Marcel Pardo Ariza (they/he) is a trans, Colombian, visual artist, educator, and curator based in Oakland/San Francisco. Their interdisciplinary practice spans constructed photography, site-specific installations, and collective public programming, centering care, trans history, and the magic of queer nightlife. Marcel’s recent time at the Fire Island Artist Residency (FIAR) offered a space to engage deeply with the island’s layered queer histories while developing projects that foreground kinship, visibility, and joy.

During the residency, Marcel invited participants to take part in 4 Friends 1 Kiss, photographing groups of friends kissing from below, a project that both activated the FIAR community and explored the ways intimacy and play can resist the political and social violences of our time. Their work reflects a commitment to creating spaces of reciprocity and care, while also responding to the historic absences of trans Latinx narratives in visual culture.

What does it mean to be queer for you in 2025?

For me, being queer today means upholding and protecting the rights that we, and those before us, have fought so fiercely for. There are so many layers to this. As a trans migrant, I focus on defending trans rights, gender-affirming health care, and immigrants’ rights, while also teaching my students and young people about trans history and the importance of intergenerational connections. I see queerness not only as an identity, but also as a responsibility to care for our communities and to make sure that the paths ahead are wider and safer for those who come next.

Queerness for me is also about cultivating connections and spaces that foster joy, reciprocity, and dancing. Dancing, always the best balm!!

How did your work manifest during your time at FIAR? What did you work on?

I came to FIAR with lots of ideas, but I wanted the island to influence how I spent my time there. Considering the island’s historical significance in queer history and kinship, I decided to invite people to participate in my project, “4 Friends 1 Kiss.” In it, I photograph groups of four friends kissing, taken from below.

We’re living through such violent political times, and I always turn to the importance of friendship and kinship, a well that can sweetly nurture the heart and soul. This felt like the right project for the island, a way to meet new people and connect with them. I made posters and hung them all around Cherry Grove and The Pines, inviting anyone who would be down to participate.

People texted me sweet messages like, “Hi Marcel, we are ready to kiss for you,” which definitely made me smile, or “Me and my friends are down to kiss.” I love the abstraction of bodies in the images, but I also love seeing people’s reactions after kissing their friends. People say things like, “Wow, that was so fun,” “We hadn’t done that before,” or, “Should we do it again, with tongue?”

I also spent a lot of time walking around the island, at least two hours a day. I kept feeling like there were so many queer spirits whispering and talking to me. It felt very special. There was a new kind of safety in wandering the paths at night, with no lights in sight, guided only by the white paint catching the glow of the moon. It was both profound and deeply peaceful.

How did your experience of growing up in Bogotá and later working across San Francisco inform your first impressions of Fire Island and the FIAR community?

My interest in queer history and archives had led me to learn about Fire Island many times. I was eager to go. I love the lineage of parties and resistance, and the Meat Rack as a place of desire, secrecy, and cruising. Yes, the island can feel very cis, and the energy was, without question, very white. But I also believe it’s essential for people of different positionalities to inhabit and shape that history, as well. We get to enjoy the magic of the island, too.

Growing up in a big city surrounded by mountains, the proximity to the ocean always feels like an enormous privilege. To step onto a beach that not only welcomes queerness but also celebrates the freedom of nude queer bodies was a rare and moving experience. I was aware that my brown trans body was uncommon in that landscape, yet I felt a quiet joy in claiming space there, letting the sand sift between my toes, noticing the salt on my skin, and listening to the sea, the trees, and birds as if they were telling me some chisme.

Were there books, queer artists, or local stories you encountered at FIAR that felt particularly resonant or transformative?

I met so many amazing people and had the chance to photograph over 70 people kissing, haha! But three moments stand out for me. Listening to the podcast “The Queer Grove” by filmmaker Parker Sargent while walking the island felt magical, as if the history were speaking directly to me. Cruising in the darkroom at the legendary Ice Palace underwear party was its own moment. And meeting photographer Lola Flash, whose work I’ve admired for years, was so special! I knew Lola had collaborated with my mentor Julie Tolentino on the Gran Fury Kissing Doesn’t Kill campaign, so it felt almost full-circle when Lola took a photograph of our FIAR cohort kissing. Queer art history in the making!!

Much of your work challenges the historical absence of trans Latinx narratives in visual culture. Did the residency spark new ways to imagine visibility in a place with such a loaded queer history?

Absolutely! I kept asking myself, How many trans masculine people from Colombia have been here? It felt important to create self-portraits that perhaps haven’t existed before on the island, to enter the visual history of the island with my brown trans body; it felt like the island itself was collaborating with me.

I’m also brainstorming ways to bring more queer, trans, Latinx, and immigrant folks to the island in a way that is both affordable and sustainable. The cost of visiting here can be prohibitive, which is one of the reasons the island is predominantly white. But I truly believe we need to carve out spaces for our people to enjoy this beautiful place, too. During my time there, I was able to invite people who’ve lived in NYC for years but had never visited the island before. It felt like a small but meaningful way to start breaking down those barriers and opening up the space for all of us.

Fire Island carries its own history, from gay liberation to coastal erasure to even white and classist at times. How did that layered context enter your practice during FIAR? You are now part of its history.

This happens in a lot of places, and I feel it very strongly in San Francisco, too. On Fire Island, there’s definitely a strong white cis male energy, but I also met people from a range of positions who are slowly making the island more inclusive. That work takes time and care, but as long as we recognize that this queer island is a paradise for rest and queer joy, we can remember that we deserve to be there too. Now, the challenge is finding ways to make it more accessible for others.

I think about the Fire Island Drag Invasion of 1976, when a group of drag queens sailed from Cherry Grove to the Pines to confront gender exclusion and binary gender norms. In a way, they transformed an act of defiance into a visual celebration of queer visibility. Or the more recent Doll Invasion, where trans, nonbinary, and gender-nonconforming folks take over the island to reclaim a historically exclusive space and open it to our trans community. These creative interventions reimagine access and belonging to the island in really powerful ways that feel very inspiring. In the Pines, I took some kissing photos, but I knew I needed to push myself so the images didn’t feel repetitive. I still wish there had been more diverse moments, but in some ways, the work feels true to where the island is right now.

How does the temporary nature of residency communities inform your thoughts about building lasting connections?

This island has a deep sense of continuity; people have been living and coming here for decades, often returning the same weeks year after year. That creates a unique kind of community: transient yet consistent.

Consistency is one of the most important elements for building lasting connections. The fact that people have continued to care for the island’s history while enjoying it as a site of rest, joy, and desire feels pretty special. I know experiences of the island vary, but I personally felt embraced by it. I felt grateful for the freedom to, for example, proudly show my designer chest or feel mostly safe cruising in a predominantly gay male space. Of course, there’s still work to be done; I’d love to see more trans people on the island, and definitely more Black and brown folks, but I’m committed and hopeful that this will happen little by little.

Do you have a summer memory that comes to mind for this Summer 2025?

I have so many sweet memories of my time at FIAR! The beach slowed my mind to such a low level of stimulation that it felt like time itself stretched, something I hadn’t experienced in years. That spaciousness was a gift I now carry with me. I felt grounded, focused, and cared for by the ocean.

Beyond the magic of the beach, our FIAR cohort also had the chance to take two tours with the island’s gardener, Todd Erickson, one of the few year-round residents. He led us through the Meat Rack and the Sunken Forest, offering horticultural knowledge mixed in with so much tea. It felt particularly special to hear from someone who has lived on the island for so many years and tended to its flora with such care. Todd knows a great deal about different species, how they coexist, or don’t, and is deeply invested in the island’s long-term ecological health, especially in how visitors choose to conserve or neglect the place they come to enjoy.

New York–based artist Christopher Gambino moves between performance, sculpture, and narrative, building a world where bodies, objects, and gestures echo one another. During his time at the Fire Island Artist Residency (FIAR), he engaged the island’s long lineage of queer performance — from drag and cabaret to the playful and grotesque — as a space to test how queerness can live not just in subject matter, but in form. There, he continued his exploration of presence and absence, experimenting with narrative-driven sculpture and performance that blur the line between what’s staged and what’s felt.

What does queerness mean to you right now, in 2025? Has your understanding of it shifted in recent years?

I’ve tended to avoid identifying myself or my work as queer, as I don’t fully understand what it means. In trying to answer this question, I’m reminded of when I was a performance artist in college and kept being told that my work was about failure. I was kind of like, “Oh, okay, well, I didn’t know I was failing.” This led me to Jack Halberstam’s book The Queer Art of Failure, which essentially establishes the act of failing as a queer mode of doing. That is, failing at something is just finding a different way to accomplish it. I imagine this exact scene has played out with many other little queens in undergrad. It makes me think a lot about where queerness is actually located in something—is it in its content, or its form? I’m not sure. I think queer is maybe more of a feeling than anything else. In any case, it seems fundamental to me and my work, whether or not I put it there on purpose. There appears to be an otherness to me and everything I do that feels normal from the inside.

Last year, someone described my sculptures as crossdressers, and I was like, “What about this chair doesn’t seem cisgender to you?” They said, “Well, Christopher, chairs aren’t supposed to wear stockings.” So I wonder, is it more or less queer when I wear stockings or when a chair does? What about when a woman wears stockings? It didn’t really occur to me that the work was queer or that it involved the queering of anything, aside from the fact that it was created by someone who is queer and engaging with movements and subgenres that have historically been associated with boys—but even that is somewhat tenuous.

I think what I’m trying to say is that maybe queer is a feeling, a sense of wrongness or irreverence that only some of us are psychologically able to access, or a feeling that some of us can’t help but exude. It does feel wrong when I dress up, but that’s why I like it. Christopher occurs within that wrongness, in the distance between my body and the way I adorn it.

My feelings on queer as a descriptor for me and my work have changed, though, and I’m feeling a little less resistant to it. I don’t think I make work about queerness at all, but it does serve as a useful entry point for many people. If people who are queer see themselves in what I do, I think that means it has to be queer, and it would be obstinate for me to claim otherwise. I think there’s room to grow in the way we understand it as a term, though. I think we can make it a little sexier, a little more gross, a little less prescriptive. As it stands, it feels pretty ineffective at resisting categorization.

How did your work take shape during your time at the Fire Island Artist Residency? What projects or experiments did you focus on while you were there?

I spent most of my time at the residency developing and writing the score for a performance that is part narrative play, part cabaret act, and part Christmas special, which is the basis of my upcoming solo at Below Grand in New York.

In my sculptures, I’m trying to evoke the feeling of ephemera, as though some dance, gesture, or crime transpired, which resulted in the object or objects that the viewer sees. Whenever I see a pair of shoes abandoned on the street, I can’t help but construct some elaborate story about how and why these things landed where they did. Did the wearer have to kick them off to escape an assailant? Was she raptured? Did she find a nicer pair of shoes on the street and stop to change?

