Tuesday, July 1, 2025
America
by Walt Whitman
Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,
A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,
Chair’d in the adamant of Time.
About the Poem
Walt Whitman’s six-line poem “America” may be brief, but its layers of meaning resonate across history, politics, and queer identity. First published in the 1880 edition of Leaves of Grass, it is often overshadowed by his longer, more famous works. Yet this small poem encapsulates Whitman’s vision of the United States as not only a political ideal but also a deeply emotional and physical presence—one that holds particular significance within LGBTQ+ literary history.
At first glance, “America” reads like a patriotic hymn. The poem praises a nation made of “equal daughters, equal sons,” where all people—regardless of age or status—are “alike endear’d.” This inclusive language is typical of Whitman’s democratic ideals. He often celebrated the collective body of America: not a faceless mass, but a communion of individuals bound by shared experience and affection. His use of words like “endear’d,” “fair,” and “love” reflect his romanticized view of a nation built not just on law and order, but on emotional connection.
But Whitman’s vision of unity goes beyond mere nationalism. His America is not militaristic or imperial. Instead, it is “perennial with the Earth,” suggesting a natural, almost spiritual presence, and one that is rooted in love. Love, for Whitman, was often embodied in the male form and in same-sex affection, offering deeper layers to his patriotic verse.
Though “America” is more abstract than Whitman’s overtly homoerotic poems like “Calamus” or “Live Oak, with Moss,” it is steeped in his lifelong merging of the sensual and the political. Whitman, a man who celebrated “the love of comrades” and reveled in the touch and sweat of male bodies, did not separate his love for men from his love for his country. In fact, he often imagined the two as intimately entwined.
To Whitman, America’s promise of equality and freedom was not just a civic ideal but a personal one. The phrase “equal daughters, equal sons” carries resonance for LGBTQ+ readers, particularly those who have long fought for recognition, rights, and representation. In declaring that all are “alike endear’d,” Whitman gestures toward a radical inclusivity—one that, at least in theory, includes queer lives.
His description of America as a “towering, seated Mother” may seem traditionally maternal, but the sensual grounding of this maternal figure in “adamant” and “Time” adds an almost mythic gravitas. This is not a soft figure of sentimentality, but a resilient presence that endures. For queer readers, Whitman’s “Mother America” might even serve as a symbol of a nation large and loving enough to include all her children—regardless of who they love.
For LGBTQ+ Americans, Whitman’s “America” offers both comfort and challenge. It’s a vision of what the country could be: a place of true equality, of celebration rather than repression, of love alongside law. At a time when queer Americans continue to face political backlash, book bans, and legislative attacks, Whitman’s dream of a “grand, sane” republic remains aspirational.
Yet it is also a call to action. If America is to live up to the Whitmanian ideal—a nation of “equal sons, equal daughters”—then we must continue to demand that equality, to assert the place of queer people within the American story.
Walt Whitman is often called the father of American poetry. For many LGBTQ+ writers and readers, he is also our queer literary ancestor—one who dared to blend the erotic with the patriotic, the body with the nation. In “America,” he offers us not just a reflection of his time, but a challenge to ours: to imagine, and to build, a country worthy of such love.
About the Author: Walt Whitman (1819–1892)
Whitman was a poet, essayist, and journalist whose groundbreaking collection Leaves of Grass helped revolutionize American literature. Though he never publicly identified as gay, Whitman wrote openly about same-sex desire and affection, especially in the “Calamus” poems, which have since become foundational texts in LGBTQ+ literary history. His bold embrace of the body, the soul, and democratic ideals continues to inspire generations of queer writers and thinkers.
Monday, June 30, 2025
Rough Weekend
It’s been a rough one.
This weekend has been full of pain—head, back, and stomach—and not the kind that fades with a good night’s sleep. The headache is, unfortunately, part of my usual chronic migraine pattern. For me, pain doesn’t like to travel alone. When something flares up in my body, it often invites a migraine along for the ride. And this time, it brought friends.
