prison. Varia uses her experience as a pastor and preacher to motivate the community.

“It’s my faith that has kept me strong,” she said. “I still believe in my faith and my Pentecostal movement, and they can’t tell me that I’m wrong, I know what’s right in my soul. I was called to lead people who have been let down, put down, people who were talked about when they were kids, people who were told they would never amount to anything, those who are outside the box and told they were not normal.”

Varia also works with administrators and staff to create a safer environment for Be the Change members, such as collaborating with the medical staff to ensure trans inmates receive appropriate care. Be the Change also advocated for a “cell with care” policy at the prison to ensure LGBT inmates would not be placed in cells with individuals not known to be accepting, as well as a policy to allow trans women to shower safely.

The organization has a safety team dedicated to protecting members from violence, and they share food resources among one another, in part with the help of outside donations. They also have members who are able to be informal counselors and confidants for folks experiencing anxiety and depression while inside.

To guide Be the Change, across all their activities the group uplifts five core principles: Believing in the worthiness of every person, accepting others for who they are, growing through a personal search for truth, working for justice, and understanding that everything is interconnected.

“Whatever your lifestyle, whatever your baggage, wherever you came from, you are welcome,” Varia said. “We can do this thing together as a team.”

Part of what has allowed Varia and Be the Change to be successful at getting policies in place to keep the community safer is their deep knowledge of the prison’s existing policies and procedures.

“I know this prison like the back of my hand,” Varia said. “I’ve worked the grievance board, I’ve worked laundry, I’ve worked the yard, I’ve worked the education department. They can’t get one over on me. If you come to me you better know the policy or I’m gonna tell it to you.”

Be the Change is also networked outside of South Central. They send mail to other prisons and partner with outsider organizations like Southerners on New Ground and No Exceptions Prison Collective. Varia and her team work to keep up with inmates who get transferred to other prisons as well as those who are released. By sharing pamphlets, art, and messages of hope, they are building a network of mutual support, encouragement, and resource sharing.

Varia doesn’t just help others — her community helps and supports her too. Having a strong community of support with members who share diverse experiences helped her come into her identity as a transgender woman in 2019.

“I’ve always been outspoken and did me and didn’t care what people thought, but I still need support to grow,” she said. “Being part of a community made transition so much easier. More than they realize or know, they helped me! When I came in, I didn’t know I was a girl. Now I walk around with my eyeliner on, my hairbands on, I don’t worry about no say so. Words don’t hurt me, I overcome the words.”

As Varia blossomed into the fullness of herself, she became even more passionate about educating prison staff and protecting and uplifting her community. Now, Be The Change members call her Mama T because “they’re my kids, I cover them. I will always stand with them, I might correct them, but most of all I’m going to show them love.”

As an organizer, Varia has worked to create a safer environment for her community. As a pastor, friend, and mentor, she has remained committed to helping others.

“A broken person brought together a lot of broken people over the years. I’ve been let down many times. I’ve been discouraged. I’ve been at the place that most of my people have been in, it’s why I can understand,” she reflected. “Every day I wake up and look forward to doing what I do best. We as a body and as a family are coming together stronger than ever. One of the things I often say is ‘we don’t die, we multiply.’ We are the chosen people, we are special, unique people. I don’t care how many people tell us that we’re not, we are.”

To support Be the Change or to learn more, visit their website btclgbtq.com. 

Kemi Adeyemi’s Feels Right Explores the Politics of Black Queer Nightlife

“Have you talked to Kemi Adeyemi yet?” Since I began writing about new books in LGBTQ studies for Autostraddle, other folks I’ve interviewed have encouraged me to reach out to Adeyemi, Associate Professor of Gender, Women, and Sexuality Studies at the University of Washington. Adeyemi’s new book Feels Right: Black Queer Women and the Politics of Partying in Chicago explores the experiences of Black queer party promoters and party goers in the segregated city. In the last few years, a number of new academic books have been published in lesbian studies and on nightlife; Adeyemi’s is the only one to explicitly focus on the lives of Black queer women. Feels Right takes seriously the way Black queer women come together on the dance floor as a political act in pursuit of community.

Adeyemi’s book is as much about nightlife studies as a field as it is about Black queer women’s experiences with Chicago’s nightlife. Adeyemi told me when we talked in May that she has long been “frustrated with writing about queer nightlife that really presents it as this utopian escape from everyday life.” “That’s a story, it’s not reality,” she argues.

Adeyemi adds, “so much of being out at night and partying is so intimately entangled with everything that happens outside of the party. And it didn’t feel fair to my ethnographic research or to my interviews to rescript this content into this beautiful story.” Feels Right asks, “what is queer nightlife, if that’s not the endpoint?” Adeyemi’s book explores what it actually feels like both to party and to plan parties for Black queer women in Chicago, which “is not always an entirely pleasurable affair.”

As Adeyemi writes in the Introduction, “good feeling is only ever temporary, if it arrives at all, amid the myriad of buzzkills that shape the queer party, whether they be bad music, whiteness, arguments between attendees and organizers, corporate greed, neoliberal capitalism, or just bad vibes.” Instead of a utopian story about the communities formed by Black queer parties in Chicago, Adeyemi is interested in tracing the actual experiences of party promoters and attendees. She wants to explore “the entire scope of the sensorium,” she tells me, which includes exhaustion, frustration, disappointment, and burn out.

Instead of feeling good, Adeyemi is interested in what it means and what it takes to “feel right,” which she describes as “those hard-to-pin-down sensoria signaling that everything has clicked together.” As she writes, “Issa vibe.” Feeling good and feeling right can happen at the same time, but aren’t necessarily overlapping. “The framework of feeling right offers a closer, kinesthetic look at the interlocking systems that situate us in our bodies, among other people, and within the built environments that structure our movements and our energies,” she explains.

The built environment is key here, particularly in Chicago. As she writes in the book, “The search for feeling right on the queer dance floor always overlaps with efforts to feel emplaced in Chicago, where access to feeling right and access to legal rights are entangled and circumscribed by neoliberal spatial politics that overdetermine where black queer people go and how they feel.” Adeyemi’s understanding and analysis of Black queer nightlife in Chicago is intimately entwined with the segregation and development of its neighborhoods, and the way that Black queer people express how it feels to live in the city. As she notes, “the queer dance floor is not an apolitical site in these conditions.” Adeyemi writes that most of the Black queer women she interviewed didn’t feel right partying in Boystown, for example, Chicago’s most well-known gayborhood, which is full of bars that primarily cater to white cis gay men and where Black queer people often feel like outsiders at best and violently excluded at worst. In a city marked by “racialized territorialization,” queer nightlife spaces are “highly contested zones where black queer women directly implicate their bodies as they assert their physical rights within and over the neoliberal city.”

Adeyemi’s chapters explore three parties in Chicago created by and for Black queer people: Slo Mo, Party Noire, and E N E R G Y. Each chapter examines a particular way of feeling right that Black queer women seek or embody at these parties. Adeyemi writes, “The right to feel good is a veritable political project that drives many black queer women to return to their nightlife scenes time and again, even as their pleasure is seemingly endlessly deferred on the dance floor and in the city.” She looks at particular moments at these parties — conversations, gestures, dance moves, conflicts — that illuminate these feelings. She summarizes for me, “the first chapter is about slowness and people’s capacity to just be easy in the bar, to dance slowly, to sing, to talk. The second chapter is about the feeling of Black joy and everything that’s fraught with that. And then the third chapter is about feeling ordinary.” As she examines these feelings with her interlocutors, she intertwines her analysis with a discussion of gentrification in Chicago’s South and West sides and how it impacts these parties, and in particular how it interferes with partygoers’ attempts to feel good and feel right.

The conclusion of the book focuses on how it feels for party organizers to plan and attend regular events week after week, month after month, and year after year. These organizers balance their desires to create space for Black queer community with the amount of organizational labor this entails and with their own emotional wellbeing. All of this can be exhausting in and of itself, particularly in the summer during Pride season, and can lead to burnout if and when the balance isn’t achieved. Adeyemi puts her interlocutors in conversation with each other, centering the voices and wisdom of Black queer party planners as they envision a more sustainable and communal future for their parties.

Since we’re chatting on the eve of Pride month, I ask more about what she thinks of Pride as both a space of rebellion and recreation, where people go to party. “I do think Pride is like, literally like the perfect example of the frustrations that my book is talking about. Everybody feels like they have to come out for Pride and it’s just like the worst time ever. The worst parades, the worst parties, the worst forms of intoxication,” she laughs. “But you go, and you either go because you think you’re gonna have a good time, or you go to feel righteous rage.” When we imagine Pride as a utopian space for queer joy, it disregards all of these realities that Adeyemi points to: how disappointing Pride can feel amidst the imperative to feel good during it.

Thinking about what Pride means in our contemporary anti-LGBTQ moment, she adds, “As far as securing legal protections over our bodies and our siblings’ bodies, the stakes do feel different. They feel heightened, they feel more dangerous, they feel more urgent. They feel more violent. And then the chasm between those stakes and Pride™, that is so vast. My best case scenario, my most rageful Pride season, would be just taking to the streets. No floats. But also: pay artists and pay party promoters!”

Adeyemi started this project as a graduate student living and partying in Chicago in the 2010s. She tells me that she wanted to explore Black nightlife and gentrification, and it eventually made sense to do so in the community spaces she was already inhabiting. As she signals in the Preface, the sheer amount of work it takes to research nightlife is often underestimated: “People who don’t work on nightlife love to comment that my research must be so fun, a comment that often doubles as a suggestion that nightlife research isn’t really research at all.” On the contrary, she tells me that this work is both incredibly rewarding and draining:

“I like to go out and dance, and I like to party. But when you have to do it with your brain on in a certain kind of way, when you’re having to pay attention to different kinds of things and not just paying attention to what your body needs or feels or how to be with the beat, or how to be moving in the crowd, when you have to be doing that and also watching for interactions or being attuned to the overall dynamic for the purposes of writing about it, that is also really intellectually and emotionally draining.”

As Adeyemi has gotten older (she is now in her mid-late 30s), going out at night for the purpose of research has gotten more difficult. But she affirms, “The process of being in conversation with people about when, where, why, and how they party was so enriching and fulfilling.”

Centering the experiences of Black queer women was important for Adeyemi in an academic field that rarely does. Adeyemi’s work, particularly her third chapter on E N E R G Y and ordinariness, provide commentary on how “Black queer women are largely absent and illegible within existing queer nightlife scholarship that is overwhelmingly centered on people who identify as men and where the very phrase ‘queer nightlife’ has become a kind of metonym for the scenes and spaces that they have historically attached to, such as gay bars and drag scenes.” In a series of powerful and bolded questions posed throughout the chapter, Adeyemi asks readers to interrogate their own relationships to Black queer women in their research:

“How Do I Need Black Queer Women to Do My Work? Do I Avoid Black Queer Women in Order to Do My Work? How Do I Need Them to Help Me Think? How Do I Need Them to Be Absent to Help Me Think? What Are the Keywords I Use to Describe Black Queer Women? Where, on the Spectrum from Ordinary to Extraordinary, Do My Keywords Position Black Queer Women? Is My Writing about Black Queer Women or Is It about My Ego? Am I Just Hoping that My Research Is about Badass Shit or Is It Really? Is My Research Radical or Am I Just Citing Black Queer Women? Are Black Queer Women Actually Doing This or Am I Just Assuming They Are?

What Do I Need from Black Queer Women? What Do I Expect from Black Queer Women? What Do Black Queer Women Expect from Me? How Am I Listening to Black Queer Women? How Do I Know? How Do They Know? Do I Think about Myself More Than I Think about Black Queer Women? Be Honest.”

In our conversation, I ask Adeyemi more about what it has been like to research and write in a field dominated by gay cis men. Adeyemi comments thoughtfully, “Those are precisely the people who trained me. Those are the people whose books allowed me to see and think about what my book might be like. Those are the people whose gay and queer party lives have literally spawned industries. Do you know what I mean? So I move with a lot of gratitude. And with a lot of frustration. That third chapter [on E N E R G Y] is for me really about the frustration of academic discipline. The frustration of graduate training, the frustration of how we assign what we assign, how we cherry pick chapters of particular books. You know, you’re familiar. Any of us who have gone through an institution understand the challenges of instruction, learning how to be in that conversation, or learning how to be in that space, or learning how to be in your body in that particular space.”

I do know, in no small part because Adeyemi and I both graduated from the School of Communication at Northwestern University in Illinois. Adeyemi got her PhD in Performance Studies, a competitive and prestigious program with a majority QTPOC faculty. I was enrolled in Screen Cultures, a (straighter, whiter) film and media studies program across campus. While I took classes with students in Performance Studies, Adeyemi was finishing her degree right as I entered grad school, so we never met during that time.

But I certainly experienced what Adeyemi described to me. In PhD programs, the classes we take — and which departments we take them in — shape the way we are taught to think, research, write, and teach. Each field has its canon, its major debates, its research methods, its conferences, its intellectual history, its celebrity faculty members, its taboo subjects. Graduate students are disciplined (literally and figuratively) into learning the norms of their academic field to become successful scholars who can continue on the legacy of their faculty mentors. It can be both an intellectually thrilling and a grueling experience. To focus your research on an underrepresented community — particularly one that you belong to — can add layers of marginalization to this experience. To do so in a program or department that purports to value queer, feminist, and trans of color theory but still upholds disciplinary norms and hierarchies that make academia a violent space for queer people of color — that is a fraught experience, to say the least. To then push back against one’s own disciplinary training and to carve out space for yourself in an exclusionary field — this a bold move, and one Adeyemi does gracefully.