So, rather than reverse-engineering a narrative from the ephemera, as I usually do, with this work, I attempted to start with the narrative and allow it to inform the resulting objects. My background and education are in performance, and my sculptures are very much grappling with that—trying to negotiate the experience of seeing and being seen, of threatening and being threatened by the gaze. It was a disorienting experience to begin my object-based practice, in which I create objects that are translations of my own body, and then filter that back into my actual body again. Because Fire Island has historically fostered specific forms of queer performance, namely drag and cabaret, I knew it would be the perfect place to develop this work, as those are forms I’m explicitly engaging with and referencing. I also think being on island time was integral to the resulting script. Settling into the meandering, circular rhythm of Fire Island, with its days that feel at once extremely long and extremely short, informed my work and its structure profoundly.

Your Instagram bio says you’re a model and actress. Is this a cheeky way of pointing out professionalism standards in a hyperprofessionalized queer and creative life today? How do you play with the idea of performativity in your practice and larger aspects of your life?

Living and working as an artist often blurs the lines between the social and the professional. I feel a lot of pressure to be friends with everyone I work with and to use social media to advance my career and promote myself while also maintaining a strange veil of casualness, as though I’m running a personal account and not basically my LinkedIn. It’s disorienting, and I don’t know how to make it serve my needs without also playing a character. I’m aware of the expectations that exist of me based on the way I look, the way I dress, and the way I speak, and I’m interested in what it means to give the audience what they want.

It’s not lost on me that Christopher Gambino is an idea. I like to think that Christopher Gambino is a construct that I’m in control of, a sort of golem that I can pilot while protecting some of my interiority. There’s an element of mythmaking and storytelling to my practice and the work that I make, and I think the idea of artist-as-character is central to that. Because my work is also pretty formally naive, the visible presence of my hand is a part of its content. I do want viewers to imagine what kind of person made these objects. Maybe Christopher Gambino is some kind of perverted Gepetto, or a serial killer dispersing evidence, or a transvestite possessed by the ghost of a doomed prima donna. Or maybe Christopher Gambino is a twink with a shopping addiction who lives in Brooklyn. Who can say?

How do you choose the objects that appear in your work? Are they found intuitively, or do they come from long periods of collecting and research?

I’m a compulsive shopper and hoarder. I’m obsessed with collecting things. If I see something shiny on the ground, I’m going to pick it up. I have an insane number of objects in my studio. A visitor told me recently that they felt like they were in an evil church storeroom. I’ve come into possession of all the things that I keep in my studio because they spoke to me in some way, and when I feel moved by a thing, it’s usually because of its body-adjacency, like the curve in a table leg or the arch of a chair back.

I spend a lot of time with my objects, placing them in different positions and orientations, dressing them up, taking them apart. I feel like there are women hiding inside the things that I collect, and my process is one of finding her and coaxing her out, trimming away excess material so other people can see her too. I don’t usually source specific things; I prefer to let things find me, to let the thing tell me who she wants to be.

There’s also something about trash specifically that appeals to me. The act of discarding something gives it an entirely new layer of meaning. So much of the furniture and home goods that are abandoned on sidewalks, or clogging up thrift stores and estate sales, or gathering dust in your grandma’s attic, evoke a specific kind of Americana loaded with ideas of yearning and desire.

I think most of my materials are from the 80s, and a lot of the furniture from that time is these cheap approximations of other things—fake Chippendale chairs, imitation crystal, and other haunted, ahistorical mashups of European styles and eras. There’s an aspirational quality to this material, but it’s also tragic because it’s just a thing pretending to be another kind of thing.

How did your own background and experiences before FIAR shape the way you encountered Fire Island and the community you found there? You are now part of its history.

To be completely honest, I was so afraid of Fire Island. I’ve spent a long time avoiding explicitly gay spaces, and I’m aware that my work is afforded a level of neutrality because I refuse to talk about my identity in most contexts. This has allowed my work to function in spaces and contexts that are not queer, and for the discussion around it to be largely formal.

Is there a particular memory, moment, or image from Summer 2025 on Fire Island that has stayed with you?

I saw the drag queen Rose Levine perform her show, The Unsinkable Rose Levine, at the Cherry Grove Community House, which was completely life-changing. Rose is the Guinness World Record holder for the oldest performing drag queen, at 94 years old, and has been performing in Cherry Grove since 1955. I can be a bit ironic and detached, so it was disarming for me to feel so deeply and sincerely moved by her performance. There was a moment when I realized I was the youngest person in the audience by decades (no shade) and that everyone in the room had been attending her shows for years, having grown old alongside her.

Of course, there’s an element of camp to my relationship with this kind of performance, but I was so emotionally caught off guard by the actual beauty of a performer forgetting the words to her song or trailing off mid-sentence. There was one moment in the show when two stagehands carried out a vanity table with a wig head and mirror, and they accidentally dropped the mirror, and it broke. They decided in the moment to use the broken prop mirror anyway, so they put it back on the table. Rose then removed her wig and sang “If You Could See Her” from Cabaret into the broken mirror. It was brilliant.

I had originally decided to attend the performance because of my fixation on showbiz aesthetics and the idea of artifice, but the beauty and sincerity of Rose’s performance has really given me a lot to process, and I will be reckoning with what it made me feel for a long time.

For as long as I've been involved in equity and social justice work on Fire Island through the Black and Brown Equity Coalition (BaBEC), through my writing, and in all the conversations and community-building efforts, I've continued to explore ways to amplify voices in a way that resonates. I've met incredible people with stories that deserve to be heard far beyond our immediate circles. People whose experiences of joy, healing, and belonging on Fire Island could change how others see what's possible in these spaces.

Amplifying voices in meaningful ways requires more than good intentions. It requires the right platform, the right approach, and the right resources to do it well.

I've finally gotten to a place where I can do this work the way it deserves to be done.

So Fag Rag is expanding into audio storytelling.

Our First Podcast

This September, Fag Rag will release the official trailer for our new podcast, highlighting what joy looks like for queer and trans people of color on Fire Island. The full season announcement will come shortly after.

This represents a natural evolution of Fag Rag's mission to celebrate and document LGBTQ+ culture in Fire Island, Provincetown, and New York City. Just as our print magazine amplifies voices through visual storytelling, this podcast creates space for conversations that our community needs to hear.

The podcast will center conversations with people about their experiences of celebration, healing, and belonging on Fire Island. It's about joy as much as it is about access and equity.

Here’s a demo of the pilot episode’s introduction. It’s not perfect! But it will be pretty close by the time it airs.

The podcast will be available on most major podcast platforms and sent weekly to all of our subscribers. Paid subscribers will get exclusive access to extended episodes and behind-the-scenes content.

Become a Founding Supporter

I'm looking to partner with aligned brands, businesses, and individuals who want to connect with a thoughtful, engaged, LGBTQ+ audience.

🧑🏾‍💻 Community Producer Credit – $500 in July

Perfect for individuals, creatives, or brands who want to be visibly aligned with the mission of this show.

• Your name (or your brand's) will be read at the end of every episode

Price increases to $650 in August, and $800 after August 31.

Secure Your Producer Credit Here!

🎙️ Exclusive Season Sponsorship – $2,500 in July

Only one of these is available!

Your brand will receive:

• A 1-minute pre-roll, 1-minute mid-roll, and 1-minute post-roll ad in every episode (12 episodes total)

• This is an opportunity for story-driven ad content that listeners will remember

• Promotion on the podcast website, in newsletters, and across social media

• Cross-promotion to a combined audience of 10k+ across social media and email, including engaged communities of QTPOC in NYC and Fag Rag Magazine's readership

Price increases to $3,000 in August and $3,500 after August 31. Early supporters lock in the best rate.

Book 30-minute Discovery Call

This isn't just a podcast. It's an invitation to be part of something that centers voices and joy in a place that's not known for telling those stories. It's Fag Rag's commitment to expanding how we document and celebrate our community's experiences.

If that resonates with you, let's build it together.

Tomik Dash
Publisher
Fag Rag Magazine

“It’s the underwear party,” says Jade behind the reception counter of the Grove Hotel, glancing up from her iPad reassuringly. “People are nice.”

The previous night was spent in a hotel room with two Australian friends, a safe night in both accommodations and experience, a first time for all of us. An hour before sunset, I kissed them goodbye at the ferry pier, one with a dog to return to and the other fighting off some kind of gross lung infection. With the cheapest last-minute Labor Day weekend economy room clocking in at an unjustifiable rate of $500, I decided to roll the dice on utilizing my sexual prowess as a survival tactic and stay another night…somewhere on the island.

Heartily, I wave goodbye to Jade as if I’ve known her all my life and skip through the lobby to the adjoining Ice Palace. “Happy crashing!” She calls to me.

With over half of my weekend provisions remaining, I weighed how I would spend the four hours between the party’s end and the first ferry off the island the following morning. Maybe I’d sleep on the beach, a pillow made from my praying hands, the crash of violent swells shooing away the sand fleas. Or perhaps the temperature would drop low enough that I’d have to exchange sex for the use of someone’s outdoor dog bed. I’d convinced myself that it’d be a fun experiment on whether I still possessed the cache and intrigue essential to mooching my way into a safe night’s sleep, something that was more of a given than a feat throughout my brazen teens and twenties. Foolishly, I reassured myself that the more unsafe and unsavory the outcome, the juicier the story. Any second-guessings were promptly hushed by swigs from my Gatorade bottle filled with tequila and pea-sized nibbles from a block of melted and resettled mushroom chocolate. Sure, tens of thousands of gay guys had probably voluntarily shipwrecked themselves in the middle of gay Eden and made it out just fine through the island’s decades-long history. But still, I lavished the belief that somehow, my doing it intentionally and beyond what I deemed an acceptable age threshold was nothing short of renegade.

Standing in the Ice Palace coat check line, I’m already naked save for my underwear, baseball cap, fanny pack, and an overstuffed backpack. The fanny pack, meant to get me through the night, contains half a gram of ketamine, a half-eaten CLIF Bar, and my half-charged iPhone 8. My backpack, meant to get me through the morning, contains the rest of my survivalist provisions. Around the backpack's handle, I’ve looped a stolen hotel towel that I’ll later use as a blanket or cape or maybe set ablaze to send a smoke signal. The coat check twink grimaces at the weight of the backpack while planting it amongst a sea of identical drawstring bags, their empty folds obscuring the Scruff branding.

I check the time: twenty minutes until the last ferry of the night departs without me.Deranged by my own self-satisfaction, I chuckle smugly, the way a train-hopper might chuckle at a private jet. Two gays working the event ask to take my picture in front of a large step-and-repeat featuring Andrew Christian-clad hotties sharing a seductive embrace. Riding high on my gallant spontaneity, I pose in a dramatic lunge, my knee popping audibly along the way.

