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Just as church hymns carried our ancestors through hardships, our music today carries forward the spirit of every Black, queer person who dared to dream of visibility and freedom.
Music has always been at the very heartbeat of Black culture. Through harmonies, we have found community. Through lyrics, we have found healing. Through dance, we have found freedom in our bodies. And through the drumbeat of music, we have found resistance.
From the spirituals sung by our ancestors on the very land I stand today, to the hymns sweetly sung in my childhood church, to the bass-rattling house music in gay clubs throughout Houston, music has always connected me to my culture. And suddenly, as things begin to feel more quiet on a national stage, I am reminded that the music of Black and queer voices must keep playing, louder than ever before.
I discovered this month that Black History Month quietly vanished from my Google Calendar. Pride was gone too—a so-called “small” omission that represents something much larger and more sinister. This quiet erasure of history is becoming commonplace in public and private spaces, and it speaks volumes. With the cancellation of the Gay Men’s Chorus at the Kennedy Center, the oppressive tides of “Don’t Say Gay” legislation, the transphobic rhetoric, the defunding of LGBTQ+ healthcare and art, and the anti-DEI movements trying their hardest to erase Black and queer identities, making noise remains an act of rebellion.
Black, queer music cannot be ignored or sanitized or whitewashed or undervalued for the next four years, which means Black, queer creators need to be paid, be on the main stages, be given the mic at the awards ceremonies, and be given their flowers for the culture they sustain.
But the history of Black music cannot be rewritten to fit dominant narratives because it is the history of resistance itself. Church hymns and spirituals carried prayers and codes for the enslaved. Blues gave us a place to voice the injustices we endured. Jazz was birthed from the need for freedom of expression. Hip-hop became our weapon to challenge our oppressors. And our many contributions—too often uncredited—built the foundation for rock, country, pop, house, dance, and so much more.
And queer artists have been pivotal to this story. Billy Strayhorn, Duke Ellington’s openly gay composer, brought undeniable brilliance to the jazz world. Billie Holiday turned her voice into a protest. Little Richard, known fondly as the “King of Rock and Roll,” shattered norms and sang about his desires with the kind of joy that felt revolutionary. Sylvester, the “Queen of Disco,” gave us revolutionary anthems of love and resilience while fighting on the frontlines of the HIV/AIDS epidemic. Gospel music would cease to exist if the Black, queer writers, singers, and composers were erased.
Even today, Black LGBTQ+ artists are breaking records and capturing the world’s attention. Big Freedia is the New Orleans “Queen of Bounce” whose music and style have been sampled by some of the biggest artists today. Lil Nas X is bending genres and expectations for Black male rappers. Doechii captivated everyone watching this year’s Grammys and used her speech as a message of hope for Black and queer creators. These artists are showing that the power of being visible and unrelenting in their truth extends far beyond music charts.
But here’s the truth we can’t ignore—many of the icons that came before them, or are their peers today, still have to hide who they were and are. Societal pressures and safety concerns force them into invisibility. And now fear remains that if billion-dollar industries are cowering to current political climates, what will that mean for Black, queer creators?
That is why it is so important to support Black and queer creators, through hiring, funding, streaming, and screaming their songs at the top of our lungs. Their music doesn’t just entertain; it liberates. It mends spirits and moves people to think, to feel, and to act. It’s an instrument of resistance and a tool to drown out this world’s hate. Black, queer music cannot be ignored or sanitized or whitewashed or undervalued for the next four years, which means Black, queer creators need to be paid, be on the main stages, be given the mic at the awards ceremonies, and be given their flowers for the culture they sustain.
When The Normal Anomaly started BQAF (Black Queer AF) Music Festival in Houston, Texas four years ago, it was not created to be a demonstration. We just believed the power of music could bring people together, and—since no one in Texas had done it before—to center it around Black, queer, and allied artists we loved seemed logical. Now, it is the track list to a freedom song so necessary to repeat to quiet the deafening sounds of hate and fear for the community.
That’s why we’re unapologetically taking up space and taking the stage at this year’s BQAF Music Festival, an all-Black queer and allied lineup. For our fourth iteration, our theme this year is VISIBILITY. This music festival is a love letter to our community and our message to the nation and the world—we won’t be erased or silenced. We will be seen, heard, felt, and celebrated. We are turning the volume all the way up—not just for Houston to hear, but for every person across this country who has been made to feel like their identity does not deserve respect or recognition.
We’ve built momentum as a community. Black, queer artists are out here breaking records, genres, and boundaries. And we will not halt this progress. Just as church hymns carried our ancestors through hardships, our music today carries forward the spirit of every Black, queer person who dared to dream of visibility and freedom. Together, we’ll send a message to every lawmaker and system working against us. They may try to silence us, but Black and queer music will always be louder.