“I’m much more complex than I have been thought about, written about, and depicted in academia and in popular culture,” Adeyemi writes. In her future research projects, she tells me, she continues to be interested in the position of Black queer women in scholarly work and in academia itself. She wants to ask, “What can Black queer and feminist studies do to think about Black genders and sexualities as more than theories and concepts?” Her book provides one example of what it looks like to do that work. Building on conversations with dozens of Black queer people, Adeyemi’s writing practices how scholars can “forge connections with one another in critical thought,” as she puts it, to practice thinking with Black women rather than just about them. The result is a book that pushes the boundaries of studies of queer nightlife to interrogate and reimagine the field itself, with Black queer women at the center.

36 Queer-Owned Businesses Selling LGBT T-Shirts To Support This Pride Season

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Autostraddle: Our #1 Most Favorite Queer-Owned Business

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Flavnt

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A Tribe Called Queer

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Style is Freedom

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dfrntpigeon

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Two Minds Press

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Kirrin Finch

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Lockwood51

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Sabor a Libertad

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FRE Collaborative

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Many Many Moons Ago on Etsy

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Wildfang

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MegemikoArt on Etsy

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Tomboy X

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Mi Vida

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Rebirth Garments

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The Phluid Project

Ash & Chess

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Queerly Designs on Etsy

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Tegan & Sara Foundation

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Official Rebrand

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Sparkletown Studios on Etsy

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Thugz Maison

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Jen Zeano Designs

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Demian Diné Yazhi’ on Etsy

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Haute Butch

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Queer Gear

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Stuzo Clothing

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Transfigure Print Co

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Kiernan Dunn on Etsy

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Gbee Studios on Etsy

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Bad Real Bad

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Decolonizing FitnessSaveSave

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One DNA Apparel

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Surpride on Etsy

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South Street Art Mart

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How Is Your Zodiac Sign Celebrating Pride This Year?

It’s Pride, and I’m starting this gay astrology post with a warning. Should you have found your way here from the broader internet, first, welcome. We’re hospitable. Second, yes, everything is gay. Every zodiac sign is gay. This is a Pride Horoscope. It’s going to be queer. Last time I whipped up some extremely wise and totally even-keeled astrology here, I got comments asking why it was gay! To that, I say “shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” in a tone that maybe makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up because it is, in fact, a little threatening. Happy Pride.

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Gemini

Having your zodiac sign’s season usher us into Pride has always made you feel like you’re born anew just in time for the season. Your annual Gay Pride Party, in that way, also doubles as a second birthday celebration — but you don’t tell anyone that. You spend weeks constructing a menu, testing gay cocktails and rainbow-colored mocktails, and experimenting with allergy-friendly ways to create colorful hors d’oeuvres. I have a friend who says that if you’re shy or a little unlucky, all you need to do is find a Gemini and follow them. The guests at this soiree are people you’ve met on all your travels, from all your social groups, from all these different eras of your life. This Pride, I hope you can look up from your duties as the commensurate host, and realize that your truest talent lies in the way you connect so many queer people, like a second, other, gayer kind of gravity. People are just drawn into your orbit, but it’s not a bad thing, because you’ve always taken care of your fellow travelers. Happy Pride, Gemini. This Gay Pride Horoscope-er says is raising their glass and saying cheers to you!

Cancer

You’ve got one source and one source only for your Pride celebration inspiration — and that’s the music video for Janelle Monaé’s Lipstick Lover. You’re choosing pools over a hot sticky parade. You’re choosing pleasure over worry (okay your zodiac sign is Cancer so you’re probably still concerned at times but you are WORKING on letting go. But if we’re being real, you are a little worried about your Sagittarius friend who hasn’t texted back in a few days, until you reassure yourself that this is normal for them — and then there are bills and…) SHHHH You are choosing PLEASURE OVER WORRY.

This Pride you’re locating a pool, your friends, any and all crushes, the outfits and music and beverages that make you feel the hottest. Then you, Cancer, are washing your troubles away in the crisp splash of chlorinated liquid crystal, the smack of flip flops on rough pool-side concrete and the laughter of chosen family. You deserve.

Leo

My dear Leo, performer of the queer zodiac, you are somehow ON STAGE this Pride. And, if for one second, you are thinking that this queer Pride horoscope might be in the wrong about that, consider whether you at any point have been “on stage” during Pride — center of a dance circle, or the one cracking everyone else up with their gay-ass jokes, you get it. Whether you’ve spent hours perfecting your Drag King look or your five-minute standup routine for a fundraiser at the local Gay Bar — or you pretended your friends were pushing you to sing YOUR song at queer karaoke but actually, secretly, you were never more ready for this moment — your heart and soul long for the spotlight. You don’t need it all the time, just like we only need 10 minutes of sunlight a day to get adequate vitamin D, but when you get the chance, Leo, you are going to soak up that sunlight, those stage lights, that attention. Don’t ever be ashamed of who you are this Pride. Your boldness lifts all our hearts.

Virgo

How did this happen, Virgo? One moment, you were sweating your first Pride, and now, at least according to this particular gay horoscope-er, you’re a source of stability, support and mentorship for someone else. Whether you’re the queer auntie, a teacher, the 30 or 40 or 50-something friend to a much younger gay, or involved in your local queer community in a way that puts in you in a position where you can offer your wisdom and support, you’re a pillar of strength, now. Of course, all that inter-generational queer responsibility doesn’t mean you’re not going to let loose. Of course not. You’re an absolute freak in the spreadsheets and the streets after all. And if our overall culture weren’t so repressed, it wouldn’t seem like there were any contradictions at all between being a mentor to the younger queer(s) in your life and loving a raucous party now and then. You might be ushering a kid to their first Pride, taking a friend to their first gay bar, or just having some deep heart to hearts this June. Whatever form your contributions take, thank you for everything you’ve done and that you’re doing for our fellow queers, Virgo. Hats off to you! Also, no, thank you, I do not need to be spanked right now, but thank you for modeling good consent practices.

Libra

Libra, you’re going to the kind of Pride Party that either a) requires an invite and the location isn’t published, or b) feels like that’s the case even if it isn’t — and yes, I’m a little bit jealous. There will be actually good dance music, celebrities, local or otherwise, and a good smattering of your friends because you also know everyone in your town. Your outfit will be on point, except for the fact that your shoes might make your feet bleed a little. It’s okay, though! Because you’re having fun dancing and blisters are a Tomorrow Problem, much like what you’re going to eat for breakfast because your fridge is empty. Here’s to letting go for a night and living in the now, Libra, because goddess knows you’re always living in the future despite what a pleasure it is to be around you in the present. Breathe. Breathe again. Dance. And don’t forget that the rest of us would very much enjoy living vicariously through your Instagram stories.

Scorpio

Scorpio, you are either literally doing magic this Pride season or, you know, you’re metaphorically stirring the cauldron. Your zodiac sign is known for its mystery, and also its proclivity for revenge. You could be doing a spell with your besties to attract love, or you could be pissing into a jar because your ex won’t return your vintage lesbian pulp fiction collection. Whether you’re going to roll up your black lace sleeves and dig into actual spellwork, or you’re simply leaning into your bewitching side, you’re here to remind us all that we can wear black any time of the year. Thank you for reminding us that the season’s not always about the rainbows and the shouting, and that sometimes queer life’s about leaning in a doorway mysteriously in good lighting.

Sagittarius

Sure, you’re queer all year, but as I consult my room-scaled mental model of the cosmos for this queer Pride horoscope, I can see that nothing fills your heart with the urge to go absolutely rogue like the sound of Pride flags snapping in the wind on a climate-change-turbo-charged-record-temperatures-hot June day. Pride is a celebration, but you’re not going to forget its riot roots. That’s why you’ve enlisted several of your craftiest friends to construct an effigy of Ron DeSantis and several protest signs to go with. You cover your faces and tattoos, leave your phone at home and keep the plan locked down — no one but your small group knows about it. When all is said and done, the image of your Ron DeSantis effigy, latched to the outside of a pedestrian bridge over a highway, burning against the starless sky will be one of your most treasured Pride memories. You go to sleep that hot June night wrapped in a wet sheet, next to your window A/C unit, still hearing the echo of banner drops flapping over the sound of traffic and car horns below.

Capricorn

Your Pride look is impeccable. You’re ironed and lint-rolled and you’re, in fact, not going to Pride. You’re attending a tasteful hang with some of your older friends where the host is a Gemini. You know she’ll have a tasteful array of cocktails and mocktails in an array of rainbow colors, but you’re also bringing what you remember is her favorite wine. You arrive an hour late, but are still one of the first ones there so you help set up, and once things kick off, you’ll enjoy moving, with poise and ease, from conversation to conversation, because this is about being among your people, and these are the people you’re proud to call your friends.

But what you’re really excited for is the fact that you meticulously cleaned and laid out each of your sex toys because you’ve got some personal Pride plans for your partner / sweetheart / date / yourself tonight. Enjoy, you multi-faceted horned and horny babe.

Aquarius

Oh Aquarius, the visionary of the queer zodiac, this gay pride horoscope finds you completely forgetting that it’s Pride. Sometime during the weekend, you’ll wrap up whatever project you’re working on and hear the call — like the graze of a feather made of seabreeze in within the folds of your ear — of the magic mushrooms that you’ve had stashed just for a lazy afternoon such as this. It’s possible, that as the day starts to balance on the glimmering, pulsating, rainbow-outlined edge of the evening that you might get that old familiar “get-up-and-go” call to action. You’ll pull on some sneakers and remember to pack water and your keys and head out for a walk. The walk might take you downtown, where, through no intention you’re aware of, you stumble upon your city’s Pride festivities. You accept the universe’s invitation and make your way inside, walking around slowly, smiling, complimenting others’ looks and basking in the love and joy and beauty of humanity in the way that only someone who’s a little bit of an extraterrestrial — and a little bit of an outsider — can.

Pisces

Oops, you’re enjoying nature again! This gay Pride horoscope finds that you, Pisces, in that particularly effervescent and watery way of your zodiac sign, have decided that you’re overwhelmed by the fast pace of parties, the noise of parades and the pressure to have a memorable Pride. Instead, you and a select close friends are electing to spend time outside of the city and paying attention to your own mental health. You’re focusing on listening to the birds, smelling the June flowers and tending to your food over a fire. This might be a low-key backyard barbecue, it could be a multi-day camping venture, or it could be a day-trip to a hiking trail you’ve wanted to try for a while. Pisces, your zodiac sign’s lesson for the rest of the queer community is that it’s okay to need to escape sometimes, okay to prioritize healing and that it’s okay to be present in our bodies in ways that are, well, objectively quite healthy. You’re the oldest sign of the zodiac, and though your wisdom is often quiet, it’s so, so meaningful.

Aries

SOMEONE had to actually go to the Pride Parade, and according to this gay pride horoscope, it’s you, Aries, the baby of the zodiac! The youngest of the signs! The cycle starts anew with you and there is no one better to carry on old traditions with fresh energy than you! Get out there and do what you’re good at, shout and party and play and show us all what the intersection of riot and revelry really means! Whether you’re going in your best leather or draping a trans flag across your shoulders, your very presence is going to make the Pride festivities this year feel that much fuller. We love to hear you over the megaphone, shouting Pride slogans! Lez march.

Taurus

Taurus, Taurus, my comfort-loving, boundary-setting, snack-munching, gay and proud Taurus. According to all the power vested in my grasp of gay astrology, I am seeing that you’ll be in bed, on your couch or firmly ensconced in some outdoor furniture with queer movies flickering in the warm, firefly-lit evening air. Now, listen, the writer of this gay pride horoscope knows that this isn’t a last-minute-canceling-plans kind of decision. No, this is the event. You’ve been planning this adventure for yourself, you and a partner, or you and a close friend or two — FOR LITERAL WEEKS. You have the list of movies, you have them downloaded. You have a cooler full of drinks. You have snacks. Snacks that you pre-prepped. You’re showered and pampered and in your comfiest loungewear. This is an at-home chill hang, but you are doing it to a T. (The T is for Taurus.)

Making An Independent Documentary About Queer Women Is Like Jumping Without A Net

When I met my partner Beth in February 2020, she was working on a documentary. I had never known someone who was working on a documentary before — they seem like so much more work than a narrative story. The documentary, called Feeling Seen, focuses on the representation of queer women on television. It was a topic I found really interesting; when I was younger, TV had been a big part of my life, and some of the earliest confirmation of my queerness came from there. We started dating right before the pandemic, which shut down any progress she had made with filming. The more we talked about the project, the more intrigued I was by it. Eventually, I became part of the team.

Beth started conducting interviews for Feeling Seen in 2017, but there were still things she was trying to work out. Since I’m a writer and write narratives, we decided my best use would be to come on as a co-writer, helping her flesh out the story of the documentary by creating a narrative structure. The thing I loved the most was that TV fans are a huge part of the story of the doc. She had interviewed actors, showrunners, and writers from several television shows, but she had also connected with people who watch television about how the depictions of queer women on television had informed their own queerness or perceptions of what queer life could look like. There have been several documentaries on LGBTQ+ representation on TV, but none of them talk to the regular people who watch TV. It really does change the depth of the story. I decided the best way to tell the story was to follow a linear timeline of representation but focus on key shows that changed the conversation, using the fan interviews to bolster the things the creators of the show had to say.

In 2021, Beth asked me to sign on as Associate Producer of the project. It made sense since we lived together and often had conversations about the doc after hours, mostly in bed. I can untangle her thoughts and execute them in ways someone who doesn’t know her as intimately can’t. In 2022, I took over as the main producer and social media manager. I continue to also help Beth with the narrative plot of the film, using my understanding of not only more recent television, but the larger conversations around representation that are happening in a variety of spaces to craft a well rounded story. Because I’m a total research nerd, I also do a lot of the historical research that will inform the early parts of the film. I had never envisioned myself as the producer of a documentary, but I believe in this film so much that it felt like a no-brainer when I was asked. However! I will admit that this project is an absolute labor of love. Emphasis on the labor part.

