Tuesday, June 24, 2025
“To a Stranger”
By Walt Whitman (from Leaves of Grass, 1860 edition)
Passing stranger! you do not know how longingly I look upon you,
You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,)
I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,
All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured,
You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me,
I ate with you and slept with you—your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass—you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return,
I do not ask who you are—that is not important to me,
You can do nothing and be nothing but what I will infold you,
To one side for you is the onward road and to my side the same, I give you my hand,
I give you my love more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law,
Will you give me yourself? will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?
About the Poem
In “To a Stranger,” Walt Whitman captures a moment many queer people know intimately: the electric, instantaneous recognition of someone—another man, perhaps—whose presence stirs desire, curiosity, and a sense of deep, unexplainable connection. The poem unfolds in a fleeting encounter on a street or in a crowd, a stranger seen and felt in passing. But within those seconds, a whole imagined history blooms. This is not just a glance; it’s a lifetime distilled into a gaze.
Whitman’s poem belongs to his “Calamus” cluster—arguably the most homoerotic section of Leaves of Grass. In it, he expresses a spiritual and physical love between men with tenderness and boldness rare for the 19th century. Though the poem never explicitly mentions gender, the “stranger” often reads, in context and tone, as a man. Whitman universalizes desire while also encoding a personal and radical queer perspective. The fluidity of the poem mirrors the fluidity of identity, attraction, and intimacy.
This encounter is imagined as eternal and reincarnated: “I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you.” Whitman’s speaker does not ask for a name or demand recognition—only that the stranger accept his open hand and heart. The poem dares to believe that love and recognition can transcend boundaries, even if unspoken. During Pride Month, it feels especially poignant as a celebration of queer connection in a world that still too often passes by without noticing.
About the Poet
Walt Whitman (1819–1892) is widely considered one of the foundational poets of American literature, and Leaves of Grass remains a revolutionary work in both form and content. His radical embrace of the body, sensuality, and nonconformity challenged the poetic conventions of his time. Though Whitman never openly declared himself gay (the concept didn’t exist as it does now), his writing speaks volumes. The poems in the “Calamus” section express a loving, spiritual intimacy between men, often autobiographical in nature.
Whitman lived in Brooklyn and Washington, D.C., working variously as a printer, journalist, nurse, and government clerk. During the Civil War, he tended wounded soldiers—experiences that deepened his compassion and his poetic vision. Scholars and readers alike have long recognized the homoerotic dimension of his poetry, even as it was obscured or censored in his own time. Today, Whitman is embraced as a queer literary forefather—one who gave voice to the sacred beauty of male love in a society still bound by silence.
In “To a Stranger,” Whitman offers not just a look or a line, but an invitation. As we close this Pride Month poetry series, it’s worth asking his final question once more: “Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?” In community, in love, and in remembrance—we say yes.
Monday, June 23, 2025
On the Edge of War
Like many of you, I am alarmed — and honestly, frightened — at the news that Trump has ordered the bombing of Iran. It's hard to shake the feeling that we may be standing on the edge of a true global crisis. If Iran retaliates — which they very well may — we could soon find ourselves plunged into a conflict that might spiral far beyond anything we’ve seen in decades.
In blunt terms: this is a provocation of war. And Iran would be within its rights to formally declare war on the U.S. in response. The prospect of World War III no longer feels like the stuff of history books or far-flung hypotheticals — it’s something we are suddenly forced to consider, right here and now.
I also can’t help thinking of my friends who live in or near major cities, military bases, and other strategic targets. While living here in Vermont provides a small sense of safety — we are, after all, far from those centers of power — there’s always that unsettling thought: will this administration stoop so low as to create a domestic target? Vermont is a liberal stronghold. Could a false flag attack be used to further sow fear and division? The paranoia is starting to feel not so paranoid.
What makes this even more terrifying is how unprepared we are. Most military analysts have long said that the likeliest form of nuclear attack would not be traditional bombs, but dirty bombs — radioactive material dispersed in populated areas. Yet the very departments tasked with detecting and responding to these kinds of attacks have been gutted in recent months.
It’s hard to sleep at night when it feels like the world is careening toward disaster — and yet here we are. I just needed to say this out loud tonight. I imagine many of you are feeling the same dread and uncertainty. I don’t know where this will lead, but I do know that in times like these, we need to stay informed, stay connected, and keep speaking out.
Stay safe. Stay aware. And if you’re feeling anxious — you’re not alone. ❤️
“Patriotism means to stand by the country. It does not mean to stand by the president.”— Theodore Roosevelt
Sunday, June 22, 2025
🌈 Rooted in Love, Growing in Grace
“You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind…And you shall love your neighbor as yourself.”
— Matthew 22:37, 39
“Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat what they produce…But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you… and pray to the Lord on its behalf,
for in its welfare, you will find your welfare.”
