all photos courtesy of the author
As an ultra-feminine-presenting, ex-conservative Christian, I yearned to be accepted into queer community when I came out. I never thought floral design — an industry I assumed to be awfully straight — would be where I found it. Three years later, and I couldn’t have been more wrong. The art of floral design is beautifully queer-coded, and floristry is an art run and cultivated by the gays.
Flowers have a language of their own, expressing sentiments of love, despair, gratitude, you name it. And throughout history, flowers have held ‘hidden meanings’ to communicate elements of queerness, rooted in translating the need for queer liberation in plain sight.
In the 1890s, Oscar Wilde famously wore a green carnation and encouraged his friends to do so as a symbol of “unnatural” love. Donning an unnaturally dyed bright green carnation became a trend among gay men in England as a result. Oscar Wilde was so brat. I wish I had Wilde’s zest and ability to use creativity to embrace the beauty of my queer existence earlier in life.
“When did you first know you were gay,” my mother curiously (and randomly) asked when I was 31 years old, four years after I had come out.
It was, at least, a refined version of the question she had previously asked out of animosity disguised as Christian “love”: “Are you gay? Because you know that’s unacceptable in this household and in the eyes of God.”
This new question was one I wasn’t prepared for. It reflected a calm curiosity I never imagined would escape my mother’s lips after years of scrutiny and suspicion surrounding my sexuality. Years of avoiding what we both knew. The same question I would revisit for over a decade of my life, knowing damn well I could pinpoint the exact moments, the outstanding feeling in my chest, and the overwhelming sense that I wasn’t like other girls. I was tainted, but surely everyone felt the same way in some sense, right?
My friends probably didn’t count down the minutes until everyone was asleep to quietly “stumble upon” The Real L Word for the fifth night in a row, even after getting caught and confronted about it.
Deep down, I knew the answer to my mother’s question, a memory itching to be told.
I’ll never forget the smell of the warm European air circling the tiny room I shared on an ambassador trip. The odd anticipation my 14-year-old mind didn’t want to dissect. As ambassadors, we traveled from city to city, swapping roommates in each new hotel. I waited for the moment to room with the girl that no one could resist; and here was that opportunity. My heart fluttered as she hopped in my bed and carefully placed her head on my stomach while caressing my arms.
Don’t move, I told myself.
I would hate for her to think I was enjoying her warm body against mine or that I was different. Because if anyone found out, what would I say? My gay panic ticked louder than the Grey’s Anatomy episode playing in the background. Maybe she had these intimate moments with other girls on the trip. A flicker of jealousy quickly covered me. I liked her, liked liked her.
Zinnias are an interesting flower. While their petals appear as delicate as papier mâché, their roots are deeply grounded, and yet, they still need something to lean on. This was my relationship with my mother. Everything in me hated that I yearned for her acceptance. I wanted to lean on her and know I’d be fully supported. I felt this urgent sense that if I didn’t nurture our relationship, I would never be able to fully bloom. Navigating this uncomfortable conversation with her about my queerness felt like growing my zinnia garden for the first time. It took patience, proper planning, and a willingness to adjust based on the flower’s needs.
How will I cultivate the strongest stems?
Total transparency with my mother felt like bearing my soul, something I wasn’t ready to do. When did you first know you were gay invaded my body. I couldn’t tell her about the time with the girl on the ambassador trip. Instead, something else came out without much thinking. The words “I always knew” traveled through my Subaru Outback like tiny pollen particles floating in the air.
It was the truth; I always knew being gay was a part of my identity, an identity that would lead me to find my eternal love: flowers.
The gay rights movement is strategically decorated with floral references. Historically, flowers have represented the growing need for civil discourse, as well as gay people’s ability to flourish in undesirable conditions. The pansy is widely known as a term used for gay men and later reclaimed during the ‘Pansy Craze,’ starting the rise of gay nightlife and drag performances in the 1930s. Even flowers as symbolic as the rose have ties to gay culture. In 1971, Japan’s first well known gay publication was released and called “Barazoku,” or “rose tribe.” And nothing is more iconic than Martha P. Johnson’s many flower crowns. Images of her adorning flowers highlight a small glimpse of how beautifully fierce she was during her fight for queer liberation.
Lavender is one of the most notable symbols for gay political activism; both the color and the flower speak for and to us. The Lavender Scare was a witch-hunt that started in 1950 and lasted over a decade, targeting LGBTQIA+ individuals working in government positions. Americans holding government positions were harassed, fired, or forced to resign solely based on their perceived sexual orientation.