For the past week or so, I’ve been dealing with lower back pain. It ebbs and flows—sometimes tolerable, sometimes so intense I can barely move around the house. I’ve had worse episodes in the past, but that doesn’t make this one any easier. I’ve been using a heating pad, and while it gives me temporary relief, it’s just that—temporary.
To make matters worse, a bout of stomach pain decided to join the party. No clue if the three are connected or just coinciding at the most inconvenient time. Either way, it’s made for a miserable few days.
Today, I’m taking a sick day. I need to rest, let the heating pad do its magic, and take a muscle relaxer to see if I can ease this back pain. If I’m not better tomorrow, I’ll be giving my doctor a call. I know when it’s time to stop pushing through and start taking care of myself properly.
I hope your Monday is starting out much better than mine. Wishing each of you a healthy, pain-free start to the week.
Sunday, June 29, 2025
🌈 Bold, Beloved, and Called
“But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, God’s own people, in order that you may proclaim the mighty acts of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light.”
— 1 Peter 2:9
“For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power and of love and of self-discipline.”
— 2 Timothy 1:7
“Love is patient, love is kind… It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never fails.”
— 1 Corinthians 13:4, 7–8
As Pride Month draws to a close, we are invited not to retreat—but to rise. We should not pack away our rainbow flags or tuck away our truths—we should plant them firmly in the soil of our daily lives. We have explored who we are (fearfully and wonderfully made). We’ve reclaimed the image of God within us (queerly reflected). We’ve healed what shame tried to break, found boldness in our truth, and committed to growing where we are planted. now, we turn to three things that comes next.
We are called to serve God.
Jesus’ words in Matthew 5:16 (“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”) offer a powerful commission: Let your light shine. Not dimmed for the comfort of others. Not hidden behind polite silence. But out in the open. Joyfully. Authentically. As a witness to what God has done in and through us.
Scripture tells us that we are a royal priesthood, a holy people, God’s own. That’s not conditional. That’s not for someone else. That’s for us. We are called not in spite of who we are, but because of who we are. We are called out of shame and silence, out of marginalization and fear, into God’s marvelous light. Our queerness, our tenderness, our truth—they are not spiritual liabilities. They are spiritual gifts.
Through God’s gift, we are bold.
For many LGBTQ+ Christians, Pride has historically been about survival—holding onto life, faith, and hope in a world that tried to silence us. And that survival has been sacred. But now, we are called to more than surviving. We are called to joy. To deep, radiant, unashamed joy.
Paul writes in Philippians 4:4, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again, I will say, Rejoice.” Not only when things are easy. Not only when we’re safe. But always. Because joy—real joy—is an act of spiritual resistance. It’s a declaration that we are still here, still beloved, and still building something beautiful. It takes courage to live openly as an LGBTQ+ Christian. It takes courage to love ourselves in a world that taught us to hide. It takes courage to believe that the Spirit speaks through our lives.
But here’s the truth: we were not given a spirit of fear. We were given the Spirit of power—to stand tall. The Spirit of love—to resist hate with grace. The Spirit of self-discipline—to hold fast to our faith even when others misunderstand it. Holy boldness is not loud arrogance. It is quiet faithfulness. It is showing up fully, beautifully, honestly—day after day. Pride is not just a celebration. It is a declaration: We are still here, and we are still beloved.
We are love in motion.
Love is not just a feeling—it is a force. It bears burdens. It holds space. It speaks truth. And LGBTQ+ love is no less holy than any other. In fact, many of us have learned how to love through rejection, through hiding, through longing. We have had to fight to love ourselves, to love one another, and to believe that God loves us too.
Our lives as LGBTQ+ Christians are not a detour from faith—it is a testament to it. Our honesty, our resilience, our capacity for love—these are lamps lit by the Spirit. When we love openly, we reflect the God who is love. When we celebrate joyfully, we reflect the God who rejoices over creation. When we live truthfully, we reflect the Christ who never apologized for healing, embracing, and breaking the rules to welcome the outcast.