We are doing this project completely independently, which is a lot harder than people think, especially when you don’t have a lot of money. The bulk of the interviews conducted in 2018 and 2019 were done after a successful Kickstarter campaign to raise $50,000. We were able to raise about $7,000 last year after mounting another crowdfunding campaign, but we were so unprepared for it. Crowdfunding is like jumping without a net; you really have to trust that people see enough of your value to give you money. There is a vulnerability to asking people for money in that way. What if people don’t donate? What does that say about us and about the project? We have heard from so many people that this is such an important and necessary film, and that doesn’t seem to translate into money when we need it. There have been many nights where Beth and I have sat up and wondered what it is about the project that keeps people from donating. Of course we know that some people simply aren’t in a position to, but that’s not what we’re talking about.

Finding funding for independent projects is really fucking hard. If you’ve never done it before, you cannot fathom how exhausting and demeaning the process can be. Crowdfunding is just one (very important) part of making an independent project happen. It’s stress-inducing: The lulls in donations sit like a pit in my stomach as my thoughts swirl with what happens if we can’t make it happen. It’s hard not to take it personally, even if half the audience is strangers.

And people who try to offer advice often mean well but only make it worse. We recently had someone suggest we simply release what footage we have now and start a new project to fill in the gaps we’re missing. As if it’s that easy! “Well, why don’t you just ask the celebrities you interviewed for money?” Okay, first of all: These people are doing these interviews for free. We cannot then turn around and ask them for thousands of dollars. It doesn’t seem right. A few have offered help in various ways, and we do try to take them up on it, but they’re also impossible to get in touch with, especially when you have to go through a manager or an assistant. People ask why we don’t apply for grants and we do! But after the pandemic, there are less of them to go around, and many of the ones you’d think would be available for us just aren’t. Plus there are a lot of equally deserving people who are also applying for the same grants. There’s only so much money going around, and even though we believe in the strength and necessity of our documentary, we’re small fish in a big pond full of fish. I can write an amazing application, but again, I have no control over their decisions. We’ve applied to several large grants in the last couple of months, and now we’re sitting on pins and needles waiting to see what happens.

Feeling Seen is as relevant as ever; we’ve all seen the shows we love either end or be canceled in the last couple of years. Each loss has been devastating to our community, and to each of us personally. Since Beth started this project in 2017, almost all of the shows she discussed are off the air. By our hopeful release year of 2025, there’s a chance that all of the shows we plan to discuss in depth will be off the air. And the way things are going, there aren’t going to be a whole new crop of shows popping up in their place. It’s fucking depressing.

When we interviewed the inimitable Lea DeLaria in the summer of 2022, she said queer women are being written out of their own narrative, and I couldn’t agree with her more. As part of my research, I watched a lot of documentaries that focused on LGBTQ+ representation, especially on television and it was an eye-opening experience. I watched Visible: Out of Television, which explores similar subject matter to take notes. In five hour-long episodes, the mentions of queer women were only enough to fill one sheet of notebook paper. And despite being produced by high profile LGBTQ+ actors, there were so many queer women who were left out of the conversations completely. It was so disappointing to see.

For so long, we have had to feast on scraps, and when we finally did have good representation, it was systematically taken away from us. When we create things for ourselves, that gets destroyed too. We can’t win, but we can keep trying to fight. That’s why it’s so important to us to not only finish making Feeling Seen, but to get it out into the world for others to see.

We’re currently fundraising to finish filming the last 10-15 interviews we need to be able to tell the full scope of the story. Shooting an interview (or several) isn’t cheap; each shoot costs us anywhere between $1,500 and $2,100 between crew fees and rentals. This means that if we want to finish, Feeling Seen needs to raise $30,000 in the next month. We want to have filming finished before the go into the Christmas season so that we can start 2024 in post-production. We’re determined to get as far into this project as we can independently so we can maintain our artistic vision and integrity without compromise. But we can’t do it alone.

I intentionally chose Pride month for our fundraiser for two reasons: making so called “allies” put their money where their mouths are by asking them to donate and to show that, no matter what, we’re committed to this project. Pride is about the riot but also the resilience of our community, and no one has to be more resilient than a couple of independent documentary makers.

We need to take back control of our own narrative. I will never stop trying to tell our stories.

Clare Forstie Wants To Change the Way You Think About the Queer Midwest

Last April, my friends and I found ourselves driving through rural Illinois around 1 a.m. We spent an evening at The Office, the only gay bar in Rockford, Illinois — home to the fictional Rockford Peaches of A League of Their Own — where we grabbed drinks and stayed late to watch the Saturday night drag show. We were all faculty members at a liberal arts college in Beloit, Wisconsin, a small city of about 36,000 on the border of Illinois, and made the trip 18 miles south because The Office was our closest gay bar. Older faculty members told each of us about a gay bar in Beloit, but it had long since closed. So off to Rockford we drove.

I was thrilled to see a diverse group of queers show up to cheer on the local queens that night. Having lived in New York City and Chicago for most of my adult life, I was accustomed to LGBTQ scenes in larger metropolitan cities, where nightlife is often segregated by race, age, and gender. Do rural queers spend more time in community with each other, if only because they have fewer places to go?, I wondered. This resonated with my own experience: I was at the bar with three gay male colleagues who had quickly become my lifelines to queer community that year. In a small city without many resources or social networks for LGBTQ folks, we became a small queer crew, frequently showing up for one another to celebrate our achievements and kvetch about our complaints.

Clare Forstie’s book Queering the Midwest: Forging LGBTQ Community explores how LGBTQ Midwesterns cultivate community in seemingly “unfriendly” cities, in places like Rockford and Beloit. Forstie interviewed more than 50 residents of “River City,” a pseudonymous city of about 50-60,000 people in the Midwest, to understand the nuances and complexities of building community outside of major metropolitan areas. The book resonated deeply with my own experiences of looking for and creating queer community in the Midwest.

“I am a queer person who grew up in and has lived in small communities, small towns, and small cities for my entire life. And I found that some of the narratives both that we hear nationally [and] within academia about LGBTQ communities more broadly tend to flatten the experience of folks in small cities and towns,” Forstie, an Education Program Specialist at the University of Minnesota, told me when we spoke about the book last month. Pushing back against generalizing narratives that cast the Midwest as a conservative place to escape from, or a group of monolithic “flyover” states without rich culture or community, Queering the Midwest tells a dynamic story about the varied ways queer and trans people experience life in River City.

Forstie’s interviews and ethnographic observations of LGBTQ events in River City painted a picture of what she calls “ambivalent communities.” “Ambivalent communities” helps describe how LGBTQ people in River City feel about their community as well as how community institutions wax and wane over time. “LGBTQ communities are persistently ambivalent and not easily located along a trajectory toward assimilation or progress,” Forstie writes in her Introduction. “While LGBTQ institutions anchor communities in large cities, people anchor communities (and sometimes LGBTQ institutions) in smaller cities like River City. As people migrate to and from these communities, relationships, institutions, and events rise and fall…LGBTQ community has been necessarily temporary in contexts where institutions cannot be sustained.” In other words, in towns and cities too small to have an LGBTQ community center or a network of LGBTQ cultural institutions (bars, social clubs, sports teams, book stores, activist groups, etc.), a sense of community may fluctuate over time and is often dependent on particular individuals who help create it.

Forstie’s understanding of communities differs from other sociological accounts of queer community, which tend to imagine it as moving through particular stages of development: At first, LGBTQ people are largely closeted, then enter a coming out era, and eventually assimilate into the mainstream (what some scholars have called “post-gay” community). Complicating this progress narrative, Forstie argues that the “unsettledness of communities varies and is specific to each community’s contours and histories.” She explores how the broader contexts of communities like River City — geography, racial and gender demographics, political and industrial histories — shape how LGBTQ people feel and experience it. Rather than generalize about LGBTQ community formation based on case studies of urban coastal cities, Forstie wants to see how our understanding of community shifts when we look elsewhere.

“What, precisely, does ambivalent community look and feel like?” Forstie asks. To find out, Forstie asked LGBTQ River Citizens about their relationships. She found that friendships between LGBTQ people were key to their sense of community (or lack thereof). While existing research focuses on how queer “chosen families” are crucial to LGBTQ community survival, Forstie finds the reality was a bit more complicated for the people she interviewed. It is not just that friendships create community: Forstie wants to know, “Which friendships generate community, and under what conditions?”

Interestingly, she told me there is very little research on LGBTQ friendships in general: “There’s a lot of research on LGBTQ folks in families and what that means for folks, there’s a lot of research on LGBTQ institutions as a source of community, but not so much about the relationships that form them or don’t form them. So I think there’s a need to dive deep into understanding what relationships actually create a sense of community.” Her work helps us understand “how friendship may, in fact, hold LGBTQ institutions together or constitute communities after such institutions have faded away.”

Forstie told me,“Friendships where folks affirmed and validated [queer] folks’ identities were really important for LGBTQ folks’ survival. But not all friendships are created equal, right? Just because someone had a shared identity doesn’t mean that they were going to be friends…Some friendships didn’t allow LGBTQ folks to be seen at all.” Family relationships and friendships were variable, and some of her participants complained that LGBTQ community in River City was too “clique-y.” Yet those without connections to LGBTQ friends, romantic partners, or acquaintances often felt lonely. People without those community ties “were the folks who are most likely to leave” and move to other cities, Forstie said.

This is the ambivalence that Forstie finds so interesting about LGBTQ communities. She writes, “Ambivalent community reflects a sense of both/and—a sense of both the need and lack of need for LGBTQ community.” Some of Forstie’s participants complained about the community that existed but still desired to be a part of it. Others had close LGBTQ and straight ally friends, but still didn’t feel an attachment to a larger community. Still, others felt safe in River City precisely because they didn’t tend to associate with other LGBTQ people. For Forstie, these tensions and contradictions show us community isn’t a linear, stable, or objectively “good” thing. As she told me, “communities can be inclusionary and exclusionary at the same time.” Instead of romanticizing community, Forstie suggests that exploring how people understand community can tell us about “how people imagine their futures” in relationship to one another.

As two East Coast transplants living in the Midwest, Forstie and I ended our conversation talking about how the political context has shifted here since she conducted her research in the 2010s. As state legislatures introduce record numbers of anti-trans and anti-LGBTQ across the country, will this shift how we understand and feel a sense of community? Forstie shares that LGBTQ activists in River City occasionally create one-off events — like a 2016 vigil to honor the lives lost after the massacre at Pulse nightclub in Florida — to support one another. Standlone events put on by dedicated organizers can help create a sense of togetherness and solidarity during times of crisis without relying on longstanding organizations or institutions, she suggests. Forstie also predicts that “migration patterns are really going to change pretty substantially,” as LGBTQ people, and especially trans folks and/or families with trans children, consider leaving states increasingly hostile to their wellbeing. She and I colloquially share stories of friends and colleagues planning to leave Ohio and Missouri, the states where we both currently live.

“But folks do stay, for a variety of reasons,” she affirms. “I think it’s important for folks who don’t live in small cities in towns to be good allies to folks who are in small cities and towns. We [can] think about how we can support those folks in this moment, and to not be like, ‘Wow, it must really stink to be there,’ [but] to think about how we can share resources, right? So I started a monthly contribution to a mutual aid organization in the state that River City is located in.” Rather than just encouraging our friends and loved ones to leave their rural communities, Forstie encourages us to ask what they might need to sustain their wellbeing.

Despite the increasingly dystopian news about transphobic and homophobic legislation in the Midwest and across the country, Forstie wants us to recognize “there’s something to be said for the joy that can be found in those communities, for those of us who live in them, who are from them, who choose to stay.” She tells a heartwarming story about attending a small town Pride celebration with her family in Brunswick, Maine last summer — the town’s first! — where she ran into a former professor who hugged her warmly. As she tells this story, I think back to the joy I felt last year at The Office, surrounded by my colleagues and queers of all kinds. It felt powerful to participate in Rockford’s local LGBTQ culture, out with my friends at a thriving gay bar in a region many don’t associate with queer nightlife. “There’s something about a small town pride that really reinforces the importance of relationships, and not viewing community as a source of consumption,” Forstie reflects. “So I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to be all doom and gloom. I want to retain that feeling of joy alongside the struggle. So ambivalence to the end, right?”

Queer Mom Chronicles: Happy Pride Y’all!

I came out when my son was almost five years old. He was at an age where we could talk about what my identity meant and about life as a queer person. It was important for me that he not only understand my queerness in relation to his life but understand the LGBTQ+ community as a whole. Young kids are often way more open minded; it’s much easier to explain queer life to a four and a half year old and have him accept it.

One of the ways we did that was through picture books. There are so many picture books for kids that explain queer life and tell queer stories. One of his favorites was a book about Stonewall; not just the riot, but the building itself. When we lived in New York, we would pass it often because it was near the salon I took him to for haircuts. When we got to the part about the riot, I appealed to his empathetic nature and his sense of fairness to make it all make sense. Once he understood it in terms he could make sense of, I knew it would be easy to build on that over time.

By the following year, he understood that Pride started as a riot and why it’s important to acknowledge the origins of the month. I was able to teach him the un-whitewashed version of the Stonewall riots, giving power to the black and brown folks that put their bodies on the line so that his mom could be free to love freely. He already knew that people fear those who are different and how that can lead to violence, but that marginalized groups always find ways to fight back. But I didn’t only focus on that. I did teach him about the joy of being queer, and that even though Pride’s roots are a riot, we continue to celebrate to show the world what liberation and joy look like. That’s why we have a parade every year. When he was younger, the parade was not his vibe, and then the pandemic happened, so we had to wait to celebrate publicly.