As long as there is air in my lungs, I will have a song to sing that fills the silence with the beauty, resilience, and limitless brilliance of our culture.
As Martin Luther King Jr. Day coincides with Trump’s second inauguration, a call for unwavering compassion in uncertain times.
It is not lost on me, the significance of Martin Luther King Jr. Day coinciding with the inauguration day of Donald J. Trump. As a Black queer man living in Texas, the day embodies contradictions—a time for appreciation for one of our country’s most profound voices for liberation, as well as a stark reminder that a voice that symbolizes oppression for so many is being simultaneously lauded.
For many, this juxtaposition symbolizes a broader tension—a celebration of progress intertwined with a sobering reminder of the work still ahead. On one hand, we honor the enduring legacy of Dr. King and his selfless commitment to justice and equality. On the other, we brace for a political landscape that threatens to return America to its so-called “former glory”—a glory that many of us know all too well was built on the exclusion and oppression of people like me.
Living and working in the South, I’m acutely aware that the specters of slavery, segregation, and systemic racism are not distant memories. They are tangibly woven into the fabric of our lives, as are homophobia and transphobia. These prejudices are not relics of the past buried deep beneath our feet; they walk with us everywhere we go. This hate has been revitalized and glorified in recent years. People and even politicians meant to represent us feel emboldened to denounce our communities publicly, and safe spaces to shield us from this hate are shrinking. We can see this erosion is compounded by platforms like Meta lifting hate speech rules, allowing for the open derision of our identities. We can feel this with some of our states’ schools eliminating the study of LGBTQ history. We can experience this with DEI programs being demolished by major corporations. We can hear it even when it is quiet, like funding for Black and LGBTQ initiatives being silently rolled back. Yet, we endure. Dr. King’s dream remains alive within us, a beacon of hope that guides us through these challenges. The efforts to silence our voices, erase our experiences, and strip away our communities will not prevail.
Dr. King’s legacy demands more than passive admiration; it requires active participation. Resist hatred with love, confront despair with hope, and strive toward the eternal “oughtness” of a just society.
Our stories, our histories, and our communities will endure. We will lift each other up, ensuring that our voices are heard and our legacy preserved. Together, we will come together like never before to achieve the long overdue liberation.
Dr. King once said, “The time is always right to do what is right,” and those words ground my hope. Even as we see institutions—companies, government bodies, and individuals—succumbing to harmful ideologies that marginalize and threaten us, I choose to believe in the power of allies who will continue the fight for equality. Integrity demands consistency, even when it is met with resistance.
Politics are a pendulum, swinging from far left to far right over the decades. My rights as a Black queer person have often been treated as a political pawn, used to curry favor or incite fear. Yet, despite the political gamesmanship, we remain standing—unswayed and undeterred. We are operating from a place of unwavering purpose that transcends the chaos and seeks lasting progress, and I firmly believe that the next four years will wake us from a slumber of status quo and invigorate us to activate.
Last year, amid heightened tensions for Black and queer folks in my state, I gathered voices from our community for a workshop. Together, we created the documentary They Ain’t Coming to Save Us, a poignant reminder of the power of self-empowerment. Through activism, storytelling, history, compassion, and community, we possess the tools necessary to build the safety and support that legislation and societal systems have stripped away. This gathering of Black queer voices reaffirmed a truth that is both empowering and sobering—we must save ourselves.
Dr. King once said, “I refuse to accept the idea that the ‘isness’ of man’s present nature makes him morally incapable of reaching up for the eternal ‘oughtness’ that forever confronts him.” My hope in humanity endures because I witness the compassion that exists even among those who have every reason to turn away. On a daily basis, I witness individuals who inspire me to keep believing. Throughout my travels with The Normal Anomaly Initiative, I meet and speak with folks who put love into the world even when the world has shown them nothing but hate. They remind me that empathy is not extinct; it only needs to be rekindled. Dr. King understood this unwavering truth, declaring that “darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”
On this day of reflection, these words call us to action—not just to honor Dr. King but to live out his vision daily. When he accepted the Nobel Peace Prize, he declared, “I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. This is why right, temporarily defeated, is stronger than evil triumphant.”
This belief must sustain us. We can weather political and social storms, but we must also build a shelter together—one that safeguards dignity and humanity for all. Dr. King’s legacy demands more than passive admiration; it requires active participation. Resist hatred with love, confront despair with hope, and strive toward the eternal “oughtness” of a just society.
