A Letter to the Gay's

We started with bruises.
That’s not metaphor—
just truth walked in boots.
Few dozen people
who dared to be seen
in daylight
while the world sneered
and our families disappeared
like fog under scrutiny.

Frank stood proud,
tie crooked, heart blazing:
“Gay is good.”
It was a whisper then.
Now it’s painted on sneakers.
He taught us to redefine
not just ourselves,
but the dictionary.

Sylvia screamed
for those no one listened to:
“You all better quiet down!”
Because silence was killing.
Because respectability politics
never fed the hungry
or warmed the exiled.

We built a tent
because nobody else would.
Because gay didn’t mean one kind of person.
Because being rejected by your mother
doesn’t mean you shouldn’t have a brother
with whom you can share a beer
and your last heartbreak.

We found allies
in feminists we didn’t quite understand.
They hated men.
We dated them.
But somehow,
shared fire
was enough fuel
to light the way.

Then time passed,
and pride changed.
Now some march with dog collars.
Now someone says,
“I’m a feminine presenting trans person who likes men,”
and I want to hug her
and tell her—
it’s okay to be simple, too.

My love was not an identity crisis.
It was a quiet wish
to hold a man’s hand
without fear.
To be ordinary
on purpose.

So hear me now, future gays:
You owe no loyalty to confusion
and no apology for clarity.
Our fight was
never just for inclusion.
It was for rights.
For lives.

Assimilation isn't betrayal
if it means I get to marry
in daylight
and sleep soundly.

Be bold.
Be soft.
Be complicated, if you must.
But know the difference
between freedom
and noise.

Because in the end,
after the glitter fades
and the hashtags vanish,
you will want to be loved
for real.
And that’s the banner
we marched under—
whether they saw it or not.

With grit, glitter, and memory,
A survivor who still believes.