Last year was the first time my family celebrated Pride, and woo wee, did we go all out. LA actually has TWO Pride weekends. West Hollywood Pride is the first weekend of the month (by time as you all read this, we will have already been!) so we went to the parade, which was a fun time. Driving would have been a nightmare, so we took public transportation; the city has trolleys that take you to the start of the parade route. On the trolley, there was an older gay man with a speaker playing a bunch of 70s and 80s disco, but then he put on the soundtrack to Rent and the whole trolley whooped. Did my partner and I participate in a singalong of “La Vie Boheme” and “Seasons of Love”? You bet your ass we did. It’s truly one of the gayest things I’ve ever done in public, and I loved every fucking second of it. That’s what Pride is all about!

Somehow, we ended up in an area with a lot of families, so he found other kids to play with. People were handing out flags and signs, so I taught him to chant “no cops at Pride,” and he really got into it while we waited. He got a beach ball and it kept him occupied, which was a godsend. His other favorite part was seeing JoJo Siwa on a float; he told all of his friends about it at school the next day. We walked the length of the parade because there’s a Salt & Straw at the end and we could all use an ice cream.

I planned our summer trip to New York to coincide with New York Pride. It was something I never got to experience when I lived there, and I just had to go. I convinced my best friend to come (she’d never been either), and I requested my mom’s presence, mainly so she could take my son home afterwards. To my absolute surprise, my dad decided he wanted to join in on the fun. You haven’t lived until you’ve gone to a Pride parade with your eight-year-old son and your seventy-seven year old dad who’s going blind and walks with a cane. But they had a great time! It was really special to experience that day with my whole family.

We also did Dyke Day in LA, which was so much fun. Some friends brought a whole picnic setup, and we brought our puppy and his puppy bestie. The pups were absolutely the belles of the ball. If you’re single, bring a puppy to Dyke Day. You won’t be single for long. The NYC Dyke March was a lot of fun too, especially because we skipped the marching part and waited for the march to reach Washington Square Park. You can hear them coming, and the energy in the park is electric. We hadn’t planned to stay long, but our kiddo had a blast playing with other kids who had families that looked like ours. We had to drag him out of the park.

This year, I’m planning on doing a Pride slideshow with his class. Most of his classmates know that he has two moms, but I don’t think they truly understand what that means. I did a slideshow presentation for Black History Month, and it went over really well, so I’m super excited to do this one. I’m going to teach them some vocabulary words, some LGBTQ+ icons, and have a printout of the progress Pride flag for them to color. My son gets mini lessons all the time, but I have no idea what his classmates know. I’m a little nervous, but I know the kids in his class are open to learning, and who knows? Maybe they’ll be able to teach someone close to them a little something.

I was curious to see what some other families are going to be doing this year. The WeHo Pride parade is full of families, but I know that not every family does that. Below are my favorite responses.

“I will be in Arlington, VA reading my debut picture book Molly’s Tuxedo at the Family Pride event at the Museum of Modern Art Arlington, co-sponsored by Rainbow Families. My daughter is home from college and will be there, too to help me out.” – Vicki Johnson

“We always talk a little bit about history and why we have to be visible and celebrate and activate because we weren’t always free to do so and many people fought for us to be here. Every year she gets older we talk a little deeper and a little more real in that regard. Otherwise it’s just a party and it’s really not. It’s important to me she knows that part especially now.” – Audrey Babcock

No matter how you celebrate, I hope you have a Happy Pride month!

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Queer Mom Chronicles is a monthly column where I examine all of the many facets of queer parenthood through my tired mom eyes. 

Eight LGBTQ+ Country Music Singers on Pride and Queering Country

“What kind of music do you listen to?” is always a question I dread. My response, “I listen to everything,” while mostly true, is a cover-up for how much time I actually spend listening to country music. I’ll admit that at any given moment you could turn on the local country radio station and I would probably know the lyrics at a moment’s notice. There’s shame in admitting that because popular country, as we know it, is for the white, conservative, heteronormative people of the world. Almost all of the top 40 musicians are cisgender straight dudes, and who among us wants to support that, right?

Since coming into my queer identity, this is one of the many contradictions I’ve felt I need to reckon with. But I am determined to prove to myself and to you, my skeptical readers, that country (and its associated genres like folk and americana) is so queer — and not just cis gay male queer but expansively, fluidly, gloriously queer! So, I went digging to find us some of the most radical, raging, talented queer country and americana artists for us to listen to this Pride.

Want to know how to RAGE this Pride? Host a cookout, bump our queer country playlist, and get these queers to the top 40.

Before I delve into the mini interviews I conducted with each of these artists, take a look at their bios to get to know them and their music a little better.

Madeleine Kelson (she/her) is a Nashville based Americana artist. She pulls from a rich tradition of folk, country, and Americana, challenging its boundaries as a queer artist, to represent the modern world.

Brody Ray‘s (he/him) music is a cross between the rock/pop influences he loved growing up and the country music and lyric that surrounded him and his whole life as he grew up and experienced life in Kearney, NE. It’s just what comes out when he writes!

Mercy Bell (she/hers) is “A potent, progressive take on emotive, modern folk” (Rolling Stone Country) and a “shape-shifting songsmith” (The Nashville Scene).

Jobi Riccio (she/they) is a songwriter and performer based out of Nashville, TN originally hailing from Colorado. They are a queer lifelong country music fan. While not all the music they write is specifically country, there is a strong twang-y thread that runs through it, and they hope to use this to challenge ideas of what it means to be both queer and country.

D’orjay (they/them) says “this ain’t your grandaddy’s country music,” despite it paying homage to the classic country music that artist D’orjay grew up with in rural Alberta. And it sure as hell ain’t stadium girls-trucks-beer country. Instead, they colour outside the lines with anthemic, bold blues, honky-tonk and rock-flavoured roots with a distinct queer twist.

Mya (Mimi) Byrne (she/her/and sometimes they) is a celebrated singer-songwriter signed to Kill Rock Stars Nashville, and her new album, Rhinestone Tomboy, has been lauded in NPR, Rolling Stone, and No Depression, among others.

Like a crackling backyard fire outside of a city at dusk, stars on one side of the sky and light pollution on the other, Mya’s music is in the pocket of traditional country and Americana, yet firmly rooted in the modern world. A proud and out queer trans woman, she is at the forefront of the queer country movement.

Meredith Shock (she/hers) is a queer singer/songwriter whose songs are her journal entries.

Kimber Springs (she/they) music is heavily inspired by their hometown, Nashville. They love giving their own take on country music.

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What/Who inspired you to become a musician?

Madeleine

I grew up surrounded by music. My mom started my sister and I on violin when we were four, and we grew up singing along to the radio in three part harmony. Music and songwriting have always been my emotional outlet, so I guess the feeling of catharsis, and the adrenaline of being on stage inspired me more than any one artist.

Brody

My inspiration for music started at a very young age. My mom has video footage of me running around in a diaper and cowboy boots with a Flintstones toy guitar jamming out to whatever music video was on the TV. My mother was and still is a very talented pianist, singer, and accordion player, and when I was about eight years old, she asked if I wanted to play an instrument and she took me to the music store and we picked out my first guitar! I also picked up singing, cello, and piano and took lessons all the way through college. My uncle used to teach me piano and singing as well. I had so many favorite artists that inspired me to chase a career in entertaining and songwriting. Artists like Dashboard Confessional, Sheryl Crow, Lenny Kravitz, Michelle Branch, Third Eye Blind, Taking Back Sunday, The Starting Line, Paramore, Tim McGraw, Jason Aldean… I could go on for days with a list of all the artists and groups that have made me fall in love with music and influenced my songwriting.

Mercy 

I grew up in an artistic family, and creativity was part of every day life. They were supportive of my talents before I believed in myself. I remember my mom telling me I should move to NYC and pursue music and my uncle showing me how to book gigs because he had been a promoter. And my voice teacher Marcelle, who also encouraged me to make music.

Jobi 

My first musical loves were angry female country artists: The Chicks, Miranda Lambert, the list goes on. I was obsessed with the way they sang with such attitude and power and spent hours in my room singing along to their CDs. It wasn’t until I began writing my own songs and was supported by older musicians in my local scene that I felt confident enough to start playing out, so I owe a lot to their support and the support of my family.

D’orjay 

I think certainly just growing up in a musical family. My mom just was a fan of the arts in general. Even growing up in a small town, and in particular, growing up on a farm on an acreage at a young age, there was still just a bunch of value that was put on music and creativity and acting and imagination and that kind of stuff in my family. As much as listening to other artists was a part of it, I think it really started there.

Mya/Mimi

Since my childhood, I wanted to be a musician, ever since I saw a guitar being played. My earliest influences were Elvis and Madonna, to be honest, and Jimi Hendrix really showed me the extent of expressiveness I wanted to aspire to. Once I found him, there was really no turning back.

Meredith 

I’ve always wanted to be a singer. As a young kid, I was constantly singing along to the country songs my mom would play in the car. There isn’t just one performer that I can point to as inspiration — the country women in the 90’s were my favorite! Eventually Taylor Swift inspired me to write more truthfully and continue to want to chase my dreams.

Kimber

My father was a singer, so I was surrounded by good music and some of the best musicians around, including my guitar teacher Regi Wooten. He had a huge impact on me.

What are you most proud of thus far in your career?

Madeleine

In the past couple years, I’ve gotten to play with artists that I really look up to and was featured a couple times in NPR, which has been a bucket list thing for me! Even more than that, I’m really proud of a queer country song I put out last year called “The Way I Do.” The tag is “if I don’t get to heaven for loving her true, god has never loved a woman the way I do.” It was essentially my career coming out. I was so nervous to release it, but the response has been incredibly encouraging. Hearing people say that they grew up on country music and felt like it didn’t represent them as adults until they found this song is really moving. Being able to be that artist for people makes me feel like I’m doing something right.

Brody

I think the one thing I’m most proud of so far is the opportunity I got to sing on America’s Got Talent season 13 when I came out as trans to the whole room and world. From all the thousands of messages I got on social media, I realized it really helped a lot of people understand what it means and looks like to be trans and for others like me to come out, transition, chase their dreams, and just be authentic and happy. That was such a huge moment for me as a person and an artist and for representing trans people around the world. It really boosted my musical career as well! Recording and producing my cover version of the first song I sang on the show “Stand In the Light” was a big deal as well. It has over 1,270,000 streams on Spotify. I’m super proud of that!

Mercy 

That I’ve made the music I want to make without anyone restricting me. I’ve made all my albums through crowdfunding (and maxing out my credit cards) so I’ve had complete artistic freedom. I can be myself.

Jobi 

I’m really proud of my choice to come out as queer professionally, not just personally, which I did via social media in 2020. I feel like when I perform now, I can show up as my whole self and not like I’m playing a character and wearing a costume like I often felt before I came out.

D’orjay 

Honestly, I think just that I went for it you know. I guess for some people, it doesn’t really resonate. But I felt like before I went down this music route, I already had lived a pretty full life and kind of really went for some things. And this is just something for myself I really wanted to do. And I had to just overcome a lot of internal and certainly some external barriers. So to kind of pick up the microphone, quote, unquote, at around 35. And just kind of going for it. I think that’s what I’m proud of. Everything else is, honestly, a cherry on a nice cake. I’m proud that I did this, so I won’t regret that.

Mya/Mimi

Quite frankly, staying alive and continuing to work without compromise. On a career goal level, playing in front of 18,000 people at the Love Rising concert in Nashville this spring, sharing the bill with Allison Russell, Maren Morris, Yola, Jason Isbell, and other heroes. Kissing my trans partner Swan Real in front of all of those people, showing the world that trans love is sacred…that’s my proudest moment onstage. But offstage? Probably the person who came up to me after a recent show who told me that my openness was the catalyst for them coming out to their parent as nonbinary. It made me cry.

Meredith 

I’ve played two really energetic shows this past year — one being a single release show that my mom and aunt flew out and surprised me for. This was my first full band show with all original music, which was just crazy to hear that happening in real life! The second show I’m proud of was for Louisville Loves Emo. I did three acoustic emo cover songs to a crowd of over 600 people. This was the largest crowd I’ve ever played in front of, and I felt like I was on top of the world.

Kimber

I am most proud of my songwriting. I have always struggled to feel like my words were any good, but I feel like I’ve gotten to a place where I really believe in what I have to say.

Have you ever felt out of place in the industry?

Madeleine

One hundred percent, yes. When I first moved to Nashville, I played a lot of country shows and wrote with a lot of country writers. Country has a long history of excluding queer people (and people of color, women…basically anyone that’s not a straight, white, Christian man…) and although we have the same taste in women (cue the laugh track), as a queer, Jewish woman, I don’t exactly fit that bill. I thought coming out publicly would kill my career before it could even take off. There are still times I find myself not playing more overtly queer songs at shows. Fortunately, in the past few years, the Americana community has made an intentional effort to not only include, but uplift queer artists, and artists of color.

Brody

I think I have always felt out of place in the music industry and country music mostly, mainly because I feel like most of the industry people would run if they actually knew I was trans, and I think that it has kept me from really getting much further here in Nashville. I just feel STUCK, and that’s is such a terrible feeling. I could be wrong though, and I think it’s worth sticking around to find out. I have been met with only kindness and love for the most part here, but most people don’t know I’m trans until I tell them.