Today, I ask you to recommit yourself not only to equality but to compassion. Our survival, our stories, and our communities depend on it. Together, we will ensure that Dr. King’s dream becomes a lived reality.
We must understand that to end the Israeli occupation of Palestine, we must also develop a longer-term strategy that contends with the growing power of far-right forces here in the U.S.
It has been over 450 days since Israel began its genocide and military invasion of Gaza and then Lebanon, Iran, and Syria. With the election of Donald Trump as the next U.S. president, the American government will continue and increase support for Israel’s all out war against Palestinian people.
For the past year, students have rallied and protested to demand divestment from Israel and its apartheid regime. Heated protests have erupted across the country, including in San Francisco where students planned walk outs and took over quads with encampments and teach-ins.
Alongside these students, parents from Southwest Asia and North Africa (SWANA) communities went up against San Francisco’s school board to insist that their children cannot be censored for supporting Palestinian people. Many of these parents are Arab Resource and Organizing Center (AROC) members, so I joined a meeting between these parents and the superintendent. When the superintendent would not bring up pressing issues around how students were being impacted by the ongoing genocide, parents disrupted the meeting and demanded their kids’ rights to speak up.
Through organizing, we build trust and are able to inoculate the harmful disinformation coming from white Christian nationalists and other right-wing forces.
However, not too long ago, I saw these same parents swayed by white Christian nationalists who were mobilizing Arab and Muslim parents around transphobia and homophobia. By circulating hateful rhetoric and drumming up fears about the “influence” of LGBTQ+ acceptance, white Christian nationalists convinced Arab and Muslim parents to pull their children out of public schools in the Bay Area. This is a trend we have seen across the country as Christian nationalist groups like Moms for Liberty recruit conservative Asian faith-based groups to rally against curricula portraying LGBTQ+ families and themes.
What happened? How did these parents go from being swayed by one fascist force to vehemently countering another fascist force? What can we learn as organizers from this moment?
The fight for a free Palestine is deeply ingrained into the many other fights against rising facism in the United States and abroad. We must understand that to end the Israeli occupation of Palestine, we must also develop a longer-term strategy that contends with the growing power of far-right forces here in the U.S. We cannot do one without the other.
What does this take? First, we must be clear about who we’re up against and what strategies they are using. After 75 years of occupation and a year of military invasion, Zionism has made clear their strategy: complete annihilation of Palestine and its people. To do this, the Zionist system requires the support of other right-wing forces for monetary, political, and narrative power.
One formidable partnership is between white Christian nationalists and Zionists. Nationally, the largest Zionist organization in the United States is Christians United for Israel, which funnels millions of dollars into the Israel lobby every year. Project 2025, the 900-plus-page policy document spearheaded by the far-right Heritage Foundation, lays out far-right forces’ plan to transform the United States into a Christian nationalist theocracy that would sustain Israel’s military expansion. Locally, in San Francisco, when AROC campaigned with parents and students for the addition of Eid as holidays on the school calendar, Christian nationalists and Zionists allied to threaten the school board and halt the decision.
This issue of transphobia is a longer-term struggle that we will continue to face. We have not resolved it with our members, and there is no success story. However, we are helping our members to understand the contradictions of right-wing forces in order to move our communities on various contentious issues.
For years, Christian nationalists have made inroads into organizing Muslim and Arab parents in the Bay Area by manufacturing fear and outrage around queer and trans “influences” in schools. In the past year, as AROC has mobilized thousands of people to call for a permanent cease-fire and an arms embargo on Israel, we have also been engaging in deep political education and long conversations with our communities to point out the connections between various right-wing, fascist forces.
This past year has politicized many to call for Palestinian liberation. It has especially mobilized the SWANA families in AROC’s membership, many of whom have direct connections to the region that Israel is devastating. This past year has reemphasized that we need to deeply invest in grassroots organizing and basebuilding. This allows organizers and working-class people to work together to protect our communities from right-wing disinformation and come up with real solutions that can transform lives.
When the attacks on Gaza began last October, AROC was able to provide the space and container for our parents, youth, and activists to identify key issues and leverage our power locally. We got the cities of San Francisco and Oakland to adopt resolutions for an immediate and sustained cease-fire. Through those processes, we saw our community really engage with democratic processes and understand the power of civic engagement. Through organizing, we build trust and are able to inoculate the harmful disinformation coming from white Christian nationalists and other right-wing forces. This is key to winning our communities away from right-wing influences and building a stronger anti-fascist movement.
Grassroots organizing is how we build the power of our movement! Power means we can shift conditions in society and in our own lives. Power means we can end the Israeli occupation of Palestine and block the rise of far-right fascism.