I text Sam, a smiley, twenty-five-year-old blonde I met on Grindr about a month prior, saying that I’ve decided to stay and have arrived at the venue. Following our beach fuck earlier that day, I left my backpack at the house he’s sharing with about a dozen other he/they twinks before we all left for Low Tea. Several in the group echoed the perhaps sincere sentiment that, of course, they’d offer me a couch if they weren’t all taken, but each time, I hastily shook off the notion. I’d rather surrender to quicksand than permit the hesitant generosity of well-meaning twinks—a dying Snow White, too prideful to accept a handout from pall-bearing dwarves.

Momentarily the nightmare fantasy of my irrational and inebriated mind convinces me that all one thousand party fags are maintaining a tally of every time I check my phone or pretend to wait in the bathroom line. After some stress-dancing, I leech myself to a welcoming married couple willing to shelter me from my psychedelic storm of self-doubt. After some labored chat, they invite me to join them in the darkroom, not because they’re interested in fucking me, but because they already feel a sense of responsibility towards me, like a carnival goldfish in a plastic bag they’ve won without wanting to.

Soon, it becomes apparent that the darkroom is just an area of the dancefloor sectioned off by the same cloth tarps used to give a false sense of privacy between salon chairs at Great Clips. It’s early enough in the night that the attendees are primarily made up of those motivated by genuine horniness rather than insecurity and despair. I can tell because those in the latter group have a knack for identifying one another. Before long, the couple recognizes a familiar silhouette and latch onto each of his nipples like carabiners. Should I leave a note? I wonder before leaving them to it.

In a sea of groping hands, there’s bound to be one outstretched and pointing home. The body language in the darkroom is a fascinating sight. A lingering glance is a maybe, a brisk look in the opposite direction, a stern, smearing No. You can’t be certain of a yes until you’re already going into each other, and even then, nothing’s promised. I make out with someone, then someone else. Soon enough, things have escalated, and I’m being blown. Super, I think. I’ll have a quick nut, then carry on with the night, clear my head, and prioritize my survival.

But wait. I pause. I must ration this nut. What if the kind soul who fosters me for the night has no use for my little bit of K and four hard-boiled eggs? This nut is the only official currency accepted on the island. It doesn’t just regenerate like the limbs of a lizard. I’m not in my goddamn twenties.

With arms pawing at the air, I stumble back into the light and see that Sam has responded that he’s arrived. But this is quickly followed by a text that he has to leave because a friend is overwhelmed and having a bad time, presumably from drugs. The drug freak-out is the nightlife equivalent of diarrhea in that no explanation or follow-up is required or expected, so I don’t bother wondering if it’s a fake excuse. Instead, I dance by myself, courageously inhabiting the irresistible vigor of someone with a bed.

The intoxicating pulse of my self-assurance soon enchants the attention of Horatio, a Venezuelan almost-daddy with the crescent of a stark-white tan line rising from his mammoth ass. I’m uncertain what he’s taken, but our dancing can only be described as ketamine theater. The way I dance with close friends, in which every maneuver is themed, a gag, a bit, a reference, a knowing wink to an actual dance move. We oscillate between pornographic making out and separating twenty feet apart across the dance floor while maintaining fixed yet playful eye contact. I’m sure that any onlookers must be marveling at how unseriously we’re taking things and how much fun we’re having just being silly. But little do they know there’s twenty minutes until the club closes, the temperature’s dropped twelve degrees in two hours, and I need a place to sleep tonight.

Momentarily, I zoom out of my turbulent forest of worst-case scenarios and see the bigger picture of what would become of me should I not find a home for the night. Maybe I’d become a tourist attraction, The Grizzly Man of the Meat Rack, a spectacle for visitors to take photos with and twinks to throw rocks at but miss. Occasionally looked upon with a pitying sneer, maybe invited inside for a hot shower and cold seltzer before being nudged back out the door—a cautionary tale to anyone wishing for an endless summer. Or maybe the island has a strict policy against visitors exhibiting the reckless arrogance required for something so irresponsible. I pray that the community-not-a-resort enforcers give me a ten-second head start through the Meat Rack before the staff of teenage Pines Pantry employees chase me down and shoot me in the back.

By the time the DJ plays the final track, it’s me, Horatio, and a dozen stragglers, likely trying to relinquish a last-minute nut or waiting for someone to initiate an afters. Holding back on verbiage like my place, I ask Horatio if he’d like to carry on at the beach. He smirks before offering, “Or we can just go to mine.”

The wave of euphoric relief nearly knocks me to my knees. I’ve won. I’ve embarked on the hero’s journey from drifter to shelter. I’ve navigated a rejection minefield of my own making, successfully churning my charm and sexuality into the most unimaginable gift an aged-out party fag could possibly beg for: an invitation.

“Your place sounds good,” I say, barely containing a victory lap.

We walk to coat check, Horatio receiving his sensible fanny pack and me hoisting my bulbous backpack over my shoulders, the towel swaying like a limp beaver tail. He smirks knowingly. “Carry on at the beach, huh?” Once the water taxi delivers us to the other side of the island, it’s a two-minute walk to the wooden structure he calls home twelve weekends out of the summer. Oddly, the power’s out, so we hike up the loft’s narrow staircase with our phone flashlights and push two twin mattresses together. Halfway through the night, I’m awoken by the barnacles of conjunctivitis caking my eyes, and I paw my way into the bathroom to peel my contacts off. I inhale three glasses of water and the other half of the CLIF Bar before hitting my head on my way back up the stairs. The sun begins to rise as we sleep naked with the blankets kicked to the floor.

The following morning, he threw on a leather vest and cowboy hat to walk me to get breakfast sandwiches from the pantry. We spend the day lounging on the beach, playing paddle ball with his friends, drinking, familiar faces in packs of twos and threes, stopping to greet him every fifteen minutes. After my third and final Tea dance, I left to catch the sunset ferry.

I gaze out at the water wistfully, a survivor’s moment of reflection as he’s whisked away by the rescue chopper. I deem my little experiment a success, feeling like I could show up just about anywhere alone and unplanned, and make it out alive, fed, and fucked–just like I’d do in my twenties. I’m seated behind three still-drunk young people. They gather in for a goodbye Fire Island selfie, hanging on one another with prepared pouts. I smile at their youthful abandon like a village elder watching the children practice archery. My smile falls as I notice the one holding the phone zooming in on my fucked-up looking face in the background as they share a laugh at my expense. Rather than shake my fist in rage, I close my eyes and pretend to have died: maybe of dehydration, possibly of old age, but certainly not of defeat.

When Zephyr (they/them) stepped into the Eagle NYC for the first time in 2019, they couldn't have imagined that just a few years later, they would make history as the bar's first transgender Mr. Eagle. But on October 6, 2024, that's exactly what happened when they were crowned Mr. Eagle 2025, marking a watershed moment for trans visibility in New York's leather community.

At 29, Zephyr represents a new generation of leather title holders who are reimagining what leadership in the community can look like. Born in Queens and raised in California, their journey into leather began unexpectedly early. "I was like 3 or 4 years old when I got my first leather piece," they recalled. "It was just this leather baseball cap that I saw on vacation. I was crying and begging my parents to get it, and I wore the hell out of that hat."

That early affinity for leather would lay dormant until Zephyr returned to New York as an adult. In 2019, dating a pup led them to their first visit to the Eagle for a "Pup and Handler" event. While that first experience had its challenges ("Some of those pups were bitches," they noted with a laugh), Zephyr found their community through events like INTO, a monthly party that centers trans and gender-expansive people.

Now, as Mr. Eagle, Zephyr is focused on making the space more accessible to trans people while honoring its history. They've taken over hosting INTO on second Sundays and launched "Trans Invasion" nights on fourth Thursdays. "My main thing is I want to make it easier for trans people to check out the Eagle," they explained. "For those who are like, 'this is my space,' I want them to feel very easy. And for those who are like, 'I want to check it out, and I'm not sure if it's for me,' I want to help them figure that out."

Zephyr's approach to inclusion comes from personal experience. "I benefit a lot from passing pretty well," they acknowledged. "People often don't know [I'm trans]. But it does make it easier for me to access these spaces, so using that sort of positionality of like - you don't know who is [trans] - kind of opens it up with like 'we're here, we're cool too.'"

The significance of having a trans person advocate for trans inclusion isn't lost on Zephyr. "As a trans person, I can be a little more passionate about speaking on inclusion because this isn't just theory - this is my lived reality," they explained. "If people were shitty to me about being trans every time I went to the Eagle, I probably wouldn't go."

Beyond trans advocacy, Zephyr works at an HIV/AIDS nonprofit as a testing counselor and plans to organize AIDS Walk fundraisers. They're also preparing to compete at International Mr. Leather (IML) in Chicago, where they could potentially join the ranks of Tyler McCormick and Jack Thompson as trans IML title holders.

Zephyr's win reflects broader changes in the leather community. They note that title holders are getting younger, partly due to greater accessibility through online communities and porn helping people discover their interests earlier. But their philosophy remains grounded in showing up and being present: "You make up the space by being there," they emphasized. "I will belong in this space because I'm going to show up, and by nature of showing up, I belong."

Looking ahead, Zephyr sees their role as building on the work of recent Mr. Eagle winners like Pup Kenzo (2022) and Chris Kelly (2023), who have worked to expand perceptions of what the leather community can be. "I want everyone in because there are things that I wanted to do to make it inclusive," they said. "Winning makes it easier for me to do the things I would like to see at the Eagle."

One recent Friday, I walked into Caffeine Underground, a large and unpretentious Bushwick coffee joint where, on any given day, I am far from the only trans person. I opened my laptop to find more “thanks, but no thanks” emails regarding my pitch to review “The Breakdown Odyssey,” trans rap artist Ms. Boogie’s one-night-only show on Saturday, September 14. None of the city’s top periodicals seemed to grasp the importance of the event, though it was the season opener at prominent Manhattan venue The Shed.

Boogie, a Dominican-Colombian native of East New York, has been a cultural force in the queer underground for more than a decade. She has toured the U.S. and Europe, produced polished music videos, and released three albums, the latest of which—“The Breakdown,” a storytelling opus backed by Brooklyn drill beats—was co-created by a team of queer and trans artists she flew across the country on her own dime.

I was bummed that I failed to sell my pitch about the show. Nonetheless, on a Saturday night, I took two trains and walked thirty minutes in three-inch heels to Hudson Yards, where I found Journey Streams, the 25-year-old art scene maven whose Yale dissertation on queer Brooklyn nightlife landed her a Verso Books deal. “This feels like a cross between The Whitney and LaGuardia Airport,” Streams laughed, gesturing around The Shed’s lobby.