Mercy 

Not in indie scenes. Not with other artists. Yes, in the music industry proper. Music Row in Nashville doesn’t know I exist, or if they do they’ve never reached out. I’ve also kept my distance somewhat, because there’s a lot of sexual harassment and misogyny. I had enough instances of being around creeps that I finally just stopped seeking out those industry spaces. Music journalists have been really kind to me and my lifesaver. They’ve always taken notice and helped me out. (I’m talking to you, case in point). And fans. Fans have given me my career.

Jobi 

I’ve felt a little out of place in lots of spaces both musical and otherwise; I think lots of queer people feel this in all facets of our lives. In music, I’ve been called “too country” for the indie scene, and “not country enough” for the country scene — in a way it’s perfectly representative of who I am as a person and the music I make, kind of somewhere in the middle of a few different things.

D’orjay 

Yeah. All the time? I don’t know. All the time. I think it’s too much for me to even go into that further. Other than just to answer the question directly. I feel out of place in the industry often and all the time. And it’s why I I don’t think I really participate in a ton of things traditionally that musicians in my position do.

Mya/Mimi

I often feel out of place. Despite being lauded by my peers and industry allies, I’ve been told more than once that I don’t fit in, literally, to so many of the wonderful places I aspire to play, or to agents who want to put me in a box. At the end of the day, I just want to make a living, and since the anti-trans laws started ramping up last year, I’ve found it extremely difficult to get work.

Meredith 

I’ve most definitely felt out of place in the industry — maybe even most of the time. I live in Nashville, so you’d think it would be easy to feel comfortable being a musician in “music city” but it’s quite hard. It’s easy to fall into the habit of constantly comparing yourself to everyone around you. Luckily, there’s a wonderful and supportive queer music community here.

Kimber

I have definitely felt out of place in the industry. I think in any genre, there is a lot of pressure for women and perceived women to be feminine and sexy, and I don’t exactly fit that mold.

Why is it important for us queer folks to make country music?

Madeleine

I think at its core, music is supposed to represent and resonate with people’s feelings and experiences. Country is no different. Any time you exclude the perspective of an entire group of people, you miss out on their stories and experiences. We deserve to be heard, and we deserve to hear music that we can hear ourselves in. The best way to make that happen is to keep showing up, keep being loud, and keep making music.

Brody

I think it’s so important for queer folks to keep making country music, because representation and visibility is the most important thing. Music, no matter the genre, is a human experience we all connect with in some way. It speaks for us, it helps us process things, it brings people together, it helps us feel things we need to feel and express. It’s therapeutic. It unites humans in a way nothing else can. Having queer representation in country gives hope to queer people around the world that country music is for ALL and ALL are welcome. Unfortunately, more than any other genre, I think country music has always had a stigma around it that straight white religious/conservative people hold the reigns of country music, and to have queer folk infiltrate that space is sinful, forsaken as queer folk try to scale the conservative walls that so many of us queer country folk seem to run into at some point as artists. As if we aren’t included or welcome. It’s the signal I’m getting anyways. But as time goes on, more and more artists are emerging and coming out AFTER they have made it big. Which is kind of discouraging for me as a person who’s already come out. But if we don’t have these big artist infiltrating country music this way, how will it ever change? It’s almost like a trojan horse hahaha. So I totally get it. They are coming out from within and unlocking the doors from inside for the rest of us to come in. Music doesn’t discriminate. Everyone, queer, Black, white, brown enjoys country music just because they do! We as humans don’t need to have reasons for enjoying a certain genre of music. We just like what we like! I think being open in country helps unite our people and country. There is no other genre of music out there that singles out a certain type of person for the way they were born. Knocking down those barriers is so important for progress. If we don’t talk about it or see it, we stay stuck.

Mercy 

Harlan Howard said “‘All you need to write a country song is three chords and the truth”, I’m pretty sure queer folks have a lot of truth to tell.

Jobi 

Up until very recently, I feel like it was understood in the broader culture that country music belonged to primarily straight cis white conservative people. Of course, LGBTQ country artists have always been here — pioneers such as Lavender Country were writing and releasing queer country music long before the internet — but they were either never taken seriously by the industry or silenced by it. Because of this history and those who paved the way, it’s a huge deal that queer country artists and fans feel empowered enough to create spaces that celebrate our love for — and our place in — country music.

D’orjay 

Because it’s hard fucking music man. Three chords and the truth. I think queer people are always at the forefront, and the trailblazers of living their most authentic and genuine lives and being their most authentic selves and striving for that and creating space for more people to be able to do that. And I feel like that is the essence of country music in my mind.

Mya/Mimi

Queer people and trans folks have always been a part of country. Our lives carry a gravitas that are in line with what is most cherished in this music…stories, relatable stories, of the outsider, of warmth, of love, of simple enjoyment of moments. We are the ones who can truly lay claim to being the children of the outlaw country movement, and we have that in our bones. There’s a throughline from Waylon to Willie to Jessi Colter to all of us queers. And the more visible we are, the more we can change the status quo. I’m a firm believer in the power of being out, and there are still so many in the closet. I hope all of us who are doing it inspire more folks to be able to do so.

Meredith 

I moved to Nashville wanting to do country music because it’s what I grew up listening to. The first songs I released really show that country side of me, but my music has since evolved. Heteronormative narratives are woven so deeply into country stories, so as I started to relate less to the genre, I started aligning more with the soft pop genre.

I’ve still embraced the storytelling style of songwriting that country music is all about. This country influence will always be the core of my musicality, and I am so excited when I see queer country artists perform. I think it’s important for folks to stake a claim within a space that might not always be tolerant and accepting. This is really the only way the genre will grow. I don’t ever want kids now who love country to look up and walk away from the genre because they don’t see themselves in these stories.

Kimber

It’s important because there’s a lot of country ass queer people. I don’t think people realize how many of us are out here.

Can music be an act of protest? Celebration? Love?

Madeleine

I think music is innately all of those things. With queer music, it’s often all three at once. When I play a queer love song, its existence alone is, for better or for worse, an act of protest. On the one hand, making music is a genuine and meaningful way to be visible. On the other hand, it kind of sucks that any time I write a love song, it’s not just a love song, but a political statement.

Brody

I think that’s exactly what all music IS. It’s all human emotion. Fear, anger, sadness, grief, celebration, love, happiness, freedom, protest, education, fiction, letting go, moving on, partying and having fun, overcoming, soaking up life’s many turns and experiences. Especially country music. It’s all about heart, and we all have that. Music is uniting if done correctly and with the right intentions. It’s how we express our individuality. It should always be that way!

Mercy 

A catchy song has power. It gets stuck in your head rent free, no matter who you are. Think of how much impact that is if you start saying things that are subversive and true. That’s the ultimate protest move.

Jobi 

Music, like all art, is a documentation of human history and culture. In my opinion, any art created by people who’ve been silenced and oppressed is a form of all three of those things: protest, love, and celebration. I recently came across a sermon from a trans preacher based out of West Virginia (@the..reverend on tiktok) who put it beautifully so I’ll share their words here:

“Let’s use our rage to make art and dance. To leave so many beautiful pieces of ourselves in the history books that no one can burn us away entirely”

D’orjay 

Yes, yes, and yes, absolutely. I feel like I have songs that are an act of all of those  things in “New Kind of Outlaw” and my album.

Mya/Mimi

Music can and is celebration, catharsis, love, hope…when you can create a moment that resonates across boundaries that separate us as human beings, when music carries a power, it breaks down the divisions in the working class and brings us together. And that’s why so many people are scared of our power and our love. It’s our freedom that frightens those who push against us.

Meredith 

I think all of the above! Music can be anything we want it to be. Even songs that I’ve written with personal experience in mind, people have come up to share that they connected with the lyrics in a completely different way — and that’s okay! A song doesn’t have to have one meaning. Relating to a song is about what you think it means, and in some ways, what you need it to mean in the moment — even if the writer didn’t intend for this.

Kimber

Country music has always been rooted in speaking your truth and questioning the status quo. Artists like Charlie Pride, Dolly Parton, and Willie Nelson are great examples of that.

Pretend we could hook you up with anyone in the industry to collaborate on a single? Who would you choose and why?

Madeleine

I’m a huge Brandi Carlile fan! I used to think that I couldn’t be queer and have a successful career in country or Americana. Watching her success showed me that I could be out and have a career. I think I owe a lot of my courage as an artist to her. She’s such a massive talent, and she’s also just so cool.

Brody

Oh gosh that’s a hard one! I think it would come down to probably Sam Hunt because I LOVE his style of songwriting and wish I could be as good! I feel like his style is exactly what I hope to achieve. Maren Morris, honestly the same, she’s so talented and has so much love for the queer community. Can we throw Hayley Williams and Dolly in there? Cuz why not? What’s not to love?

Mercy 

Jack Antonoff and Taylor Swift. I think they’re pop geniuses, and Taylor Swift is one of my favorite songwriters.

Jobi 

I would love to do a song with Aaron Lee Tasjan. His latest record has been on repeat for me basically since it came out, and I really relate to how he writes about and celebrates his queerness in his music. I’ve always identified with being both masculine and feminine and have come to celebrate that, so his song “Feminine Walk” really hits for me.

D’orjay 

Oh, man. I’ve got a few. Like, I want k.d. lang. I would love to because we’re from a really similar region. And in terms of like, queer country music and tickets to the music. She’s making the 80s so good. I think it’d be cool to do a song with Lil Nas X for so many obvious reasons. I think it’d be cool to have a country tune produced with Pharrell or something like that or just a cool producer that you wouldn’t normally expect to do a country song. And Pharrell was behind so much of the music, you know, r&b and hip hop, that I listened to in that era when he was part of the Neptunes. And then as always, Garth Brooks, you know, he’s always gonna be that guy. He was a big part of my connection to country music and family and just growing up honestly, just sitting in a garage. You know, singing songs with my best friends growing up.

Mya/Mimi

Well, there are so so so many people I would love to collaborate with. Willie Nelson. Chris Stapleton. Yola. k.d. lang. Harry Styles. Brandi Carlile. These folks all share my love of truth telling, of sharing the resonances of life’s observations that I believe are the cornerstones of the best songwriting, and the truth is that trans artists need to be platformed by our peers who *are* highly successful, because we are still diminished and invalidated by so so many folks. When trans people are being treated as equals, boundaries break down. I think we could write some real bangers, too.

Meredith 

Easily Taylor Swift. Her writing is remarkable, and to see how she has grown as an artist and successfully transitioned to a different genre is so admirable. You can tell she loves what she does.

Kimber

It’s my dream to collab with Shania Twain. She’s such a living legend, and I think we would make a banger together!

How are you celebrating this Pride?

Madeleine

Honestly, probably by spending time at home with my fiancée and our dog. I love Pride, and I think it’s so important to celebrate the beauty and joy of being queer. I feel fortunate enough to be surrounded by a community that never makes me feel othered. At the same time, I live in Tennessee, which is essentially at war with queer people. At this point in my life, celebrating Pride looks like taking a moment to hit pause on the fight, and taking time for myself to forget that there’s anything “different” enough about me to celebrate.

There will always be work to do, but there is something so important about letting yourself rest. I know that might sound like kind of a buzzkill, but it has been a really freeing feeling and an empowering act of caring for myself.

Brody

This Pride month, I’m going to spend my time performing for a few Pride-related events like Delaware Pride June 10, the Pride round at the Bluebird Cafe June 22, and Dallas Pride street festival June 24! I always make some posts on social media and put out my Pride flag and lights on the porch. Maybe a Pride photoshoot with my family and always supporting and celebrating inclusive businesses as well. 

Mercy 

I’m headed to Chicago to help with rehearsals for a queer musical I’m co-writing called “Leather Daddies.” It’s a rock opera about the underground gay sexual revolution in 1950s/60s Chicago. It’s being workshopped through About Face Theatre, and we got a National Endowment for the Arts grant. We’ll have a performance, free to the public, on June 18.

Jobi 

I’ve been struggling with this in the wake of so many horrific attacks on the queer and specifically the trans community nationally this year. As cliche as it sounds, I think the best thing we can do in moments like this is be in community with each other and support and uplift those of us who need it most. I think leaning into community is the whole point of Pride and especially important to remember amidst all the rainbow capitalism and heavy drinking culture that tends to really miss the point. Pride is a protest as much as it is a celebration, and it is for us and by us and it can look however we want and need it to look.

D’orjay 

Man Prides’ every day. I’m celebrating being queer every day.

Mya/Mimi

One of our sweethearts is flying into New York to stay with me and Swan, and we are going to walk around this city, kiss and hug our friends, and generally be as gay as humanly possible.

Meredith 

I will be going to Nashville’s Pride! The day of the festival is also my four years with my girlfriend, so we will be celebrating us, too!

Kimber

I’m celebrating Pride this year by getting the hell out of town and going fishing.

Anything you want to plug?

Madeleine

Check out my most recent album here!

Mercy 

Lookout for my song with Melody Walker, “Jesus Was a Drag Queen,” released June 2!

Brody

Hmmm, I did release my new single on Valentine’s Day called “Make A Love Song With Me” and I’m really ‘PROUD’ of this one. I have another queer artist featured on it; her name is Carmen Dianne and she takes the song to a WHOLE different level. Let’s just say I picked the right female vocalist! She’s so amazing, and I want everyone to hear it! I wrote and produced all the parts and went through two producers before I found Gabriel, who brought it all together the way I always imagined it would sound.

Check out his audition on AGT and so much more here and this cover of Carrie Underwood’s “Heartbeat”!

Jobi 

I have a new single “Sweet” coming out June 20 I wrote as a queer country self-love anthem for my younger self. You can also preorder my debut record “Whiplash” that will be out in September now!