— Jeremiah 29:5, 7
As we move deeper into Pride Month, our celebration continues—not just as a public witness, but as a deeply spiritual journey. This week, we turn inward to examine what it means to love ourselves as God commands—and what it looks like to thrive right where we are, even if the place we find ourselves is far from perfect.
To live openly as an LGBTQ+ Christian is already an act of courage. But to thrive—to truly love ourselves, and to build a life of meaning wherever we are—that’s holy work. And it’s not always easy.
Many of us have been told to leave certain parts of ourselves behind to belong. Others have been asked to move—emotionally, spiritually, or physically—to fit the mold of someone else’s expectations. But God’s Word reminds us: we are meant to love others as we love ourselves, and that means our own well-being matters. Our flourishing matters. Our joy matters.
This kind of love isn’t narcissistic—it’s necessary. Because when you believe you are beloved, you can begin to love others from a place of wholeness, not performance. When you root yourself in grace, you can begin to grow even in unfamiliar or uncomfortable ground.
In Jeremiah 29, God speaks to a displaced people in exile—not to promise a quick rescue, but to offer purpose in the waiting. “Build houses. Plant gardens. Raise families. Seek the good of the place where you are.” God doesn’t say, Just survive. God says, Live. Thrive. Invest. Pray. Root yourself in this moment.
So many LGBTQ+ Christians know what it’s like to feel out of place—in our families, churches, towns, or even within ourselves. And yet, even there, God is saying: Your life still matters here. You can still grow something beautiful in this soil. We don’t need the perfect setting to bloom. We need the assurance that God is with us in every setting.
Jesus reminds us that the greatest commandment has three directions:
- Love God.
- Love your neighbor.
- Love yourself.
So many of us have learned to prioritize others, sometimes to our own harm. But this week is your invitation to remember: your wellness is not selfish. Your joy is not indulgent. Your rest, your healing, your wholeness—they glorify God.
Pride is not only about being visible to the world—it’s about being present to ourselves. It’s about knowing we are worthy of care, kindness, rest, and joy. It’s about believing that God’s image is reflected in us, even when others try to deny it.
Self-love, especially for LGBTQ+ people of faith, is a form of resistance against shame. But more than that, it’s a sacred rhythm: love God, love neighbor, love self. All three are part of the same holy breath. This week let’s not only celebrate who you are but care for ourselves as someone deeply loved by God. Build something real. Plant something hopeful. We should. rest in the knowledge that our lives have meaning right now, not just in some imagined better place.
We should build a life where love takes root in us, flows through us, and blesses the world around us. God’s love is rooted grace. He loves us fully and completely. God teaches us how to love ourselves in ways that honor Him—with gentleness, patience, and truth. When we feel out of place, God helps us remember that we are still present and active in this soil. He gives us courage to plant seeds of hope, to build something real, and to live boldly as a reflection of God’s enduring love.
We were made to flourish—not just in safe spaces, but in the very places where the world said we couldn’t. We were made to love—not just others, but the radiant reflection of God that lives in us. So go and build. Go and plant. Go and love. Even here, we can grow. Even now, we are already enough.
🌈🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
Saturday, June 21, 2025
Moment of Zen: Summer ☀️
Summer officially began yesterday. While I doubt I’ll be going anywhere this season—certainly not to the beach—I do hope some of you have plans to get out, soak up some sunshine, and enjoy a bit of summer fun. Whether it’s a vacation, a day trip, or simply relaxing in your own backyard, make the most of the season! And if you’re facing a heatwave like many of us, please be careful, stay cool, and remember to drink plenty of fluids.
Friday, June 20, 2025
Pride in Every Stroke: Gay Art Since 1970
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Duane Michals, Male figure holding book, date unknown. |
The 1970s: Visibility and Liberation
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David Hockney, Portrait of an Artist (Pool with Two Figures), 1972. |
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| David Hockney, Peter Getting Out of Nick’s Pool, 1966. |
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David Hockney, Domestic Scene, Los Angeles, 1963. |
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David Hockney, Man in Shower in Beverly Hills, 1964. |
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David Hockney, Nude, 1957. |
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Duane Michals, The Most Beautiful Part of a Man’s Body, 1974. |
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Duane Michals, Narcissus, 1985. |
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Duane Michals, He burned the letter that brought him the news that he was loved no more, date unknown. |
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Duane Michals, Moment of Perfection, c. 1980. |
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Duane Michals, Man Carrying a Chair, 1982. |
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Duane Michals, A Gigantic Beauty of a Stallion, from The Series Salute To Walt Whitman, 1970. |
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Duane Michals, Back Talk, 1970s. |
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Duane Michals, Take One and See Mt. Fujiyama, 1976. |
As the AIDS crisis devastated the LGBTQ+ community, artists responded with fury, grief, and resilience.