In walked Byrell The Great, the preeminent DJ of New York City ballroom, who greeted Streams with air kisses before joining a gaggle of once and future ballroom legends at the lobby bar. Among them was Gia Love, the model and singer who founded an annual cookout to celebrate Black trans women, where Boogie performed last summer. (Boogie, too, first came up voguing in the ballroom scene.)

Doors opened, and ticket-holders rode three escalators along tall glass windows to the sixth floor of The Shed, where artistic director Alex Poots has said that he aims to “break down the barriers between so-called high and low culture.” In the venue’s black box Griffen Theater, three ornate crystal chandeliers glowed atop piles of rubble.

Boogie emerged in a nude, stocking-like bodysuit that revealed her dramatic curves while evoking the surgical contexts that shaped them. Over a droning soundscape by musical director M. Jamison, a trans woman who produced much of the album, Boogie crawled gollum-like from chandelier to chandelier, reciting broken-down verses from her album.

“Gotta do my due dills before I get killed,” she moaned breathlessly, reciting from the song “Black Butterfly,” a paean to the resilience of trans women of color living under constant threat of violence. “Quite frankly,” she intoned, “girls like me don’t grow tall like trees.”

The show was stunning as much for its content—a powerful trans woman brazenly baring her innermost struggles through poetry and physicality—as its form, which layered dance, performance, and fashion into a theatrical rap set. Boogie played various unnamed characters, her costume changes providing opportunities for singer Demi Vee, another Black trans woman, to bring the house down with heart-wrenching operatic singing.

In a Nike bodysuit and kneepads, Boogie crisscrossed the theater, slinkily accentuating her hips and flourishing her hands before squatting low and dipping to the floor. Abstract yet clearly voguing-inspired, the movements were co-choreographed by Alex Mugler, another ballroom success story. When Boogie performed “Aight Boom,” some in the crowd shouted every word: “Bitches got botched now they ask for my D-R / Your B.M. bad, but I’m bad-D-E-R.”

Boogie appeared alternately strong and vulnerable, breathing heavily then snapping back onto beat. Her next character wore a deconstructed gladiator skirt and knee-high black leather boots. Wavy black hair grazed her waist. She performed “Clipped,” a song processing a break-up, while Lambkin, the show’s movement assistant, played the role of a sympathetic hairdresser.

Boogie then sat beside a male figure wearing a hoodie, dramatically oversized jeans, untied Timberlands, and a grotesque, lacquered bull mask whose expression was perpetually dumbfounded. He personified DL trade, the kind of down-low men with whom Boogie, like many trans women, has extensive experience. I reached back to hold a friend’s hand, shuddering with recognition.

“Let me explain to you why you love me,” Boogie sang to the shame-ridden trade—touching empathy for an archetype who, to a trans woman, is at best, a passionate yet inconstant lover and, at worst, a threat to her life. The Beast would never give her the love she deserved, she conceded, but she was consoled by God’s love from above, which is “bigger and deeper than anything you can give me from below.” (She gestured to the Beast’s crotch.)

“I, too, am a child of God, contrary to popular belief,” Boogie proclaimed in a cheeky yet heartfelt closing monologue, channeling Broadway in the leotard version of a businessman’s undone suit. She pointed at the spotlights overhead and cried, “Thank Jesus I’m alive!” Then, blackout.

Immediately, I converged with two other white trans women in the audience. We were all just shy of speechless, having seen our own experiences so thoroughly depicted in a way they rarely are, certainly not with a budget. Yet we admitted we could only relate so much. Ms. Boogie’s perils are undoubtedly those of a trans woman who is Black; not a Bushwick transplant, but native to East New York.

Still, Boogie’s relentlessly honest and innovative performance impassioned me. I felt called to tell my own story, which is unique yet partakes of the odyssey on which every trans woman embarks. What I had just witnessed was a masterpiece, and I felt livid that the cis establishment couldn’t see that, or at least wouldn’t give it space in their periodicals. But Boogie reminded me of the power in working with those in your own community, the ones who get it. So I took the story elsewhere.

Upon arriving at Reflections, the Fire Island Pines property that hosted Doll Invasion, I was ushered to the green room through a door marked “DOLLS ONLY.” Yet once inside, I immediately thought, “I’m not supposed to be here.” Yes, I was considered a doll—I was on the line-up as a DJ. But I wasn’t that kind of doll, the ones expertly primping in mirrors all around me, who represented a cross-section of New York City’s trans elite: drag performers, actresses, activists, models. They were the real dolls.

I’d long heard girls spar over who counts as “one of the dolls.” Some said the term only applied to surged-up, hyper-feminine trannies (“made of plastic,” just like Barbie). Others were protective of the term’s roots in ballroom culture and rightfully wary of its co-optation. “Black, queer cultural identifiers are never gatekept, but tossed over the masses like confetti,” writes Zora Jade Khiry in an excerpt from her forthcoming book. “Each definition we come up with”—including doll, cunt, and trade—is “expanded to include the white usurper.”

As a white trans girl who lives in hoodies and Vans, with only a subtle facial feminization surgery under my belt, I was always reluctant to call myself a “doll.” But in recent years, the word’s use broadened and proliferated, a shift reflected in the name and ethos of Doll Invasion. Cultural force Fran Tirado founded the event in 2023 to help trans people get to Fire Island, historically a haven for affluent cis gay men.

This year’s Doll Invasion brought hundreds of trans people to the island with free travel and stipends, while raising $22,000 for queer/trans organizations. Even more impressively, it seeded a new, urgently needed trans solidarity under the banner of “doll.” Fishy models danced shoulder-to-shoulder with butch transbians, bearded enbies, and all manner of trans-mascs—a rare display of integration for folks who, despite our shared peril, are often so divided as to hardly be considered a “community.”

Seeking a historical perspective on the “doll” of it all, I called Ceyenne Doroshow, founder of G.L.I.T.S and foremother of New York’s trans scene. “Back in the day, a doll was a fem queen or drag queen who stepped above the norm of what femininity is,” Ceyenne told me, citing Octavia St. Laurent, Candis Cayne, and Victoria Lace as examples. But “the word has evolved,” said Ceyenne. “It doesn’t matter where you’re at in your transition—all trans girls are dolls.”

Read more

Sungjae Lee is an artist from Chicago whose work is deeply intertwined with his personal journey and identity. Lee’s recent time with the Fire Island Artist Residency (FIAR) offered him a fresh space to explore the intertwining experiences of race, queerness, and community within the context of Fire Island’s rich, yet sometimes discursive, queer history. Lee confronted the complexities of navigating predominantly white spaces like Fire Island while celebrating its history and localities, which have both challenged and enriched his artistic practice in larger contexts: an important prompt for working artists today.

Through his multidisciplinary approach, Lee delves into themes of identity, memory, and the body, as seen in his ongoing project, Temporal Chest Hair, developed during his FIAR residency. This work, which involves the collection and artistic use of participants’ chest hair, examines desire and labor. With a commitment to reflecting on and contributing to the future of queer communities, particularly those of color, Lee’s art is informed by both his lived experiences and the broader context of queer history. In the following interview, Lee discusses his experiences on Fire Island, the evolution of his practice, and his vision for the future.

Reflecting on your journey, how has your background influenced your experiences on Fire Island? What aspects of this experience have been surprising, and what elements have aligned with your expectations? 

Lee: I've never been to any queer getaways in my life, and all I knew about the island was through Andrew Ahn's film Fire Island, featuring ‘gaysians’ as lead characters. As a gay Korean man from Chicago, I expected the island would be pretty white, just like l saw in the movie, but the reality was way whiter than my expectation, especially the Pines. I sometimes felt nervous to walk on the dock at the Pines since it made me realize how foreign and, in the extreme case, invisible I was.

I feel lucky to stay in the Grove, where the demographics are relatively more diverse than the Pines. Along with my cohorts from different backgrounds, I've met a lot of kind and generous queer folx (e.g., elder gay couples or lesbian activists) who inspired not only my practice but the gay life I want to live in the future.

In what ways does your queer identity inform and shape the conceptual framework of your current artistic practice? Not taking for granted that queerness is non-monolithic and varies. 

Lee: My practice is heavily self-referential—meaning that I source materials out of my own history, memory, and interior/lived experiences that I've had as a queer and present them with my queer body. I whisper stories about my queer journey with other gay men into my participants’ ears (“Men I Have Ever Met,” 2015–present) or share diverse emotions generated by the word “white” along with a gesture of covering my body with white clay (Whiteyellowhite, 2019). I understand the pitfalls of materializing my identity and private narratives, but I firmly believe personal stories with political power echo one another. And because of this reverberation, I believe we can build a wider community with the language of art.

Do you feel that the label "queer" for any practice has evolved or taken on new significance in recent years?

Lee: I've been noticing that lots of recent queer practices think of a future with wider and brighter perspectives, such as a queer future for nonbinary, trans, Indigenous, and non-white people. Thinking of Joshua Serafin's 3-channel video installation referencing Pilipino myths or Seba Calfuqueo's video performance dragging a blue fabric in mother nature. Dreaming of futurity for queers of color has been well informed by José Esteban Muñoz's legendary book Cruising Utopia—the collection of the past quotidian things bearing a better future. Responding to Munoz and like-minded contemporary queer artists, I've been recently envisioning the future for queer Asian communities in my practice, where they can commemorate their painful past and think more of happiness, joy, and hope.

Do you have a summer memory that comes to mind for this Summer 2024?

Definitely my month-long stay in Fire Island. There are so many things I miss, but I miss the beach, where I visit almost every day to read books or write journals. It was my temporary library. I also miss the sunset and its reflection on the water at the dock. There is something about the sunset that makes me feel emotional yet peaceful. As a city boy born and raised in big cities, I appreciate what nature gives to us, like relaxation, exploration, and inspiration. Now I'm obsessed with the sunset, so I sometimes go out to see it in Chicago.

How do you use various media and materials to convey and examine your most urgent concepts? Can you give us the details about your project with FIAR?

The project that I worked on at the residency was my ongoing project called Temporal Chest Hair, where I harvested my participant's chest hair and glued it onto my chest. It's a multidisciplinary project examining the complex relationship between desire, race, gender, and labor through the service exchange with different bodies. I put flyers on every bulletin board on the island and posted a call on Grindr to search for participants. I filmed with a guy who responded to my call on the app and made a hairy shirt as a remnant of the interaction. I also collected all different types of hair from my residency cohorts, made cyanotype prints, and gave them as a goodbye gift. Someone left a cyanotype kit at the residency building, and as an artist who's flexible with employing various mediums, I thought it was a sign for me to try something new.