D’orjay 

Yeah, I’m working on a little bit of a rebrand right now; I’m just gonna kind of be going by myself and then including my band in that as well. And just working on some new music. I’m really excited about the next album to come out. When it gets out, who can say, but yeah, I’m starting to do some recording again next month in June, and so yeah, I’ll be releasing that soon. 

Mya/Mimi

My record is out now, and I do hope y’all will love it and share it…and buy the purple vinyl! The most important thing to me is getting the word out to trans and queer people that artists like me exist and that there is a world out there for them, that no matter what the genre is, it can be yours. Especially country and Americana.

Meredith 

My debut EP was released in the Fall and it’s basically about my entire relationship! It’s catchy, queer, and sweet!

Kimber

I have my first single called “Small Town Love” coming out very soon! Stay tuned.

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While these artists couldn’t make it in this piece, I wanted to give some shoutouts to musicians who are 100% queer, country, and phenomenal. Amythyst Kiah (check out “Black Myself”), Thao & the Get Down Stay Down’s (check out “Holy Roller”), and Crys Matthews’ (check out “Prodigal Son”). Check them out in the playlist!

Countdown to Pride: Mocktails in Every Color of the Rainbow

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Countdown to Pride: 100 Songs To Get You Ready for Running Into All Your Exes Next Month

As we countdown to Pride this year, there’s a lot to celebrate and a lot to rage about. There’s no one decided-upon way to feel about it, and there’s no one right way to celebrate June. Maybe you’re spending the month partying with friends, organizing a protest, taking a trip with your partner, hosting a community event, or staying home alone to reflect and take care of yourself. Pride celebrations can look like whatever feels honest and exciting to you.

For those looking to get out and celebrate with their communities or vacate your city’s local queer joints, you might find yourself running into exes, past lovers, future lovers, or estranged friends who did or do run in the same circles as you. And depending on who you’re bumping into, you may or may not need to give yourself a pep talk beforehand. Or maybe you like to embrace the chaos for all that it is and bask in it.

No matter where you are, who you’re planning on celebrating with, and what you’re planning to do this month, let’s get pumped up for Pride together and everything that could mean. Even if that implies sharing a space with someone from your past or reconnecting with an ex. Enjoy these 100 songs for your Pride month to prepare to run into all your exes or just to have fun with — the choice is yours! I’ve personally had a hell of year so far and we’re only halfway through it, so I’ll be using this playlist as a roadtrip soundtrack for my partner and I while we skip town and celebrate Pride somewhere different this year.

Get angry, get horny, get introspective! Metaphorically, I’m raising a glass to your and yours this Pride month. Here’s six full hours of sounds for setting the Pride mood this year.

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Countdown to Pride is an Autostraddle miniseries leading up to Pride 2023. There are nine days until Pride month — are you ready?

Countdown to Pride: Okay Gays, What Flannels Are We Tying Around Our Waists This Year?

Here at Autostraddle, planning content around Pride can be a bit of a conundrum. It’s frustrating to see mainstream outlets only elevate in-depth content about the LGBTQ+ community and only really work with a bunch of queer and trans writers for one month out of the year, when we’re queer everywhere all the time. At the same time, Pride is immensely important to us here at Autostraddle and to a lot of our readers. It’s an ongoing part of LGBTQ+ history and resistance. It’s a complex month, which even the most well intentioned mainstream media Pride packages don’t always capture. We’ve come up with a really rad theme for our Pride package this year that harnesses some of that complexity, and I can’t wait for it to be revealed to you.

But first, a little drama, a little tease. For the first time ever here at Autostraddle, we’re COUNTING DOWN to Pride! Because let’s be real, June may be Pride month, but it’s not like we only exist as out, proud, loud gay people from June 1 to June 30! Pride events — small and large — have been in the planning stages for a while now. Hell, I started planning Pride content back in early April. (Also, for me, my local Pride doesn’t happen until October!) We’re counting down to Pride this year so we can get ready, get messy, and get cute as fuck for Pride before June even hits. This little Countdown to Pride series is meant to be easy, breezy fun — a lot of it will be geared toward stuff to buy before June and just overall Pride prep that isn’t overly serious. I just want to cultivate some good energy together. Once the official Pride package starts on June 1, you’ll see a shift toward more layered, expansive content that straddles many scopes, tones, and energies. Again, I can’t wait to reveal the theme!

But first, let’s have a little fashion fun. It’s ten days until Pride 2023, and I have a very important question: What flannel are we wearing? Sure, June may be a “hot” time of year in a lot of places, but is that really stopping my community from effortlessly tying a flannel around our waists? Lesbian Flannel is a stereotype, sure, but within the gooey center of many stereotypes, there’s sometimes a kernel of truth, but if you’re straight, you’re not allowed to make a stupid flannel joke! (Also, in my personal experience, I find flannel to be most prominent among bisexuals of all genders, an anthropological nuance I couldn’t possibly expect straight people to understand.) I also see flannel as a great fashion equalizer in that it is worn expertly by butches and femmes alike. So let’s round up some hot flannel, shall we? I tried to include a range of price points as well as options that come in a decent range of sizes!

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Pride Flannel: Neutral Edition

These are the flannels that are accessories — not the main attraction. These are best worn over a crop top or bikini top or something otherwise flashy. They make great waist flannels, because they aren’t going to detract from the overall look and basically can function like a gay belt (belts are also gay, but you know what I mean). Perfect for when you need to transition between spaces! You can wear this around your waist for the outdoor, sweaty function, and then throw it on as the night cools — or offer it to a cute cold femme, a position I’ve been in many a time due to outfit choices that prioritize style over temperature. You can be the butch hero in this situation! If the linked products aren’t exactly to your liking or they don’t have your size, click around a bit, because all of those brands have a TON of flannel options!

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Pride Flannel: Drama Edition

These are the flannels that are doing a little more, taking up a little more space, providing a little more spice. They’re bright or otherwise flashy in some way. They’re the centerpiece of your outfit, not a mere accessory! The custom band flannels do seem like something one could DIY, so perhaps you can just look to them for inspo! But if you don’t want to go through that hassle, the person who makes them on Etsy apparently takes requests, and I even saw a Taylor Swift one if that’s your thing! You can tbh use all of these as a jumping off point for potentially getting crafty with flannels you already own, like tie-dyeing or using bleach to transform it into something fun and new for Pride.

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Countdown to Pride is an Autostraddle miniseries leading up to Pride 2023. There are 10 days until Pride month — are you ready?

I May Just Be a Target Stan, but I Love All Their Pride Themed Merch

It’s that time of year again! Target has dropped their Pride merchandise for 2023 and I for one, could not be more excited. There are a lot of conversations about Pride themed merch and ethics, and look, I totally get it. It’s hard when you’re a marginalized group who seemingly only gets recognition for one month a year, even though we exist 365 days. And it’s hard to see major corporations profiting off of us when we know that money won’t make it back to the communities who need it the most. But insofar as corporations who put their money where their mouth is, Target ranks pretty high, so I don’t feel as bad about throwing them my extra dollars. They already get most of my money anyway.

I also really love that I can walk into a Target store and see a giant display full of rainbows and flags right next to where people are buying laundry detergent. It’s fun to know that some bigot is absolutely losing their shit over it while they buy said detergent. And honestly? The stuff is cute! I may just be a Target stan, but I love all of their Pride themed merch. (I even have the coveted Pride holiday nutcracker!) Here are the items from this year’s Pride merch drop that I’m salivating over.

Unfortunately, the “live, laugh, lesbian” tee is sold out online, so I will be stalking all of the stores in my area to find it.

Note: all shirts are available in a gender neutral cut up to size 4X

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Pride Mice Cat Toy Set ($5)

Any good cat lesbian will absolutely buy these cute little mice for the kitties to chase. Bonus, there’s catnip inside, which will make them irresistible.

Jenifer Prince Short Sleeve T-Shirt ($16)

I’m obsessed with Jennifer Prince art AND girls, so clearly, this is the shirt for me.(Unfortunately the shirt is sold out in most sizes, but there’s also a tote bag. And you can buy this Jenifer Prince Pride print made exclusively for Autostraddle.)

Pride Adult Sling Pack ($18)

I got one of these last year and we brought it to every Pride event we attended. But they’re great even beyond! We use ours for going to the dog park, the playground, the zoo, wherever!

Kids’ ‘It Takes All Kinds’ Short Sleeve T-Shirt ($10)

This is definitely the tee shirt my kiddo is going to want this year.

Ash + Chess Beanie ($15)

What is a queer without a beanie? This one proclaims “queer all year” and yes, the irony is not lost on me. *adds to cart*

FLAVNT ‘Girls Gays Theys’ Short Sleeve T-Shirt  ($16)

What’s not to love about this one? I’m here for them all!

Pride Portable Outdoor Chair ($26)

My partner and I are old, and we can’t sit on the ground anymore. Can’t wait to be the lesbian moms sitting on the gay chairs at the park.

FLAVNT ‘Queer Joy’ Cropped Tank Top ($13)

Queer joy is the whole point of celebrating Pride, isn’t it? This is a good reminder.

18″x30″ Pride Door Mat ($13)

My best friend sent this to me and I knew we needed it. It’s hilarious.

Ash + Chess ‘Queer’ Short Sleeve T-Shirt ($16)

I love the color of this shirt so much.

Trans Pride Power PHLUID Project Short Sleeve T-Shirt ($15)

Trans Pride and Trans Power today and everyday.

Love and Butter Pride Printed Oven Gloves and Mitten Set ($15)

For those of us who love to cook, these oven accessories are a must have. Nothing says I love you like something from the kitchen.

Pride Sparkle Shawl ($20)

I’m extra af, so this kind of stuff is right up my alley. You don’t need to just wear it for Pride either, this will look great on a Saturday night out! Dress it up, dress it down, you’ll always sparkle!

‘Not A Phase’ Short Sleeve T-Shirt ($15)

This is incredibly clever, and I LOVE this color

Pride Adult Shortalls ($30)

Shortalls were my Pride outfit of choice last year paired with a sports bra, so clearly I must buy these for this year.

Love is Love Pride Dog and Cat Tank Shirt from Boots & Barkley™ ($6)

Is the saying trite? Yes. Will I probably buy this for my dog? Also yes.

Is He You Know Short Sleeve T-Shirt ($16)

I’m sorry, I just love this shirt so much.

Trans Butterfly Socks ($8)

These socks will be cute with a pair of short shorts and sneakers. If you want to be festive, you can mix and match!

Cooler Bag ($21)

“Chosen Family is Love” is the truest sentiment. Carry this cooler bag to all of your summer fun with your chosen family.

Gayer PHLUID Project Cropped Short Sleeve T-Shirt ($15)

Yes, this is exactly the sentiment I need on a tee shirt.

Editor’s Notes: On Pride 2022

feature art: Autostraddle // tweet: Kayla Kumari

Doing a Pride package at a place like Autostraddle — where we are not only queer all year but also indie all year, which significantly impacts our access to resources — is a tricky task. This was my first time helming our Pride package as managing editor, and my initial thought was we could maybe do about seven Pride pieces and call it a day. After all, every mainstream media company every year trots out their handful of LGBTQ articles — a lot of them blatant SEO grabs — in June and calls it a day. Why should we work harder when we’re the ones who are, again, queer all damn year! When we are the ones covering queer and trans issues with a variety of angles and scopes and paying queer and trans folks to do so in July, in August, in January, February, March, every day of every month. Not just when it’s hot to do so. Not just when violently transphobic legislation is nationwide news. All the time, we’re here. All the time, we’re proud, or at least, fucking trying to be! As Pride increasingly becomes co-opted, soured by capitalism, and diluted from its original organizing and protest roots, it’s easy to become exhausted every June. Who is Pride even for anymore?

Us. The answer should be us. The answer must be us.

We decided on a theme for our Pride package: Step Up + Support. The theme was meant just as a North star for our writers. It doesn’t appear on any of the visual branding for the series, which was executed by our wonderful new Art Director. The unofficial theme the senior team discussed during our first Pride brainstorm was Shut Up + Get Fucked, which we saw as a playful double-meaning turn of phrase. We want the politicians trying to erase and punish the most vulnerable members of our communities to get absolutely fucked in the metaphysical sense for being the demons they are. But we also want to, like, get fucked, you know? The merging of the erotic with the political has a long history in queer art and activism movements (something touched on throughout this brilliant interview with Phyllis Christopher in the Pride package!!!!). We deserve pleasure and to act on our desires all the time. We deserve full lives. We deserve Pride beyond rainbow merch and performative social media posts from brands.

Shut Up + Get Fucked became Step Up + Support, but that same general energy of LET’S KISS and also FIGHT was there, perfectly embodied by the (A+ discounted) Jenifer Prince print imo. We wanted a Pride package that made space for joy and celebration but also anger, hurt, and ambivalence. We wanted fun shit smashed up against history smashed up against personal narratives. Step Up + Support was meant to be a guiding theme pushing our writers to think of the ways they are showing up for themselves, for their communities, for queer and trans youth. And what I realized when putting out our call for pitches was that corporations can try as hard as they want to co-opt Pride, but we don’t have to let them steal it from us. Pride still matters. Pride still means something, and it still is for us if we make it so.

The influx of brilliant ideas from everyone on the Autostraddle team proved that. I was hoping for seven strong pieces to publish, and I ended up with OVER TWO DOZEN. One for almost every day of Pride month. We had a playlist for being trans and horny, a heartbreaking letter to an ex friend, a smart and funny analysis of reality television, a thoughtful essay on INvisibility, poetry recs, more poetry recs, a conversation with queer youth (spoiler alert: the best way to step up + support queer and trans youth is to LISTEN TO THEM), personal narratives about what it feels like to be excluded from Pride events due to disability and tips for how planners can do better, style guides, makeup guides, musings on queer temporality, a guide to hosting a restorative queer dinner party with chosen family, AND SO MUCH MORE. Seriously, just dive on in.