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Keith Haring, Silence Equals Death, 1989. |
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Keith Haring, Untitled, 1981. |
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David Wojnarowicz, Untitled (One Day This Kid...), 1990. |
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| NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt |
The NAMES Project AIDS Memorial Quilt, begun in 1987, now contains over 50,000 panels. It is both a work of art and a massive, tangible act of remembrance and protest.
Zanele Muholi, a South African visual activist, documents Black LGBTQ+ life through dramatic portraiture. Their series Faces and Phases offers a powerful visual archive of queer resilience. Mickalene Thomas reclaims the Black female body in rhinestone-studded paintings and photographic tableaux. Her work unapologetically fuses queerness, glamour, and political assertion. See Le déjeuner sur l’herbe: Les Trois Femmes Noires (2010), a reimagining of Manet’s painting through a queer, Black feminist lens. Cassils, a transgender performance artist, uses their body in durational, often physically intense works. In Becoming an Image, they strike a clay block in darkness while a camera flash records the violence—a metaphor for queer visibility and embodiment. Juliana Huxtable, a Black trans artist, poet, and performer, combines Afrofuturism, photography, and digital media to challenge fixed identities. Her self-portraits—gender-fluid, mythic, fierce—embody queer futurity.
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Kehinde Wiley, Sleep, 2008. |
- Robert Mapplethorpe – his black-and-white male nudes remain some of the most iconic (and controversial) queer images in American photography.
- Kehinde Wiley – while not exclusively queer-themed, his work often presents Black men in romantic or intimate poses, reclaiming both history and homoerotic aesthetic.
- Hunter Reynolds – an AIDS activist and visual artist whose performance pieces and memorial works carry immense emotional and historical weight.
- Gilbert Baker – not only an artist, but the designer of the rainbow flag itself, one of the most enduring symbols of queer pride.
From murals to fashion, fine art to graffiti, queer art since 1970 has told the story of a people who refused to be erased. Pride in art has been about more than beauty—it has been about survival, protest, celebration, and memory. As Pride Month continues, remember that the movement is not only political—it is also creative. And in every painting, photograph, poem, and performance, LGBTQ+ artists have asked the world to see them not just as survivors—but as visionaries.
Thursday, June 19, 2025
They Know This Will Kill Kids. They Did It Anyway.
Out of all the cruel, calculated, and heartless things the Trump administration has done over the years, I honestly think this one might be the lowest. And it makes me the angriest. I’m talking about their decision — part of the Republican budget plan from the start — to end an LGBTQ+ suicide prevention hotline by cutting federal support for it.
And let’s be clear: this wasn’t accidental. The Trevor Project, one of the most important and effective crisis intervention services for LGBTQ+ youth, was deliberately targeted in this budget process. The decision to defund this life-saving hotline wasn’t about fiscal responsibility — it was about ideology. About sending a message that these kids don’t matter, don’t deserve support, and should simply disappear from public life.
The timing wasn’t accidental either. It’s one more in a long string of attacks on the LGBTQ+ community that the Trump administration has launched just since the beginning of June. Pride Month — when queer and trans people are supposed to celebrate visibility, survival, and progress — has instead been marked by this administration using every opportunity to roll back protections, erase visibility, and push hateful rhetoric. This move to kill the hotline is cold and calculating — a deliberate choice to cause harm and inflict fear on a vulnerable community during a month meant to honor their dignity.
And for all the Republican talk of being so-called “pro-life”? This is just one more example of how hollow — and frankly how deadly — that slogan really is. They take away social welfare programs that leave children hungry. They gut protections for working families. And now they strip away suicide prevention services for the LGBTQ+ youth most at risk. Let’s be clear: “pro-life” means nothing to them. Their actions reveal the truth — they are pro-death when it comes to the most vulnerable. They are doing everything in their power to remove support and safety nets for those who need them most.
There is also a strong argument that this decision is not only morally and ethically indefensible — it may well violate civil rights laws and open the door to future legal challenges. When the government deliberately strips away access to life-saving services from a marginalized group — one that faces disproportionate rates of harassment, discrimination, and suicide — that can amount to deliberate indifference under civil rights standards. It can also create a chilling effect, reinforcing a climate of exclusion and hostility. Federal agencies are supposed to administer their programs without discrimination, and courts have recognized that targeting specific groups in ways that increase harm may violate constitutional protections under the Equal Protection Clause — or even Title VI or Title IX in certain contexts. This is not just political cruelty — it could, and should, be the subject of serious legal scrutiny.
Let that sink in for a moment. A hotline dedicated to saving lives — to answering desperate calls from LGBTQ+ youth in crisis — is being deliberately shut down. Not because of lack of need. Not because it wasn’t effective. But because this administration is ideologically hostile to those kids’ very existence.