What is a recent exhibition, artwork, or practice that you have encountered that resonated in Summer 2024?

Lee: Charli XCX's Brat (obviously!)

Do you have any reading recommendations?

Lee: The Sense of Brown by José Esteban Muñoz https://www.dukeupress.edu/the-sense-of-brown

The day before I departed from the island, I wrote a paragraph from the book’s introduction on the sand. The writing took an hour, and it ended up 587.5 feet. It made sense for me to write Munoz’s writing on the seashore as I spent lots of time reading his book at the beach. Thinking about the sand’s color as brown, the influx of waves, the writing being constantly erased, and most importantly, the beach facing toward Latin America where Muñoz was born–honoring his roots. Here is the paragraph I wrote:

The brown commons is not about the production of the individual but instead about a movement, a flow, and an impulse to move beyond the singular and individualized subjectivities. It is about the swerve of matter, organic and otherwise, the moment of contact, the encounter, and all that it can generate. Brownness is about contact and is nothing like continuousness. Brownness is a being with, being alongside. The story I am telling about a sense of brown is not about the formation of atomized brown subjects. It is instead about the task, the endeavor, not of enacting a brown commons but rather about knowing a brownness that is our commonality. Furthermore, the brownness that we share is not knowable in advance. Brownness is not reducible to one object or a thing, so the commons of brownness is not identifiable as any particular thing we have in common… A brown commons as I am attempting to sketch here is an example of a collectivity with and through the incommensurable.

Is there anything else you would like to share? (A poem, something on your mind, etc.)

Always looking for people who are interested in donating their hair and making art together! If you have any questions related to the project, please don't hesitate to contact me at thony0806@gmail.com

If you want to see my other works, here is my website:

https://sung-jae-lee.com/

If you're interested in participating but living outside of Chicago, let's discuss how to make it happen!

LezVolley is the annual women’s volleyball tournament held on the beach in the Fire Island hamlet of Cherry Grove. Founded in 2011 by two lesbian nightlife promoters, the event has grown tremendously over the past thirteen years. It draws hundreds, if not thousands, of people to Cherry Grove on the second Saturday in August each year, creating an unofficial party weekend that many people begin planning for nearly six months ahead because accommodations in Cherry Grove are so limited.

In 2023, I spoke fondly of LezVolley in my GLAAD-nominated docu-podcast series “Finding Fire Island”, where I documented the history, mystique, and lore of Cherry Grove and The Pines. In the series’ second episode, a community member refers to LezVolley as a “high holiday” because it’s the “only day all year in which the entire beach is filled with lesbians.” While Fire Island is typically associated with gay men (in The Pines), it is queer women who have been holding Cherry Grove as sacred since they began owning homes there in the late eighties and early nineties. So, what happens when that sacred space holds its “high holiday for lesbians,” and a trans man is called out for participating? Well, a shitshow. 

The conflict at LezVolley has sparked intense debate in Cherry Grove, raising complex questions about inclusivity, identity, and the future of queer spaces. As the controversy unfolds, it challenges long-standing traditions while highlighting evolving understandings of gender and sexuality.

This article examines the conflict from multiple angles, drawing on eyewitness accounts, community responses, and an exclusive interview with Cameron Nicholson, the trans man at the center of the controversy. It also provides insight into the recent Town Hall meeting where community members and organizers grappled with LezVolley's future.

How a Volleyball Game Sparked a Community Uproar

The 2024 LezVolley tournament began like any other, with teams gathering on the sun-drenched beach of Cherry Grove, ready for a day of friendly competition. However, the festive atmosphere quickly soured as an unexpected controversy unfolded, one that would ultimately lead to the event's premature end and ignite a firestorm of debate within the LGBTQ+ community.

As the games were getting underway, a 32-year-old trans man from Astoria, Queens, named Cameron Nicholson (he/him), stepped up to the volleyball court, ready to join his team. What should have been a moment of camaraderie quickly turned sour. Whispers turned to pointed questions, and soon, opposing team members were openly challenging Nicholson's right to participate. The air grew thick with anti-trans language, and tensions escalated as the opposing team demanded that organizers address Cameron’s participation in an event marketed “for women and nonbinary [individuals].” 

Instead of trying to calm things down, the game’s referee (hired by LezVolley) contributed to the anti-trans epithets that were being flung around, sewing further disorder into the conflict. As voices raised and tempers flared, the once-joyous atmosphere of the tournament dissolved into chaos.

The commotion drew the attention of a gay male resident of Cherry Grove who, feeling unsafe amid the growing hostility, made the decision to call the police. This led the organizers to abruptly end the entire tournament, leaving hundreds upset, disappointed, and confused.

LezVolley Backlash: How the Community is Demanding Change

The fallout has sparked a larger conversation about inclusivity within the LGBTQ+ community, particularly in historically queer spaces like Cherry Grove. This is a clear tipping point for LezVolley, as they are confronting a gray area they have been able to exist in until today.

I spoke to several LezVolley enthusiasts who traveled from New York City to Cherry Grove and described it as “a waste of time” as the games were canceled without explanation by the time they reached the island. One spectator described it as “a loud, strange mess.” Another spectator attempted to figure out what happened, but it was a mess of gossip and misinformation. The secrecy over what actually happened has been extremely frustrating to the community, as the LezVolley organizers have been mostly silent since the event, aside from one vague social media apology posted the day after the event. Weeks later, LezVolley posted an open invitation to attend a Town Hall meeting to have an open dialogue on September 9th, 2024. 

After watching a TikTok video taken during the tournament in which players were protesting against the LezVolley staff, shouting “no TERFs on the beach” and following the flurry of negative comments on the LezVolley Instagram and Facebook accounts, I was looking forward to hearing from the LezVolley organizers, hearing from Cameron himself, and gaining clarity on what actually happened this summer.

@geminigermAfter everything trans athletes are aready facing in the world right now, to have a queer space turn around to do the same is beyond disgusting. Shame on the LezVolley organizers, and the doubling down on their trans-exclusionary policy at yesterday’s tournament. #lezvolley #cherrygrove #lgbtsports

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

In the wake of the controversy, one of the most visible consequences was LezVolley’s sudden removal from Cherry Grove’s upcoming Weekend of Women, set to take place from October 4-6. This was the first time in thirteen years that there would be a second opportunity to participate in or watch the volleyball games. After the summer incident, LezVolley was swiftly removed from all “Weekend of Women” marketing materials and is no longer affiliated with next weekend's event. 

Read more

“We are a group of people who love nightlife,” Julie J, a popular Brooklyn-based performer who notably stars as Jules in a long-running campaign for jewelry brand Alexis Bittar, tells Fag Rag.  “We are trying to change how things operate because we love this community so much that we want to see it be the absolute best that it can be.” Julie joins Carr as well as others like Marti Gould Cummings, Kiki Ball Change, and ShowPonii, who are a part of the collective’s organizing committee.

In her initial series of posts in August, Carr called out the $150 base rate for New York City drag performers, saying it was the same as when she arrived to New York back in 2010. Multiple performers have reported even lower numbers. 

Cummings, who has become known for their mixture of drag and politics in their career as a full-time entertainer over the past 16 years, remembers booking their first weekly at $125, which is still a common rate.

“$150 is a good day, especially for a drag king,” says ShowPonii, voted 2023 Best Drag King at the Glam Awards. “I’ve had to take $75 and, on a bad day, even $60. Most of the time, I get booked for $100, and I wish I didn't have to accept those rates, but unfortunately, I do. I’m constantly telling people to ‘stop taking the $75,’ but me, myself, I’m like fuck I have to take it.“ Ponii has previously recounted gigs where he was paid $100 while the drag queen was paid $300 and says he doesn’t know of any drag king in New York City that has a weekly night.

This lack of rate increase contrasts sharply with the prices of rent, groceries, and the overall cost of living in New York City, which has consistently risen. “Even when you ask people from before when I started, they always say that this was always the rate,” Cummings says.

“There needs to be an opportunity for growth,” they add. “Like if your show has been doing well for a year, we’re going to bump you up to $200. Or if the show has been doing well for five years, we’re going to bump you up to $500.”

During the meeting, New York City legend and RuPaul’s Drag Race competitor Peppermint related her own experience. 

“I got hired at a bar, and it’s a famous bar — that’s where you had to be,” she explained. “They courted me and said they really wanted me to have a show, and then when they brought me in before I even sat me down, they said don’t ever ask me for a raise. So he was normalizing a culture that I would never make more than the little hundred dollars they were giving me each week.” Others have reported bar management retaliation or being let go after requesting a raise.

Pay was a central issue of discussion at the meeting — though general workplace treatment from bar management and fellow performers also became a topic of conversation. Possible solutions focused on collective options but stopped short of unionizing or “the U word,” as Kizha called it. Some put forward the idea of establishing a fund to help out those in need after an attendee pointed out that, while people may want to adhere to a base rate that all performers demand, that may become difficult for those who fall on hard times and need whatever money they can get.  Establishing a “Drag Performer Bill of Rights” was another idea.

Performers also suggested sharing payout scales with one another to ensure a sort of uniformity. Others hope that New York’s so-called “Freelance Isn’t Free” law (passed in New York City in 2016 and New York state in August) will provide an initial wedge to open up the conversation. That statewide legislation says that any 1099 worker who earns more than $800 within a 120-day period has the right to a written contract, amongst other provisions. The hope is that the legally mandated contract will present the opportunity to add terms to that agreement, which may enumerate raises, bonuses, rights, and more.

“Because we’re 1099 employees, there’s no security,” Cummings says. “The issue is you’ll show up and do your show, and at the end, they’ll say, ‘By the way, that was your last show.’ The next day, they post the flyer for a new show they were already planning. Now, maybe we can put it in the contract that they will give you a two-week notice.”

This is all to develop something once seen as a hobby into a legitimate full-time career for more than the globetrotting queens flying across the world after appearing on Drag Race but for local drag artists as well. 

“I’m somebody that is very interested in drag futurity,” Julie says. “I am the Entertainer of the Year in New York City, and I am Miss Bushwig — I don’t say that from a place of like I deserve [it], but if I’ve obtained all these things and I’m still only being paid $100 for performing, hosting, marketing, communications, and all the things drag queens have to do — it becomes discouraging.”

Originally published in 1977, this piece of queer history has been lovingly revived for a new generation. Featuring 19 iconic illustrations by Ferron Bell, this coloring book captures the essence of Fire Island's vibrant LGBTQ+ culture and invites you to add your own creative flair.

Pre-Sale Details

• Price: $30

• Shipping on September 20th

Why You'll Love It

• 19 original Ferron Bell illustrations

• 8.5" x 11" format perfect for detailed coloring

• Printed on high-quality recycled paper

This isn't just a coloring book—it's a celebration of LGBTQ+ culture and a chance to own a piece of Fire Island's legacy.