For me, helming this Pride package came at a time when I had begun to reconsider the role of Pride in my life. When I lived in New York, I always attended the Dyke March, and every year I’ve been away from it, I feel a deep sadness. But in New York, I often skipped official big Pride events, rolling my eyes at the capitalism of it all. And there certainly are a plethora of legitimate critiques to be made of mainstream Pride events, especially ones that are cost prohibitive and especially especially ones that include — or, worse, celebrate — cops. But of course it was easy for me to roll my eyes at Pride when in my bubble of privilege in New York. Make no mistake: Homophobia and transphobia breed everywhere, and liberals writing off the South as some backwards place does nothing to serve queer liberation in any part of the country (oh, hey, there’s an entire essay about this in our Pride package!). But I’d be lying if I said I don’t experience being queer and being in large queer gatherings like Pride parties differently since moving to Florida.

For the first time in a long time, I regularly monitor my own behavior and appearance when out and about in my daily life. In my life in Brooklyn, I didn’t think twice before wearing my beloved Dyke Drama shirt. Now, I don’t even wear it in my own building. I realize how much various privileges played into my relative safety as a queer person in my life before, and I still benefit from a lot of those privileges here. There are times when I forget where I am, what the “rules” are here — not rules I ever agreed to, but ones I have to abide by nonetheless. I have to be aware of when and where I choose to touch my girlfriend or kiss her or call her “baby.” When booking a place for us to stay on a weekend vacation, I have to consider whether I should write partner or girlfriend or just…friend. And yes, I live in Miami, where people outside the state might think it’s perfectly fine to be visibly queer, but it isn’t. While Miami Beach — and South Beach in particular — are known for gay party scenes, there are very few actual queer spaces in Miami. There are no lesbian bars in South Florida.

So, instead, we make our own queer spaces. When I’m with my friends at the happy hour, it’s all of a sudden a queer happy hour. When I’m with my friends at the book store, it’s a gay book store. And at the few official Pride events I’ve been to since moving to Florida — including Orlando’s, which is actually held in October — I feel a genuine sense of relief, brief as it may be, laced with complications as it may be. To be surrounded by other queer folks in a place that tries over and over to keep us apart feels nothing short of magical. I feel almost like a baby gay at her first Pride again.

Since before I even came out to myself, I have always been surrounded by close queer and trans friends. My queer community outside of Florida still matters so, so much to me, of course. They always will. But there are limits that come with the geographical distance between us. My queer Florida family — Kristen, Stef, Stacey, Bobuq, Chris, Kristopher — are vital parts of my life here, and being in their presence buoys me in a way that’s difficult to describe. That’s what I cared the most about this Pride, seeing those people and continuing to nurture those friendships, which do feel essential for survival here. I cared about being a part of creating online community with you all, with Autostraddle members and readers. I cared deeply about this Pride package because even if Autostraddle is a queer space all year, it’s still our Pride. So, yes, we’ll step up and support each other year-round, but I also hope we all had some fucking fun this month — IRL, on the site, on the discord — because what’s the goddamn point if we can’t have a little joy?

A Letter to My Ex-Best Friend This Pride

feature art: Autostraddle

It has taken me over five years to figure out how to word this, and I probably still won’t fully convey the years of feelings I’ve harbored about our friendship. As I sit here and imagine you potentially reading this, I simultaneously want to yell at you all the things I wish I would’ve said and also want to sit in your basement, listen to our Jonas Brothers mixtape, and tell you about how happy I am, how I’ve fallen in and out of love a handful of times, how I got one of my dream jobs (writing here!), how I’m really finding my purpose in the world. I want to hear how you’re doing. Not the Facebook post version but the whys behind your decisions. What are you motivated by now? Is motherhood what you thought it would be? Do you have any new passions? What keeps you up at night? However, telling you my life and hearing about yours feels inappropriate and out of reach.

When we last spoke, you had messaged me on Instagram. You told me you were reading White Fragility and wanted to know if you had done anything over the course of our 18 years of friendship that felt racist. I feel the sting of your message reverberate through my chest even as I write this. No amount of white-supremacy-deconstruction-church-book-clubs could ever bring you remotely close to understanding the hurt I’ve been wrestling with throughout our years of friendship. I’ve spent countless hours of therapy digging deeper into the work of unpacking the ways I perceive my own skin color and ethnicity, and the closer I get to the core, the more I see your face. How was I supposed to answer a simple Instagram DM with over ten years of microaggressions holding up the weight of “I’m sorry if I ever offended you?”

I told you I needed space and then never reached back out. Since then, you’ve bought a house, gotten a dog, sold that house, and had a baby. I saw the birth announcement on my mom’s pantry door when I went home for Christmas. I remember seeing your Subaru parked in your parents’ driveway, just three houses down from mine. That was the driveway where we drew with sidewalk chalk and drank Minute Maid, what we lovingly called “canned pee.” We stood on that driveway to watch your older sister go to her first prom. We rode our bikes up and down the driveway every summer day trying to seem like we weren’t spying on the hot young Amish guys building the house across the street. In the short drive between your driveway and mine, I always see shadows of the two of us running back and forth between our houses singing, laughing, riding scooters, eating popsicles. Between these two driveways we created worlds beyond our imaginations. We made lemonade stands. We exchanged presents on Christmas morning. We spent lazy summer nights dreaming of the day we’d find our soulmates and be each other’s maid of honor. We were going to have babies at the same time so we could sit together and eat off our large tummies. We planned our playdates with our children and talked about how our husbands would also become best friends. We even discussed what our lives would look like in retirement. Even though we would both have dementia, we would get matching scooters with little license plates that said “best friends” so, even if we forgot each other, we would somehow always have a way to know one another. All of this and more fills the space between my driveway and yours; it fills the space between your last message to me and my read receipt.

I’m sorry I never reached back out. I didn’t know how. I didn’t know what to say. I still don’t know what to say. As long as I remain who I am now — and you remain who you’ve become — I don’t see a future with the happy ending we always dreamed of. A few weeks ago, I had one of the best weekends of my life at a queer wellness retreat where I got to walk around naked, have a queer baptism, and go to a play party. I think you’re in Chicago now. You were probably helping your husband’s church over the weekend. You probably took the baby to see her in-laws. You might even have another child on the way. We’ve grown in two directions that aren’t quite opposite, but one is far more unforgiving than the other.

When I trace the map of our falling out to its origin, it’s clear to me now that our futures were never going to be aligned. It feels similar to having a codependent ex: The beginning was full of love, laughter, and infinite possibility. The end was long, drawn out, messy, irreparable. Even though I grew up Catholic, it wasn’t my family’s culture or reactions that eventually gave me trauma. It was your family’s evangelical, white-centric ignorance. Growing up, your parents took me in knowing I had a stifled relationship to my own parents. I went to church with you; I prayed before meals with you; I was even a part of your high school youth group. I almost got baptized in a nondenominational church because of you. I wanted to feel wanted and loved, and the only place I was receiving an outward expression of that message was with your family. Everything always seemed fine. Everyone always seemed to love each other. Everything was always possible through God. Everyone was always blessed. Every path was always sacred. Everything you ever wanted in a job, family, marriage, you got because you believed in a Jesus Christ who loves you but hates queer people.

I’m not blaming you for what you didn’t know then. I’m expressing my deep hurt for what you know now and still choose to believe. I will never forget the conversation we had in your mom’s piano room that Christmas. Before I told you to sit down, I was crying. You were already tearing up. We both knew it was coming. I had a girlfriend I was madly in love with, and I wanted so desperately for you to know and be happy for me, just like I was for you when you got married a few years prior despite my own personal bitterness towards heteronormative Christian marriage culture. Admittedly, I can’t quite remember how I told you I was some type of gay. I think I told you I had a girlfriend, and then you asked how long I’ve known. You cried and said something about how you don’t believe I’ll go to Heaven, but you can love me and pray for me. You asked if I could send you any books on Christians who are gay. I tried to comfort you through your tears, but my reach to you didn’t feel quite the same. I was so concerned with how you would take the news that I couldn’t process how angry I was feeling. I walked away from that antiquated off-white room knowing our friendship would never be the same.

For the next few years, this moment lived in a dark, locked corner of my heart. No one needed to know, especially my family, since they would’ve blamed me for ruining our friendship. Heck, you might still think that now. The first person I honestly shared this story with was the third friend in our trio. You know who I’m talking about. I think you two occasionally interact on social media still. You might’ve seen that the two of us are still good friends now. Once I came out to her, it brought us much closer. She told me she spent years angry with me for writing a pro-life piece about the benefits of chastity. Those were in the days I wanted to be a nun. I tried to explain how I’ve grown since then. Most importantly, I apologized and told her I know better. I know now that I hurt people with that article. I hurt myself with that article. She forgave me, and now I can say we’ve been friends for almost two decades. I wish I could say the same about us.

She had the courage to tell you all the things I couldn’t. She wrote you message after message with every Christian argument she could think of (even though she’s an atheist). “I still love you but” arguments were all she could get out of you. It was clear that even our strongheaded, lawyer-minded friend wasn’t going to get through to you, so how was I supposed to reach back out, knowing that’s how you felt? In retrospect, I feel ashamed I didn’t do the work of talking to you myself. I assumed that even if I did come to you with my feelings or all of the theological arguments in the world, you still wouldn’t really love me for who I am at my core, and that alone is what has kept me from reaching out all these years.

Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You” is blasting through the speakers of the boba shop where I’m writing this letter. I always thought about this song as a ballad to an ex-lover, but it feels heartbreakingly appropriate in this moment. I will always love you, and I know you will always love me. Sometimes love isn’t enough. Most of the time, love has conditions. You didn’t step up and love me the way I needed you to, a way which will always conflict with your beliefs. Regardless, a day doesn’t go by where I don’t think of you. Years of therapy and personal boundary setting has showed me it’s okay for this to be what our relationship looks like now. It’s okay that 10-year-old me would be devastated to see we aren’t friends, because 27-year-old me is the happiest she has been in her whole life.

Even throughout our youth, we always joked about the funny, dramatic, sentimental speeches we would give at each other’s weddings. For some reason, that felt like a pinnacle moment in the future of our friendship. Even though I’m single and not getting married anytime soon, I think about how I will look at my wedding one day and see the space my ten-year-old-self wanted you in. This doesn’t make me sad, though. It makes me endlessly grateful. It will remind me that you helped me come out of my shy, sensitive shell. You showed me what it looks like to be goofy, smart, confident and maintain standards, especially with boys. Through our friendship, I learned more about myself than I could’ve learned from any other relationship in my life. You showed me what it means to be me and, because of that, I am so blessed and lucky to be the queer person I am today.

This Episode of “Real Housewives of New York” Was Performative Pride Allyship at Its Finest

Allies are the real backbone of queer culture.

[cue laugh track]

Just kidding. I hope you weren’t ready to flip a table at that statement, because today we are taking a journey into what allyship looks like on screen. What is an ally, really? Your options are: A) a Lady Gaga billboard, B) someone who tweets out “love is love” or “trans rights are human rights” for clout, C) a politician who “supports us” but then casually allows anti-queer policies to pass, D) the nice lady who yells “HIS PRONOUNS ARE THEY/THEM”.

The answer is actually E) all of the above, but allies are so much more than just that. Allies are everywhere on television, and we as queer people should be incredibly thankful for that, but my personal favorite place that celebrates allyship is none other than the Real Housewives franchise. No other series has done quite as much for representation on the small screen as Andy Cohen and his wide collection of American Girl dolls come to life, many of them dragging their gay accessories along with them to gossip with about their frenemies.

Since beginning my deep dive into the world of RH, I’ve been particularly taken by Real Housewives of New York. One episode especially has never left my mind when it comes to the housewives and how they interact with queer people. Hell, a scene from it was even tweeted out this year with the playful “happy pride month” phrase attached. That’s right folks, in this ongoing celebration of Pride, we’re going to talk about season four, episode two of RHONY, “March Madness.”

Let’s jump back over a decade to the top of RHONY’s fourth season, arguably one of the weakest of the series overall but not without its treasures (from stolen hangers to bumpy camel rides). All of the drama from past seasons continues to boil as this one begins, people try to sweep their mistakes under the rug to start fresh, and the women all come together and vaguely pretend to like each other at the first event of the season. While tensions are still low, Alex McCord announces she and her husband Simon are on the committee for the Marriage Equality March, which will proceed from Manhattan to Brooklyn to support those who want to get married and cannot, and that all of the women are invited to march along with them in their wedding dresses (or a white outfit that is adjacent in some capacity).

It’s a simple invitation that, without the context to come, is actually rather endearing. After all, this was 2010, and the Marriage Equality Act had still not been passed (though the season aired in 2011 just months prior to its signing). Seeing a bunch of straight women — Sonja included despite her attraction to women being alluded to many times later in the series, though she never identifies as “bisexual” herself — band together and set aside their issues for the sake of supporting queer people in their journey toward marriage (which was the issue du jour at the time) was a net positive. Do Ramona and one of her friends insert their own conservatism by toasting and suggesting marching for a small government? Sure. Does Jill take the moment and make it all about her as usual? Also yes. But, y’know, as queer people, we are forced to settle for crumbs.

It doesn’t take long for this to sour though, as everything about this event quickly becomes about none other than the women themselves instead of the people they claim to be doing this for. In the same episode, Jill makes excuses for not being able to attend the march while still being on some sort of honorary committee, and Alex guilt trips her about not attending. But the true magic doesn’t begin until “March Madness” itself.

