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I wonder if the dead are cheering on us. If they are the ones also marching in the pride parades, helping catch the queens when they stumble on too high heels; raising the signs and flags higher so that they flap in the wind, urging others to sit down and take a break before jumping back into the fray and dancing until their feet hurt. If they are the ones who guide a young queer person to the right family. If they are the ones who make sure the music is right, the people are ready to defend one another, the rainbows glimmer down as if the goddess Iris herself had descended upon us.
Are the dead the ones who gave us the courage to tell our truth, to bear our souls? Are they the ones who guide us to the right family or stay by our side as we lick our wounds? Are they dead the ones who make sure the flags and pins are hidden, with your family at the door? Are they the ones sitting right by God, chuckling and delighted by each new person, each new creation, each new identity
Nothing is ever repeated, as they whisper inspirations into God's ear. And, with a steady hand, a new pattern is crafted using the rarest of threads and done with the upmost care. It is sent out into the world-where they will try to burn and kill and rap and smear shit all over it, but oh how the thread shines. And it is not just a single thread, but more and more standing side-by-side, a unified bold color that practically glimmers
Is it the dead who guide your hand as you coat your face with bold and daring makeup, so far removed from the "clean girl" or "office siren?" No, drag queens crafted their face and bodies to expose the desire and ideas and passion that were confined in their own mortal bodies. And it was drag queens and black trans women and two-spirits and hijras that carry loud hands, clapping for attention and respect and demands, voices so loud they could fill any room to the brim. These people are here to tear up the soft, dainty cloth of the loom.
Is it the dead who is still teaching us how to resist? That equality does not stop at just one country, but all over the world. Once upon a time, when we wore as naked as they day we were born, no one dwelled on who kissed who or why they look like this or why don't you want to kiss anyone. They were too busy surviving. And then, what became of that world? Those empires and countries who acknowledged and lived in such a free world-until that freedom was clamped in iron and ripped from their homes, scattering those values like candy wrappers to be swept into the trash. But, some curious person found them and bellowed out Look, look! They wish to conquer and divide-but we can and shall conquer! And if not our own equality and respect and freedom, but for those who do not yet have it-from the redwood forests and twisting rivers to the grassy plains and edge of the sea-
Is it the dead that cheer for us? The ones who could not hold her hand, could not hug him for too long, could not marry the person they wanted, wanted, wanted. Who died wrapped up in lies and family pressure and despair as they thought, I am the only one, the only one who has ever existed. And yet, do we all not wish to leave our mark in the world? Did we all not write letters to our lovers, pressing lavender flowers and lipstick stained kisses, building clubs and houses for the youth, recording every account of our relationships in hopes that this reaches some lost child, please let it reach them-
And it did.
And that existence-the single act of someone who dared to leave their mark in history, to scream and bang their chests that yes, yes, I existed and kissed that girl and fought for the right to marry my love, please see me, do not be alone-
-and somehow, I was not alone. Oh, but how isolated I was at teneleventwelvethirteen-until the godlike spirit of my people, my community whispered you got this darling, just say it out loud, we got you.
Do the dead weep for us now? As they try to attack our trans siblings and non-gender confirming people, as they sexualize our lesbians, as they taunt our aromatics, as they sneer at the gays and bi and pan folks. Are they raging out how the road they built-from hands with nails painted and calloused thick from battles-is slowly and meticulously broken? Are they still stuck at Stonewall, roaring to be heard as the government turned a blind eye to the good men who died, killed by the lack of exposure and resources and just ignoring them-
But, if we are still stuck in 1969 at Stonewall, we still have bricks clutched in our hands-young and old, soft and rough, fearful and yet so strong. And god forbid the motherfucker who dares to lay a hand on us, to stop us from doing what the dead could not do-be proud of who they are, the whole being.