Pre-order now to secure your copy before they're gone.

Once you get your book, don't forget to share your colorful creations by tagging @fagragmag on Instagram!

Thank you for supporting queer art and history. Happy coloring!

What We’re Looking For:

• Community Deep Dives: Dive into the operations of local LGBTQ+ organizations, the impact of local politics, and daily life within these vibrant communities.

• Nightlife and Cultural Exploration: Capture the essence of queer nightlife and arts, revealing the layers that make each scene unique.

• Health and Wellness: Write comprehensive pieces addressing the specific health concerns of our community.

• Personal and Historical Narratives: Link personal experiences with the broader movements in LGBTQ+ rights and presence.

• Opinion Pieces: Offer fresh perspectives on gender and race issues, enriching our community dialogue.

What We’re Not Looking For:

• Avoiding Mainstream: Steer clear of general pop culture and tourist-centric narratives.

• Focus on Local Flavor: We prize stories deeply embedded in their specific locales.

• Depth Over Fluff: Our readers crave meaningful, engaging content.

Our Specific Needs:

• One Writer per City: We are ideally looking for one writer from each city—Fire Island, Provincetown, and NYC—to contribute one article per month. Whether you're a generalist or have a specific beat in mind, we’re open to exploring that niche with you.

• Open to Pitches: If you have a one-off story idea, we’re also eager to hear your pitches and possibly feature your work.

Compensation: Each article will be compensated at $375 for 1,000 words. This rate is not negotiable.

If interested, please email info@fagragmag.com with the city you’re interested in writing, writing samples, and any ideas you might have for articles.

It would also mean the world if you could share this opportunity within your networks. Fag Rag is still a small community. We grow with your support.

Share

We're excited to announce a major evolution in how we share and grow our community: Fag Rag has moved all of our articles to Substack! This platform will allow us to delve deeper into the vibrant worlds of queer artists, creatives, and activists, and more thoroughly share the historical shifts and current events shaping LGBTQ+ communities.

Here’s what this means for you:

• Access to Past and Future Content: All our online articles have been moved to Substack and are available to free subscribers. This includes articles from future print editions of Fag Rag, ensuring you won't miss a beat.

• Exclusive Updates: Moving forward, all of our updates will be communicated through Substack, making it your go-to source for all things Fag Rag.

• Digital Magazine: Digital versions of our print magazines will continue to be available for free on our website, so you can enjoy our past editions at your leisure.

• Exclusive Paid Content: While most articles from our print editions will be available for free, future articles developed exclusively for Substack will be reserved for our paid subscribers. We will, however, occasionally offer special articles to our free subscribers as well.

• Choose updates for specific cities.

  This perk lets you select which cities you receive updates from, ensuring you only get content relevant to regions that you’re interested in.

By subscribing to our paid content, you support our mission to remain independent and ensure our writers are fairly compensated. Your subscription helps us continue producing diverse and impactful stories, supporting queer media in a meaningful way.

Subscribe now

Thank you for being such a vital part of our vibrant community. We look forward to bringing you more compelling stories in our new home on Substack.

Warm regards,

Tomik Dash
Publisher
Fag Rag Magazine

My hat is off to the fine folks at The Eagle NYC for cultivating a renaissance in the historic space while staying true to its grit and aesthetic. In a time when a bastion of NYC queer nightlife could have fallen, the owners doubled down and expanded the space to introduce the large dancefloor our dear Eagle has always deserved. With this expansion came two large new restrooms, an even more necessary addition.

Any Eagle regular has known all too well the clusterfuck traffic jam that was the second-floor situation. Those confined bathroom spaces have personally caused me much dismay over the years, often sending me fleeing down to the less frequented powder room by the entrance.

With ample space to attend to one’s needs, these new bathrooms have been a relief for those needing to relieve themselves. However, they still share some of the same user errors of any queer bar lavatory. The following etiquette should be seen as helpful suggestions in navigating these shared spaces. They are by no means rules or intended to kink-shame. You can have a good time and still remember basic considerations.

1. Rules of consent do not end at the bathroom threshold. Yes means yes and no means no. Just because someone’s dick is out does not necessarily mean it is an invitation for anyone to grab it when passing by as if shaking their hand. 

2. If you are standing in the doorframe of the bathroom, you are in the way. A multitude of other people need to use this door as an entry and exit. 

3. If you are waiting for a stall and have no need for a urinal, let the folks behind you know and let them pass to use one.

4. The stall is not an office meant to be used for soirées of six of your closet casual acquaintances. Accomplish your stall goals and save the chit-chat for later.  

5. If you are getting fucked in the stall, please arrive pre-paired and pre-lubed, placing at least one hand on the top of the stall wall to let others know it will not be available for the time being. 

6. If someone in a stall can see your eye color through the gap, you are being a creeper.

7. Please do not leave your various paraphernalia on the ledge or on the floor.

8. Muscling aggressively past others is not a good look.

9. Please wash your hands and use trash receptacles. 

10. And as always, as much as you may love watersports, DO NOT LIE IN THE TROUGH!

All images of the exhibition White Meat were shot by Charles Benton

All images courtesy of the artist and JTT, New York

When you walk into a room that Cobra is working in, you can feel the magic in the air. It’s in the stillness, the silence, the audience members staring unblinking, especially the nervous white people scratching their chins. Something is happening here at her new exhibit, “White Meat.” It’s the soil from the grave of the truly evil “doctor” who murdered Black women for the sake of “scientific research,” sown delicately into the silicon formed to look like the flesh of the bastard, powerful totems. The dreadlocks, which remind you of every self-righteous hippie thinking they knew more about your culture than you, are now made to look scalped off the skulls of those appropriators, arranged delicately in a large oval creating a hairy portal on the wall. And where will it lead?  What will it transform us into? Transmutation is occurring in this room–history transforming as it moves into the present. When you experience this magic, you will be stopped. It makes you take a step forward and then a step back. You want to lean in and look closer, turn away, and lean in again.

Recently diagnosed as neurodivergent, Cobra experiences the world differently. “A lot of what’s gotten me here,” the artist said, “is overanalyzing people's behavior, body language, textures, materials, and the way these things make me feel. That’s driven me crazy for a long time, and it’s naturally worked its way into the way I’ve made sculptures.”

The detail is astounding. Using silicone, Cobra recreates white flesh. Then, using a tattoo gun, delicately colors and adds pigment to the skin to make it look even more realistic. The work looks so real, it is often jarring. Seen in the shape of a smallpox sore, the tint of a tumor, the subtle pigments of red, pink, and orange that tinge a sliver of flesh placed in a deli slicer, the carefully inlaid rubies making up the heart of a wound, the intricate contents of a shark’s belly, decorated with shells, pearls, and a Black person's foot.

 “It's to attract people to the work,” she says. “People really love shiny things. Even thinking about the gowns for the Met Gala, whatever bullshit thing is going on, all the beading and the sequins. I'm approaching my work with the same obsessiveness of making it look like it’s glittering. I usually end up incorporating that because diseases are disgusting. If you see raw images of syphilis, you're not really going to spend a lot of time there, but if some of those open sores are glass beads, it makes it a little bit easier for people to want to stick around it. You can't do too much because then you're overworking it. It’s the thought process of a painter applied to the physical process of making a sculpture.”

The detail never ceases to amaze. You can imagine Cobra’s hand carefully taking human hair, silicone, and fabric and weaving it together with a felting tool. Her art features disease, rotting flesh, cutting, pain, the suggestion of violence, and often the suggestion of revenge. Have I mentioned that the work is funny as hell too?  There’s a deep trickster spirit enmeshed in the sculptures, giggling as it pokes at your sensitivities, winking as it pushes your boundaries. All a reflection of the artist’s sense of humor.

“Yeah, I've been trying to switch it up!” Cobra declares, smiling at me as we walk around her exhibit–the picture of warmth and humility, even as we stand in front of her completely grand and dramatic sculptures, a gaping mouth with barbed wire teeth, a full-sized shark created from white flesh, harkening back to the slave ships which brought out ancestors across the Atlantic.

“A lot of my work in the past was just about trauma that Black people have experienced through the medical industry.  Now it's more so focused on the hands that created the trauma, and whiteness and the disease. There's a lot of hypocrisy in the assimilation tactics that people who are not white are supposed to aspire to–a lot of myths that clash against each other, whiteness is projected to the public as being a symbol of purity. But, you know, when you're thinking about colonization and the transatlantic slave trade, all the diseases that were brought over to Africa and to America were spread from Europeans. And a lot of those different scenarios that are, you know, pretty absurd. So I'm trying to present them in a way that still sticks to my material language, but is a little bit less about the history lesson of trauma. I think about different movies that I've seen, a lot of the silly serial killer movies.  Deranged murders.  But in a joker way!”  Clown faces hang above cream pies but there’s glass hidden in those pies, a reflection of the intensity in her jokes.  “There was one moment where I was really trying to harness some villain energy.  I'm letting that go right now. I'm in my soft boy era.”

Though it may seem like a contradiction to say, Cobra’s enemy is not of the flesh. Though flesh is her medium, there are non-physical entities she is fighting and others she is collaborating with. Her work speaks to ancestral magic, historical slave revolts, people rising up and finding the way to liberation–but also to the people who never had the chance to rise up in the first place. So many of our Black, brown, and queer ancestors were not able to break free from the oppression of their time. This is where Cobra comes in. Reaching back through history, she does a service for the dead and lets them speak through her, remembering those Black artists who were not able to be artists in their own time.

 “I think about all the artists that weren't able to produce work because they were enslaved,” she said. “I like the idea that when I'm doing my meditations, that it provides an opportunity for those people to be able to work through me, kind of brainstorm ideas through me, through meditation and science and prayer. The way that art is experienced now is totally different than it was before. So I like the idea that they have a larger audience for the sculptures that they want to collaborate with me on.”

Giving the dead avenues to create connects deeply to Cobra’s larger mission. In her burgeoning work with Black healing communities, and her widely recognized tattoo artistry, Cobra is a creature of care. Part of that growth and healing is reckoning with the past and asking the question of how American traditions of oppression affect us today. Talking about this pain and trauma, past and present, can be a revolutionary act for a Black artist. At a moment when so many of her contemporaries are interested in and encouraged to make work about Black joy, Cobra’s work strikes a different chord.

“I do feel like it is difficult because a lot of us are so used to keeping our trauma secret, in fear of exposing the vulnerability of ourselves or the people that have harmed us, still wanting to protect them subconsciously. We can also be fearful of what people that don't look like you do with your experiences of trauma. So in that regard, there's definitely a lot of suspicion that is valid.  But at the same time, if you never address it or if you continue to try to bury it, it doesn't really help to change anything.”