Lavender has long been associated with nonconformity and resistance to gender norms. The term “Lavender Menace” was originally used by National Organization for Women (NOW) founder Betty Friedan to dismiss lesbian feminists within the movement. In response, activists like Rita Mae Brown and others reclaimed the term, asserting the importance of lesbian issues within feminism. This period marked a significant turning point, highlighting the intersectionality of gender and sexuality within feminist discourse and activism.
The lavender flower itself is known for its calming and healing properties. For a community that is constantly under attack, this representation translates to this day. We are endlessly in the process of healing from past traumas and on an ongoing journey toward self-acceptance and equality.
Depictions of sapphic love and flowers can be traced as far back as ancient Greece. Sappho of Lesbos frequently referenced flowers, including violets, in her poetry, using them as metaphors for beauty, femininity, and the love she expressed for women. Sappho’s work inspired other poets to connect violets to same-sex romance, including British poet, Renée Vivien. Vivien’s The Muse Of Violets used the flower as both a literary homage to Sappho and a subtle innuendo to her own relationships with women. The reference to the violet appears again in the 1972 play “The Captive” by Édouard Bourdet, a depiction of lesbianism that officially coined the flower as the “lesbian flower.”
In an industry notoriously saturated with straight, white women at the forefront, highlighting queer floral artists of color is more crucial now than ever. It would be criminal not to mention Maurice Harris when touching on gay florists forging a path for us all. When I started writing about the influence of flowers in my life and within the gay community, I knew I’d have to include a love letter to him. His electric energy as a judge on the floral competition series Full Bloom spoke to me like no one had before. Harris absolutely gave rich guncle energy, or better yet, fairy god papa, because I knew nothing about floral design at the time, and here he was, providing the keys.
From designing for some of the greats to co-owning a beautifully curated coffee shop called Bloom & Plume Coffee in Los Angeles, Harris didn’t wait for someone to give him his flowers — he grew his own. And don’t even get me started on the inspirational gems he drops on Instagram. I mean, Harris’ segment “Capitalism Doesn’t Care About Your Creativity” speaks to all people just trying to make art while striving to survive in this system. Black, gay, incredibly talented, a creative unlike the rest, Harris’ existence brings the past and present fight for queer voices in floristry to the forefront. This sense of limitless creativity and unapologetically being openly gay is something I’ve only recently embraced in my floral career.
For a long time, feelings of hopelessness felt like my norm. Meet a “nice” guy, get married, have children, fight against doing all the wifely duties, get divorced — all while daydreaming about the touch of a woman. This was my destiny, the only life I could see for myself. That is, until I met my wife. She brought an indescribable light to my life. She allowed me to flourish more than I could’ve ever imagined, and she is the reason I’m a florist today. Her gift of weekly flowers led me to start playing around with floral design, something I never tried or even considered trying (honestly, I was terrible at first). Yet, at the same time I was finally accepting my truth: my career as a flight attendant was suffocating me, and I was ready for a change. So, with the advice of my therapist, I started delving into my new floral hobby. She suggested I watch a show called Full Bloom on HBO, altering the trajectory of my life and career forever.
The sixteen-year-old version of myself who was “saved” at a Flyleaf concert, who prayed every night to be cured from this “sickness,” the girl who excessively dated men so no one would question her sexuality, now makes floral content for a queer-owned company. Becoming a florist truly was the gayest thing I ever did, and it coincided with me beginning to live my life in a way that embraced my queerness. I am now the Black, feminine, queer representation I needed growing up.
None of this would’ve been possible without the influence of flowers. As I reflect on which flower would best represent my journey and the fight against bigotry in this country today, anthurium instantly comes to mind. In Hawaiian culture, anthurium is believed to represent love and protection from harm. Its heart-shaped exterior and ability to instantly transform any arrangement make it stand out. No matter the attacks queer people face, our existence commands attention hunny — and we are here to stay!
Flowers grow and die, a fact that deters some from enjoying them. But much like flowers, we grow, we blossom, and then we die, hopefully discovering who we are in the process. While I’m still navigating living in my truth regardless of anyone’s opinion, I will always rely on flowers to lead the way.
And, yes, I still rewatch episodes of The Real L Word, but now I don’t have to hide it.
Lovely!!! Beyond lovely actually