Sonja Morgan begins the episode by noting she was invited to be the grand marshall and one of several speakers at the event, explaining that MENY (Marriage Equality New York) described her as the ideal opener: light, funny, and “such a gay icon.” Now, to be fair, Sonja Morgan is a gay icon (she’s “raised millions for the LGBT”), and I will admit to having had many a session with my therapist explaining how deeply and painfully I relate to her at times, but I digress. As soon as Alex enters the room, she reminds everyone that she is on the host committee, and the episode becomes a question of whose event it really is. As Kelly aptly puts it: “So is it Sonja’s day or is it Alex’s day? I’m not sure, but I was marching for marriage equality.”

Alex, bless her heart, tries to explain the significance of wearing bridal gowns to this event and is instantly cut off by Kelly, who clarifies they’re really just doing it because it’s fun and campy, while Sonja emphasizes this isn’t a public broadcast, and Luann calls her an annoying infomercial. What follows is a series of inane conversations about dressing up and various women challenging each other about the fact that it isn’t their day, but actually a day to support marriage equality. “She was trying to take ownership of a day that was supposed to be about a cause, not about a person,” Alex notes about Sonja.

This is further proven by the fact that, upon arriving at the event itself, Alex discovers that Sonja has blocked any of the other housewives (and their husbands) from speaking at the event. Simon, who had a speech prepared, has essentially been cockblocked because, as Sonja notes, “it’s about me.” The thing is, as right as Alex and Simon are in their frustration about the whole thing, they do, inevitably, participate in the same game as Sonja does. Everything becomes about them.

For half the damn episode, the women (and Simon) do nothing but argue with each other about who exactly is the problem and who exactly is doing the most for marriage equality and gay rights. Sonja’s speech (if you didn’t click the link above, I implore you to do so now) was something of a disaster, and Simon’s speech, which he recited in private to his friends at home, isn’t much better despite coming from a seemingly more sincere place. Every minute of this fight for marriage equality became something else: a showcase of who, exactly, should be allowed to pat themselves on the back the most.

These are people who have proposed themselves as bastions of selflessness, sacrificing their time and energy and voices for the sake of queer people, but are incredibly selfish in the way they approach it. There is no talk of why any of this matters beyond shallow comparisons to straight life, as it is simply a given that it matters because these women say it does.

To revisit and write about this episode, in some ways, feels like analyzing an ancient relic, something that is so bafflingly dated that it’s hard to imagine we were ever there. Even beyond the absurdity of the reality series itself, there’s something ridiculous about looking back at just a decade ago and realizing that marriage was the sole priority of queer people in charge. It’s easy to laugh at Jill when she jokes that gay people should suffer as much as straight people in marriage, but when you think about it — isn’t it laughable that that’s exactly what people were happy to settle for instead of fighting for safety beyond that?

“March Madness”, as completely unhinged and dated as it is, also reveals something far more depressing and contemporary: Nothing has really changed. Is watching faux-celebrities bicker over who is the best ally not essentially what we do every day now between Twitter and the news? I’ve long maintained that reality television, for all its inanity, is something of a microcosm of American culture. What is Survivor if not just showcasing how willing people are to backstab each other in the name of a prize? What did our last presidential elections teach us if not how much of an impact on the culture someone’s self-aggrandizing behavior can have?

Looking back at the last decade of television, including but not limited to “March Madness”, can actually show us exactly how things still are. To call the episode a perfect encapsulation of liberal bullshit isn’t a stretch, as it is just scene after scene of people in power praising themselves and each other for caring without actually doing a single thing. Think of how that plays into everything in politics designed to be for those who most need it. While conservatives do their damnedest to ensure people will be stripped of their rights, liberal politicians are showing up on Drag Race and doing nothing but telling people to vote.

This isn’t a new observation by any means, but the realm of politics is one in the same with reality television. Everything is about empty promises for the sake of self-promotion, to the point where streaming services are producing just as many shallow hagiographic documentaries about campaign trails as they are reality television. Anyone who even considers criticizing the actions of someone in power becomes the target of criticism themselves. Just like Alex and Sonja accuse each other of being narcissistic about the event, so does every politician who tells us we should shut up, take what we can get, and go back to the polls.

For all the pronouns in bio and tweets that say “trans rights are human rights,” is anyone actually doing anything? Or is it all one big performance? As depressing as it is, this is what ally culture is, and has always been, about. It is people who don’t understand our struggles thinking they have the experience to speak in our place. It is people with power cherry-picking which issues they care about and putting them on a national platform without acknowledging the mountain of other issues, sometimes far more life-threatening, that exist. With all the anti-queer rhetoric, propaganda, and legislature that continues to threaten us, wouldn’t it be nice if everyone stopped fighting over who gets to represent us best and instead actually fought to save us?

The Best Straight Movies of the Past 10 Years

It’s Pride Month which means every straight publication is publishing or republishing a list of queer movies to help you celebrate. “16 LGBTQ Movies to Watch This Pride Month,” Time Magazine suggests. “LGBT Film List for Pride Month,” Harpers Bazaar adds. But while they’re winning SEO battles recommending Brokeback Mountain, whomst is thinking of the straights??

Here at Autostraddle, we cover queer movies all year-round. Whether in our exhaustive 200 Lesbian+ Movies list or more esoteric guides, we don’t need Pride Month to inspire enthusiasm for gay cinema. That’s why this month, I thought we’d fill in the straight gap while our hetero friends are busy with the queers. I present to you: The Top 10 Straight Movies of the Past 10 Years.

Author’s Note: Since straight-made queer lists include films with minor queer characters, my generous rule here is if a film has at least one straight protagonist it’s eligible. This is not a joke. These are genuinely my ten favorite straight movies of the past ten years.

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Honorable Mentions:

Certain Women (dir. Kelly Reichardt)
Everything Everywhere All At Once (dir. Daniel Kwan & Daniel Scheinert)
Happy Hour (dir. Ryūsuke Hamaguchi)
If Beale Street Could Talk (dir. Barry Jenkins)
Mad Max: Fury Road (dir. George Miller)
Minari (dir. Lee Isaac Chung)
Never Rarely Sometimes Always (dir. Eliza Hittman)
The Pink Cloud (dir. Iuli Gerbase)
Shoplifters (dir. Hirokazu Kore-eda)
Toni Erdmann (dir. Maren Ade)
Uncut Gems (dir. Josh & Benny Safdie)
Us (dir. Jordan Peele)

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10. Before Midnight (dir. Richard Linklater)

One of the greatest straight love stories in cinema history, Richard Linklater’s Before Trilogy found melancholy in its conclusion. While Before Sunrise portrayed two straight strangers falling in love and Before Sunset found romance in second chances, this last entry is more concerned with the challenges that arise after the magic. Before Midnight may not appear as romantic, but it ultimately reaches a sweet acceptance. Not all love is meant to last forever. Sometimes love that does last is still hard. But even amidst the greatest challenges, there’s still beauty in straight love.

9. Widows (dir. Steve McQueen)

A reoccurring theme in straight cinema is hetero women cleaning up the messes of hetero men. Never was this done better than in Steve McQueen’s post-Oscar win feature Widows. Viola Davis leads a truly iconic cast in this heist movie about a group of women joining forces to pay off the debt left by their thief husbands. A remake of a British miniseries, McQueen transports the story to Chicago where he infuses the tale with explorations of race and local politics. While many of the cast members are not straight themselves, they do an excellent job portraying their characters — finding humanity beyond their sexuality.

8. As I Open My Eyes (dir. Leyla Bouzid)

This French-Tunisian co-production begins like so many France-set political coming-of-age tales. Farah is a singer in a secret relationship with a male member of her band. She’s feisty, stubborn, horny, and defies her parents who want her to study medicine. But this film takes place in Tunisia in the summer of 2010 and as it continues, director and co-writer Leyla Bouzid gives that familiar arthouse tale a postcolonial edge. Through Farah’s straight coming-of-age, Bouzid shows the difference between navel-gazing teen rebellion and real social rebellion. It’s a difficult film that finds beauty in music and in the youthful ability to fight for lost causes. Anchored by a stellar lead performance from Baya Medhaffar, As I Open My Eyes is one of the most under-celebrated films — straight or gay — in recent cinema.

7. Lemonade (dir. Beyoncé and others)

While undoubtedly one of the most accomplished contemporary straight musicians and businesswomen, Beyoncé Knowles-Carter deserves just as much praise as a filmmaker. Building on the achievements of her self-titled visual album, Lemonade is a cohesive, collaborative music film that explores Black heterosexual womanhood and Black heterosexual relationships. The famously private artist uses the challenges of her public marriage in a work centered on betrayal, anger, hurt, and, ultimately, forgiveness. With the words of Warsan Shire and artistic references ranging from Julie Dash’s Daughters of the Dust to the video art of Pipilotti Rist, Beyoncé showcases the variety of great art made by straight women who are married to or have been married to men.

6. Señoritas (dir. Lina Rodríguez)

Lina Rodríguez has been dismissively referred to as the Colombian Lena Dunham. But while they may share a focus on straight characters, it’d be more accurate to compare her to the non-straight Chantal Akerman. With long takes and a grounded setting, Lina Rodríguez lets her characters live in real time. Her debut feature, Señoritas, follows a young woman named Alejandra as she goes about her daily life in Bogota. She helps her mom cook, she makes out with boys, and, of course, she masturbates. It’s normal to want to find comparisons for cinema this formally unique, but the fact is Rodríguez’s cinema is entirely her own. There is no film — straight or gay — quite like Señoritas.

5. Mudbound (dir. Dee Rees)

While some people may take issue with a queer filmmaker telling a straight story, Dee Rees’ masterpiece epic Mudbound is proof that sometimes it’s possible. Based on the book by Hilary Jordan, Rees’ film follows two heterosexual male veterans — one Black and one white — returning to their families in rural Mississippi after World War II. With a talented ensemble cast, including an Oscar nominated turn from Mary J. Blige, Rees creates a painful and powerful American story. And while I’m here to discuss straight achievements, I still have to mention the truly incredible cinematography from Rachel Morrison. (While nominated for an Oscar, she ultimately lost to Roger Deakins, only the 119th man to win the award.)

4. Magic Mike XXL (dir. Gregory Jacobs)

Many stories of heterosexual masculinity show it to be a toxic pursuit, but this surprising sequel demonstrates the ways it can be used for good. A road movie, a love story, a tale of friendship, a modern day Old Hollywood musical, Magic Mike XXL is the film we hoped the first one would be and more. While passing off directing duties to his fellow straight man and long-time AD Gregory Jacobs, heterosexual auteur Steven Soderbergh stayed on the project as DP and editor splashing his style all over the affair. Jada Pinkett Smith, Elizabeth Banks, Donald Glover, and Amber Heard join our main cast of dancer bros and the result is a smart and delightful burst of sex and charm. By the time the film builds to its big final number, even the gayest audience member might wonder if they’re a little bit straight.

3. Lady Bird (dir. Greta Gerwig)

A dazzling portrait of a white heterosexual girl’s coming-of-age, Greta Gerwig’s solo directorial debut gave us a straight character anyone can root for. Quoted, memed, written about, and referenced to death, Gerwig’s film continues to charm due to its relatable nesting doll of love stories.

Saoirse Ronan’s Christine “Lady Bird” McPherson has two romances — one with Lucas Hedges and the other with straight actor Timothée Chalamet. But the real love story is between her and her best friend Julie played by Beanie Feldstein. Except the actual real love story is between her and her mother — a standout performance from Laurie Metcalf in a film full of standout performances. Except ultimately it’s not that either. Ultimately, it’s a love story between Lady Bird and her hometown of Sacramento, a place she can’t wait to leave yet can’t help but love. It is all of these love stories, each told with nuance and attention to detail. To quote the film, “Don’t you think maybe they are the same thing? Love and attention?”

2. American Honey (dir. Andrea Arnold)

Her recent television work may have focused on people with more privilege — I Love Dick, Transparent, Big Little Lies — but Andrea Arnold’s films have long centered tales of lower and lower-middle class heterosexuals. In an industry that’s nearly impossible to enter without economic privilege, Arnold is one of the few auteurs to share the background of her characters. This is felt in work that’s grounded in economic struggle but disinterested in the trauma porn of more voyeuristic artists. Never is this more true than in the beautiful masterpiece, American Honey.

In her debut performance, Sasha Lane bravely explores the psyche of a heterosexual character, portraying Star, a teenage girl who gets involved with a traveling magazine sales crew. Not only is American Honey an audacious work of cinema, it also understands that rumored heterosexual Rihanna’s “We Found Love” is the greatest song of all time.

1. In Between (dir. Maysaloun Hamoud)

While Maysaloun Hamoud’s masterful debut tells the story of a lesbian DJ we can all relate to, its straight storylines hold equal power. Leila, Nour, and the aforementioned DJ, Salma, are three very different Palestinian women navigating life in occupied Tel Aviv. Leila is progressive and Nour is traditional, but they both face oppression in their heterosexual relationships. Layer this on top of the oppression they face as Palestinians, and they are both experiencing untenable situations. As the years pass since In Between’s release, its relevance only grows. Not only does the occupation of Palestine continue to result in inequity and violence by Israel, but, more broadly, so many of us are facing increased — and intersecting — oppression from our own fascist governments and conservative societies. This is not a hopeful film, but I find hope within it all the same. There may not be easy answers for any of us, but there is community and solidarity. These three women support one another — religious or not religious, straight or gay. They take care of each other in an impossible world.

The best heterosexual cinema is not heterosexual at all. The year is 2022 and our best films understand that queerness is everywhere, even in straight stories. Most of us — no matter our gender or sexuality — have some identity that’s currently under attack. Now more than ever we need solidarity. Now more than ever we need straight films like In Between. [#64 on our All-Time Lesbian Movie List 😉]