We are not just welcome in the Church—we are vital to its witness. Our pride doesn’t end with the parade. It continues in our daily living, in our compassion, in our courage to shine. So now, let that love flourish. Let it speak. Let it heal. Whether you’re single, partnered, celibate, dating, married, or questioning—you carry within you the kind of love that “never fails.” Love that transforms. Love that reflects God.
God calls us to be courageous. He made us part of His royal priesthood. He called us into the light—not despite our queerness, but through it. He gives us boldness to live as He created us. God gives us strength to resist shame, and tenderness to love others as He love us. We carry His love—patient, kind, and enduring—into a world that so desperately needs it, especially in this climate of hate that seems to permeate our political, secular, and, far too often, religious worlds.
We are chosen. We are courageous. We are love in motion.
As Pride Month ends, may our truth continue to shine, our love continues to grow, and our calling becomes ever clearer. Let the world see what God is doing through us—a radiant reflection of bold, beloved queerness.
🌈🏳️🌈🏳️⚧️
Saturday, June 28, 2025
Moment of Zen: Colors of the Rainbow 🌈
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Friday, June 27, 2025
The First Pride Was a Riot
In the early hours of June 28, 1969, something extraordinary happened on a quiet stretch of Christopher Street in New York City. After years—decades—of police harassment, social invisibility, and the criminalization of queer existence, a group of drag queens, trans women, gay men, and lesbians refused to be silent. When officers raided the Stonewall Inn—a dingy, Mafia-run gay bar in Greenwich Village—the community inside and outside the bar erupted in defiance. What followed were six nights of protest, resistance, and righteous rage. The Stonewall Riots weren’t the beginning of LGBTQ+ activism, but they were the spark that ignited a global fire.
“The First Pride Was a Riot.” That slogan adorns t-shirts, protest signs, and banners today as a reminder that our liberation was not handed to us—it was demanded. It was thrown back in the faces of billy clubs, shouted in the streets, and carved into the consciousness of a country that would rather not have seen us at all. Marsha P. Johnson, Sylvia Rivera, Stormé DeLarverie—names that should be shouted from rooftops—were part of this uprising. They fought not just for acceptance, but for dignity. For survival.
The summer of 1969 marked a turning point. In the year that followed, LGBTQ+ organizations across the U.S. multiplied, and on the anniversary of Stonewall in 1970, the first Pride marches were held in New York, Chicago, and Los Angeles. These were not corporate-sponsored festivals with rainbow floats. They were loud, political, and unapologetic marches for visibility, safety, and rights.
Stonewall happened in a cultural moment when the world was already in upheaval: the Civil Rights Movement, the Women’s Liberation Movement, and anti-Vietnam War protests were reshaping the American political landscape. The gay rights movement joined that chorus—and for a time, especially into the 1970s, it began to sing with joy and newfound sexual freedom. The 1970s became a decade of exploration and visibility. Gay men in particular embraced a new culture of liberation: discos pulsed with rhythm and energy, bathhouses became places not of shame but of connection, and artists, writers, and activists pushed boundaries in the public eye.
But the joy of that revolution would come under brutal siege in the 1980s with the emergence of the AIDS crisis. As friends and lovers died in staggering numbers, the government remained indifferent, slow, and cruelly silent. The queer community rallied again—not just to mourn, but to fight. Groups like ACT UP and the Gay Men’s Health Crisis forced a reluctant nation to see us, to acknowledge our grief and fury. Stonewall had taught us how to protest. AIDS taught us how to organize for our lives.
And still, here we are.
Today, we celebrate Pride with parades, with community, and yes, with joy—but we cannot forget the riot that began it. Nor can we ignore the threats we continue to face. In this current political climate, with a Republican administration openly hostile to LGBTQ+ rights, we are watching hard-won freedoms come under attack. Trans healthcare, anti-discrimination protections, even the right to teach honest history in schools are being stripped away state by state. Pride is not just a celebration—it is a protest. A defiance. A promise that we will not go back.
The Stonewall Riots were not polished, pretty, or corporatized. They were angry, spontaneous, and necessary. We owe our thanks to those brave souls who threw bricks, linked arms, and stood their ground. And we honor them best not just with rainbows—but with resistance.