There is something about the word “change” that resonates strongly in Cobra’s work. She enters her cave to commune and create, then re-emerges with gifts for the communities she exists in, changing all who come into contact with them. A week after seeing her exhibit I give my friend Hue (one of her tribe and close collaborators) a hug and look at his large chest piece, tattooed by Cobra over the last year. A few days later my friend Charles pulls his shorts up his thigh in a club and shows me a piece that covers his leg from hip to kneecap, another of the artist’s works connected to me through friendship. Cobra is a connector of community, and though she may have exited her sculpting seclusion, she continues to care for the flesh of her people. Flesh transformed by her–and more than flesh as well.

I’ve been at the door for twenty years, a “nice young man” who welcomes all home. Nightclubs, street front stoops, lit by the glow of marquees, sound booths, and stairs/stares, all familiar to me. Basking in the sun’s glow, in the smallest square mile footage LGBTQ peninsula where all come to play, watching. Keeping folks safe and mentally keeping myself autonomous from the apparent confusion my presence brings. Drag queens are more identifiable. Labeled daily by strangers and friends alike, I fit in as a part of this community's misfit woven cloth, shamelessly flaunting my freak flag for all to see. I had a friend share with me recently that they had described me in conversation as being an “80’s styled BMX/skater boy, but a lesbian.” Co-workers have dubbed me “BDE,” big dick energy, the Badge Bish, while I crack a little inside at the thought of how I even got here, how little people know. 

Labels are for suckers, I tell myself, as my amusement from what people think and actually know stirs within my overactive mind. A pink robe and health insurance reassured me of my born lady status. A fearless attitude and drive added more fuel to my tomboy arsenal of just being me. I stand outside the dispensary, hat tilted and half-cocked smile, overseeing Commercial Street’s charms, my 5’5” frame, holds 135 pounds of built-up emotion, pride, ego, and self-worth. “ ID please,” I request, matched with yet another “sir,” another “brother”, another “hey man.” 365 days a year, I am stickered with “sir,” and I have had to just let it go… because labels are for suckers. 

Curls recently replace the shaved head I’ve known since my twenties, where I hid behind a microphone, lust-filled nights, and bad choices, solidifying my lesbian stamp on myself. I reminisce on the club nights, raging bass-filled time warps wrapped in cocktails, drugs, and reckless abandonment of consequence. I wonder how I got here. Forty-three years young, Spring 2021, and I drop my board down, ready to take on Bradford hill, my zen from the day’s peopling. Trucks are tight, wheels in check, no traffic in front or behind me, except a bus roaring uphill filled with seasonal staffers, tourists, and seasoned locals watching my fearless dyke ass in my stained Vans make the concrete hill mine. I push off, my heart is racing, wheels go round and the roar of the friction on pavement churns a beat so familiar and welcomed. I cruise down, flying by the backside of Town Hall, rounding the corner onto Ryder, back into the seasonal roar of Summer. “Did you see that guy go down the hill?!” That “guy” is me, the Berkshire breed tomboy, lady-loving queer. 

It’s been two years since my beacons of femininity went (like where did they put my boobs? hmm…) and my flat-chested life remained. Three more years until remission is mine to claim, three. A solo act, a lone wolf navigating the new me and my town, Commercial St., 02657, Provincetown. A tiny beachside oasis with a lion’s heart and more “hello my name is” than I can even dissect here. Well hello Summer of 2021, game on. In April 2020 I walked into my last infusion, at Covid’s start, betraying my body for the final time, and my body betrayed me again when I walked out after ringing the bell, solo. My relationship with myself and my ex-partner had simultaneously died. I was unrecognizable to myself, I had neuropathy and I just wanted to skate, live and be the old version of myself, the familiar version. The new scarred version of me was driving the hour-plus timeline home to the outermost reaches of the Cape giving way to new perspectives and a skewed sense of self. Am I trans by way of breast cancer? Will I be valued as a sexual partner ever again? Who will love my cats? Will I survive? Yes, yes I will. Will I survive the constant misgendering? Yes, yes, I will. 

I claim every fucking syllable that rolls off the public’s tongue. “Sir, young man, him, he,” I roll with it, like a joint made with premium hash and a touch of sass. Letting it sink into my skin like an essential oil, leaving me amused at my own ability to disguise, and my own ability to reflect on the ignorance of it all. I sip slowly off the j that’s just floated my way, by a human who identifies as a female, straight, and currently my lover. We joke about how many times a day I am “sirred,” and I joke in return about how “straight’ she is, labels are everywhere. They stick to us like name tags: Hello my name is:_______. 

The laughter shared fuels my zest to examine the human mind’s visceral reaction to doling out pronouns. As I undress to shower for dinner with said lady, I catch a glimpse of the scar running from armpit to armpit across my chest. No nipples, just a flat land of geography that used to have a valley and peaks, now a sweaty plain, a reminder of where I have been. I drift back in my head to all the infusions, the bald body that housed my deteriorating mind, stamina, and will at moments to keep going. The physical agony, the knock on death's door and me kicking it shut refusing to give up. I snap out of it, I have a moment of guilt that I’m one of the lucky ones. I wonder what my current lover sees now, as I move with what I presume to be the grace of a wild boar, raptured by human physical response and sheer terror that I’m going to blow it. BDE, really? This new form of body is still introducing itself daily to me and others, it’s a mindfuck at best. I survived, I remind myself, I keep saying out loud: I AM HERE. 

A human being. My career as a Sir on the stoop has my bank account allowing for life’s simple pleasures, like health insurance. The card tucked neatly in my wallet, a reminder of privilege, a reminder of resilience. I am grateful to live in an accessible healthcare state while recognizing the need to ensure equal compassionate care to all humans regardless of how they identify. Some of us are two-spirited souls, but that’s a different piece. So ‘Sir’ it is, trans by cancer, apparently it will require more teachable moments to sway folks. Meanwhile, I will continue to extend warm welcomes, skate, draw and love in this tiny seaside oasis, wrapped up in this boyish body kicking cancer's ass. I’m still here. You get one dash in this life to carpe diem the ish out of, savor each moment, and shake off labels. Stick to your guts and bear your soul, because in this town, soul is what we’ve got. Labels are the hill, and I shred them daily. I encourage you to do the same.“Sir, it’s on the bottom left,” their date of birth, I stand silent as I am overjoyed: I AM STILL HERE. I am still fucking here.

Holly and Radius were married in the Atlantic, on a cold Monday morning in August.  They had met three days earlier at Spray, the last big party of the summer.  He was a go-go dancer, an Adonis upon a pedestal, and she was a petite pixie who made plant medicines, which she dispensed from her tiny turquoise Mermaid-scale backpack.  From his perch, he noticed her pollinating the dance floor, and when she dropped a dark green potion under the tongue of his best friend (and former lover), he leapt off the platform to ask her,

“What is that?!”

“This is Persephone,” she told him, letting him sample the alcohol extraction of green flowers mixed with raw honey.  

“I named her for the Goddess trapped in the underworld, because she spent a season in my freezer!” 

She showed him a salve that soothed the body and the mind, and could be used as lube when melted in the palm.  And gifted him a delicious dark and salty chocolate heart, infused with mycelium mama wisdom.  He walked away buzzing.

They met again many times that weekend.  At the underwear party, at Low Tea and Sip n’ Twirl, at the Pines Club for Sunday’s closing Brunch on the Bay.  Radius was dressed as a sexy pilot, and Holly had traded a boy one heart-shaped chocolate for the cropped hoodie he was wearing.

The heat of summer began to wane that day, and when they awoke on Monday at Viagra Falls, that year’s unofficial staff house, it was almost chilly.  They found one another in the kitchen, alive before anyone else, and rejoiced.  Some loves are just known to us from the moment we meet them, and this was like that.  

Radius brewed a pot of coffee while Holly placed a cocoa heart at the bottom of each of their cups.  The party, which for both of them meant the work, was over.  It was time to melt a little.

They took their steaming mugs out onto the front deck, and settled into lounge chairs beside the skinny three story waterfall, as it slapped joyfully into the pool.  She took down her long, dark hair.

Radius mused how the party feeds us all, materially and otherwise.  He danced, so was paid and housed.  Holly sold her magical concoctions.  Others paid to go to the parties, because they were fed by the beauty and the communion of revelry.

“There is no rest for the wicked,” he said, meaning himself and Holly, 

‘Until the party is over!”

But at last it had ended, so they could finally put their feet up and breathe, if only for the moment.

Holly was headed back to the city that day, to care for her two black cats.

“But NOT before I dip my pussy in the ocean!”

Radius decided that he would accompany her.  On their way out the gate, Sav, a member of the production team, stepped outside with a spliff.  Thus, they became a trio and headed to the ocean.

A pale gray sky glowed against the canopied boardwalk.  It ended at a wide empty beach, laid bare to the ravages of the opaque and roaring sea.

The boys hung back by the dunes as Holly approached the shore break with reverence.  Before she shed her joggers, she wanted to feel the sea foam on her feet.  The rushing water was warmer than the air around her.  

Without pausing to question the impulse, she stripped herself nude and dove beneath a silky wave.  The feeling of bubbles bursting all over her skin delighted her to no end, and as each wave came crashing down around her, she leapt into it like a baby seal.

Held so joyfully in the churn of the tides, Holly nearly forgot about the beach, her companions, even her own body as anything but a vessel for sensation.  Then she opened her eyes to find Radius, bobbing along beside her in the briny dark green Atlantic.

“YASSSS” they both screamed, flinging their naked forms out of the water and splashing back down.  They were two breaching dolphins, two slithering sea dragons, two drunk mermaids.  They swam until their mouths were as salty as the sea around them, and they were parched.  

Sav beckoned to them from the shore.  He had been keeping watch like a mother duck.  Sparse but icy droplets of rain began to fall, so he herded them back home to Viagra Falls- directly into the hot tub room, advising them not to slip on its shiny black tiles.  Radius and Holly were stripped of their wet sandy clothes, then stuck in a bath like children.  Sav brought them bottles of water.  They made silly faces at themselves in the mirrored walls and ceiling, giggling madly until they were warm again.

Sav found the only clean towels in the house, and dry garments for them to wrap up in.  He offered Radius his own deep purple poncho, and for Holly he brought a soft woven blanket, black with gold embroidered elephants.

By then, all the others who worked to make the party happen had begun to stir.  A three story wooden house with a 1970’s conversation pit, filled with dozens of go-go dancers and production and sound and lighting people.  The energy was groggy and chaotic and thick, though satisfied, since the work was finally over.  They were sticky and salty and sandy, all.  Except for Holly and Radius, who had already bathed in the Ocean, done their ablutions and prayed.  