And I do mean kids. Many of the young people who reach out to The Trevor Project and similar hotlines are teenagers — sometimes as young as 11 or 12 — grappling with feelings of isolation, rejection, bullying, abuse. They turn to these hotlines because they have nowhere else to go. And for the government of the United States to turn its back on them — to deliberately erase the “TQ” from its language, to send the message that they don’t exist or don’t matter — is unconscionable.
This isn’t “just politics.” This isn’t about religious differences. This is literally about life and death. Children will die because of this decision. That’s not hyperbole. The statistics on suicide among LGBTQ+ youth are heartbreaking — and undeniable. Cutting off a lifeline will only make it worse.
As someone who grew up in a deeply conservative and homophobic family, I know firsthand how much something like The Trevor Project could have meant. Back in 1994, as a scared teenager who had been taught that my feelings for other boys were sinful — that they would send me to hell — I didn’t understand my own sexuality. I was still in denial, confused, and terrified. But those around me had already convinced me that what I was feeling was evil.
One night, overwhelmed, I swallowed a handful of pills. Thankfully, all they did was make me sick — but at the time, I had no one to turn to. There was no hotline, no safe space, no adult I trusted enough to confide in. I survived, but many don’t. And I can’t help but think how different things might have been if I’d had a resource like The Trevor Project back then. I wish I could do more.
And even if you don’t personally “agree” with LGBTQ+ identity — even if you’re unsure or uncomfortable — how can anyone with a shred of compassion justify abandoning children in crisis? You don’t have to understand every aspect of someone’s identity to care whether they live or die. You don’t have to condone or celebrate LGBTQ+ lives to believe that kids deserve help and hope when they reach out.
I find myself asking: What God do these people believe in? Because it sure as hell isn’t the Christian God I was taught about. The God I believe in calls us to love our neighbor, to comfort the brokenhearted, to bind up the wounded — not to throw them away.
This news honestly makes me want to cry. Not in a performative way. In a gut-wrenching, soul-heavy way. Because I know the reality: young queer kids will be sitting in their rooms, alone, afraid, maybe thinking about ending their lives — and now they’ll have one less place to turn.
How could anyone do this? How could anyone look at a struggling 14-year-old trans kid, or a scared gay teen in a conservative household, and say: We are going to take away your helpline. We are going to pretend you don’t exist. We are going to make it harder for you to survive.
And how can Christians in good conscience support this? Jesus didn’t teach us to abandon vulnerable kids. He taught us to welcome them, to love them, to protect them.
Out of everything this administration has done — all the lies, the corruption, the cruelty — this hits me the hardest. Because these are children. And they deserve better.
And if it makes you angry too — good. Let it. But don’t let it stop there. Speak out. Write. Donate. Support the hotlines that do still exist. Vote.
Most importantly: You can help The Trevor Project continue its life-saving work by donating here: https://www.thetrevorproject.org/donate/. Without government support, they will rely even more on our generosity to keep the hotline going for those who need it most.
Because lives are on the line. And I, for one, refuse to look away.
Wednesday, June 18, 2025
Nine Years Ago
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| June 18, 2016 |
Nine years ago today, I walked into the local humane society and met a tiny, frightened black kitten they had named Bridget. She was crouched low and hiding under a chair, wide-eyed and unsure of the world. I knew immediately that “Bridget” wasn’t her name. My cats have always been named after queens, and while Bridget may be a fine name, there’s never been a Queen Bridget. Elizabeth was out—my sister’s name. And I could never reuse Victoria (aka HRH if you were reading this blog all those years ago) , the name of my beloved cat who had passed.
But Queen Isabella of Spain? That felt right. Regal, bold, and destined for her own kind of adventure. So “Bridget” became Isabella, and Isabella became mine.
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| June 19, 2016 |
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| June 20, 2016 |
At the time, I was navigating one of the loneliest periods of my life. A dear friend had died the year before, and I was living 1,200 miles from home, trying to find my footing again here in Vermont. What I didn’t know then was how much this tiny creature would help me heal.
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| June 21, 2016 |
That first week, Isabella mostly hid under the bed. She cried when I left the room. She was timid and unsure. But even in those early days, something began to shift. By the second day, she was climbing onto the bed on her own. By the third, she was letting me pet her. A few days more, and she was confidently dragging toys into her bed and meowing nonstop when I dared to be in another room.
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| June 21, 2016 |
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| June 24, 2018 |
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| June 24, 2016 |
Today, Isabella is no longer that tiny black fluffball with the wide eyes. She’s older, wiser, still chatty when she wants to complain, still cuddly in her own way—and still the queen of this castle. For nine years, she has been my companion, my comfort, and my fiercely affectionate shadow.
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| June 25, 2016 |
Happy Adoption Day, Isabella! You saved me as much as I saved you.
—
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| May 22, 2024 |
Tuesday, June 17, 2025
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