So wear that shirt with pride: The First Pride Was a Riot. And remember why.
🏳️🌈⸻🏳️🌈
What does Pride mean to you this year? How do you honor the history while living in the now? Share your reflections in the comments below.
Thursday, June 26, 2025
Male-Order Desire: The Bold Legacy of International Male
From its founding in the 1970s through its peak in the ’80s and ’90s, International Male became a low-key lifeline for gay men across America. And even if it never explicitly said the word “gay,” the message was clear: these clothes—and these bodies—were for you.
Though never overtly labeled as gay, the catalog’s aesthetic left little doubt. Muscular male models posed in silky robes, sheer tank tops, and outrageously tight trousers, often in settings that felt more boudoir than boardroom. But because it was technically a fashion catalog, it flew under the radar. For closeted men in conservative towns, this was covert contraband—an acceptable, even respectable way to engage with queer desire.
At its peak in the 1980s and early ’90s, International Male had over 3 million customers. Its sister brand, Undergear, took things even further, focusing almost entirely on underwear and swimwear. Both catalogs were often tucked under beds, stuffed in gym bags, or secretly flipped through while pretending to look for a new blazer.The magic of International Male was never really about the clothes. It was about fantasy. About possibility. About creating a world where men could be sexy, flamboyant, and free.
As queer studies scholar Shaun Cole writes in Don We Now Our Gay Apparel, catalogs like International Male offered not just fashion but “performances of masculinity” that pushed boundaries and created new scripts for how men could look and be seen.
International Male wasn’t alone. There was a whole universe of catalogs, zines, and magazines that played pivotal roles in gay history:
Launched by Bob Mizer, this “fitness” magazine was the first to feature nearly nude muscular men in a semi-legit format. It helped launch the careers of models like Joe Dallesandro and inspired generations of artists, including Tom of Finland.
Glossy gay lifestyle and erotica magazines that blended porn, interviews, fashion, and personal ads. They gave gay men access to a world far larger and more glamorous than their own.
While technically a catalog for Abercrombie & Fitch, under Bruce Weber’s lens it became a bold, glossy celebration of homoerotic youth culture—shirtless boys in golden fields, bathed in natural light and coded desire.
Undergear
A spinoff of International Male, this catalog was even more explicitly erotic—offering thongs, jockstraps, sheer briefs, and loungewear photographed with far less subtlety.
Launched in Amsterdam, BUTT was an indie, raw, and refreshingly honest publication that celebrated gay sex, intimacy, and everyday life. Pink pages, candid interviews, and gritty photography made it a cult favorite.
The Argument for Art
As with erotic photography and gay porn cinema, there’s a growing argument that catalogs like International Male should be remembered not just as pop culture oddities but as legitimate artifacts of queer history and visual art.
They reflect the shifting landscape of male identity. They archive our fantasies, our insecurities, our attempts to be beautiful in a world that once told us we didn’t belong.
Today, collectors preserve International Male catalogs as kitsch, camp, and cultural gold. Exhibitions of old issues have appeared in queer history museums, and documentaries (like All Man: The International Male Story, 2022) are reclaiming the catalog’s legacy as both fashion history and queer resistance.
For many gay men, flipping through International Male was a ritual—a private moment of longing and laughter. It was how you discovered new shirts and new dreams. How you imagined a body that might one day be yours—or in your bed.
And perhaps that’s the enduring power of such catalogs and magazines: they made desire visible. They turned clothing into code, fashion into fantasy, and mail-order into memory.
So, here’s to International Male—to its satin shirts, its sultry stares, its sneaky subversiveness. It was never just about the clothes. It was always about the possibility of being seen.
Further Reading and Viewing
- All Man: The International Male Story (2022 Documentary)
- Don We Now Our Gay Apparel by Shaun Cole
- The Male Nude: A Modern View by David Leddick
- Archive scans of Physique Pictorial, Blueboy, and BUTT Magazine
- Retrospective fashion articles on International Male in The Advocate, Out, and W magazine
Wednesday, June 25, 2025
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