Everyone was starving.

Someone offered 36 impossible burgers on the altar of the ravenous household.

Radius said, “Let’s grill ‘em all, girl!” 

They stepped out on the back deck with a bag of charcoal and Holly’s Cumbia playlist.

“It helps me cook!”

Sav joined them, with coffees and a spliff.  “You look like the leaders of a cult I’d want to join,” he told the pair, snapping a photo of them at the grill.  “Like your followers call you Mom and Dad.”

They cackled, then Holly said, “I do feel like we’re married now, somehow.”

“Well I’m already Married to Luciano,” Radius replied, “but I feel the same.”

Sav, who had witnessed the ocean ceremony, agreed.

And so it was decided that though Radius was wed to his best friend (and former lover) Luciano on land, he was married to Holly in the Kingdom of the Sea.

That evening, when Holly rode the ferry back to Sayville, then the LIRR to Jamaica, before taking the bus and the M train back to her apartment in Ridgewood, she was bone-tired.  

Within her though, she carried a newly ignited spark of vitality, the joy of being truly seen by another.

When I moved to New York in June 2014, I had been in the city for only a week before the NYC Pride Parade rolled down 5th Avenue. It was a fantastic spectacle seen by over a million people, all cheering for their favorite floats. There I was, all alone and pressed against one of the street barriers when I saw the ACT UP float rolling towards me. A group of intergenerational provocateurs yelled to the crowd as they showered us with free condoms and lube–but because the music was booming, we couldn’t hear anything they were saying. We threw our hands in the air to catch the freebies as if they were beads being tossed at Mardi Gras. It was then that I noticed a poster board with an image of a PrEP pill on it. The sign brought me crashing back to reality by reminding me of my health’s vulnerability. At the time, I was in a serodiscordant relationship and had been trying unsuccessfully to get access to PrEP without insurance.

At that moment, perhaps because of the emotion he saw in my eyes–or maybe just because he liked my crop top–a man clad in leather gear leaned down from the float, extended an arm, and motioned for me to hop on. After briefly hesitating, I leaped over the steel street barrier and onto the platform. The immediate change in perspective stunned me for a moment. Whereas before, I could barely see the magnitude of the crowd, my new vantage point allowed me to take in the full panorama of writhing bodies packed from wall to barricade. As I danced on the float’s platform, I noticed people on the sidewalk making eye contact with me and waving as if I had done something to earn the right to be up there and receive their adoration. It was a new perspective of the parade–and for me, a new perspective of New York.

At the time, I didn’t realize how much of this perspective had been shaped by the iconic Larry Kramer.  Although his name rang a bell, I didn’t know him as one of the founders of ACT UP. Larry helped form the organization in 1987 to combat the negligence and complacency of the medical establishment and society as a whole toward the AIDS epidemic.

I also don’t remember the first time I heard the name, Marsha P. Johnson. It certainly wasn’t during the first Pride parade I attended as a little seventeen-year-old queer kid running around Atlanta–but it should have been! Unfortunately, the memories of Marsha and so many of our LGBTQ+ trailblazers have largely been erased by the corporate takeover of our Pride parades and events. Queer history has been something so many of us have had to learn about on our own. To this day, our very existence is policed and politicized. Some people in government seek to stifle our future, erase our past, and make us invisible. As a community, LGBTQ+ people have always had to champion our own stories, including in our beloved Fire Island Pines.

An interesting thing about the Island is that in my eight years of visiting, it has always seemed like a parade. A parade of boys, beach, and beauty where I could find myself as a spectator or a participant. That participation made a notable shift in 2020 when I founded the Black and Brown Equity Coalition and helped organize a racial justice contingent of the Cherry Grove Pride Parade in the same summer. I quickly realized that much like how my perspective of New York City shifted when I hopped on that ACT UP float, my perspective had also shifted on Fire Island upon assuming a role in the community as an advocate of progress toward racial and transgender equity.

One frustrating aspect about taking on this work is that people often only want to hear about adversity, despite positive things to report about the work being done by individuals, committees, and organizations–and I get it! Speaking up about race dynamics on the Island is novel, at least in public forums, but there is great work happening across our communities. Groups like the Committee on Black Equality (CoBE) have been doing their part to make the Pines more inclusive and welcoming for people of color. Founded in June 2020, CoBE is a committee of FIPPOA (Fire Island Pines Property Owners Association) primarily composed of Black homeowners who make recommendations to the association on ways to foster greater inclusivity in the community. Over the past couple of years, I have gotten to work with the committee and have been awestruck witnessing the physical manifestation of ideas that were introduced a mere three years ago.

“Before CoBE was formalized as part of FIPPOA,” said founding CoBe member Crayton Robey, “we created a Google Doc where we listed initiatives that we would like to see happening in Fire Island Pines to make it a place that was more welcoming to people of color … Some of those included arts initiatives, community events, making BOFFO [a Pines queer artist residency organization] an official community organization and, per Iman LeCaire’s suggestion, public naming opportunities.”

Iman LeCaire, whose cover story can be read in the July 2020 issue of Fag Rag Fire Island, is a former resident of the Pines and an activist for transgender asylum seekers. When I was getting people motivated to do DEI work in Cherry Grove, Iman was advocating in the Pines to have the harbor renamed in honor of Marsha P. Johnson. More than 1,500 signatures on a petition showed the community that there was tremendous support for such an initiative.

As a result of Iman’s petition and COBE’s recommendation, FIPPOA formed the Honoring Trailblazers Task Force to plan and develop an area in the Pines harbor. The Task Force’s mandate was to develop a place to celebrate the achievements of people who, through advocacy, action, and personal sacrifice, have brought about positive change in the rights and recognition of the LGBTQ+ community. They also charged themselves with intentionally celebrating trailblazers who were BIPOC, transgender, female, and from other marginalized communities, whose contributions were often overlooked or under-acknowledged.

One of the Task Force’s first tasks was to determine who to honor. “Selecting the trailblazers was a deliberate and painstaking process that involved input from the community,” said Doug Harris, a founding member of CoBE and a co-chair of the Honoring Trailblazers Task Force, who first came to the island over four decades ago. “We issued a request for nominations of trailblazers to the Pines community, LGBTQ+ groups, and people we knew outside of the Pines. We received nearly ninety nominations - sixty or so were distinct because of repeat nominations. After that, we carefully reviewed each individual nominee.”

The task force was successful in selecting 48 trailblazers. Enough for three two-year cycles of sixteen honorees at a time. “One of the interesting things about the process was making sure the trailblazers reflected the diversity that CoBE wanted to see,” Harris said. “We found that we were short of trans and non-binary nominees and people of color, so we very actively sought out additional nominations from groups and individuals outside of the Pines.”

The other task was to figure out how to honor the chosen nominees. The task force put out a request for artist proposals and in Summer 2021, they selected a design proposal from TM Davy, a profound visual artist who has spent many summers in the Pines. “I was encouraged to apply,” said Davy. “My initial feeling was that I wasn’t the right artist for it. I haven’t done public installations, and I thought that the job should go to an artist of color. But then I started thinking about my diverse group of artist friends and felt like it was my duty to expand this project and have them involved. That’s when I came up with the idea of displaying multiple flags that honored individual trailblazers. A different artist would design each flag. It felt like the perfect opportunity to make this project collaborative and collective. I assisted in seeking out artists who had been creating work in the Pines for a long time.”

Trailblazers Park Flags

TM’s suggestion for the pièce de résistance of the park–a drinking fountain with a mosaic in the likeness of Marsha P. Johnson and Syliva Rivera, was an element that excited everyone. “The task force suggested that they wanted to honor Marsha permanently based on Iman’s idea of holding the park in her spirit,” notes TM. “They originally thought Larry Kramer and Edie Windsor should be permanent as well since they both did amazing work for gay activism. But to say, ‘Here’s a drink of water,’ felt like the spirit of Marsha and Sylvia, the two women we chose as the permanent honorees. It didn’t feel like it was proper to just put the women on a plaque. Marsha’s smile is greeting everyone who is getting off the ferry. She had such a powerful smile when she was at the front of a protest, and I really wanted to capture that.”

The symbolism behind the drinking fountain was lost on no one. Last summer, during the dedication ceremony, Iman LeCaire invited Black trans-femme activist Qween Jean to take the first sip.

Trailblazers Park Ceremony

“I will take this first sip,” she said, “ but I will take this sip because I know that the history of water fountains for Black people has been rooted in pain and agony. Black and brown queer and trans people should be taking up space and celebrating, not just in the park, but truly within the confines of this community!”

Harris also acknowledged the significance of the fountain. “It’s a step in the right direction of making the Pines more inclusive and accessible,” he said. “It’s the positive change that I always hoped would happen in the Pines. It’s the kind of progress we need in the face of everything else going on in this country right now.”

When I look at Trailblazers Park, I can’t help but remember myself as a baby gay attending my first Pride parade in Atlanta, and I wonder what kind of impact it would have had on me to have seen these honorees and learn their names, their histories, their contributions, their sacrifices. I think about how when the park was unveiled, to my embarrassment, I still did not know half of the people being honored. I had more work to do in educating myself on queer history than I thought. I was, fortunately, able to scan the QR code on the premises and learn about the names and people who eluded me. On the flip side, I thought about how nice it would be to see Marsha’s radiant smile as I get off the ferry. If a project like this can go from idea to reality in two years, the sky's the limit with what we can do in the future for this community with a healthy mix of imagination, organizing, and determination, especially as it relates to intentional diversity, equity, and inclusion initiatives.

When I asked TM what he thought about the park’s significance, he responded, “We’ll see! I have hope for what it will mean for the Pines. I hope that it becomes a safe place, a kind of haven to feel like this is for the faggots and their friends. At the very least, it will mean that you have an opportunity to learn about your queer ancestors. And if you’re thirsty, you can have a drink of water.”

Learn more about Trailblazers Park, the trailblazers, and the artists who created their flags here.

Trailblazers Park Ceremony Afterparty

“On this day, June 19, 1865, two and a half years after the Emancipation Proclamation was signed, some 250,000 slaves in Galveston, Texas, did not know they had their freedom until Union soldiers came to the city and told them so.  Juneteenth is the celebration of the completion of the 1863 proclamation freeing all enslaved peoples in the United States.

Join us, a grand coalition of Black/African Americans, Jamaican/Jamaican-Americans, Indigenous Persons, People of Color, young leaders from the Provincetown IB School, allied community members, organizers, and leaders for a celebration of resilient honesty.”  -Juneteenth Coordination Committee ‘23

These two small paragraphs culminate hundreds of hours of group Zoom calls, one-on-one meetings with community leaders, conversations with educators and students, and working out the logistics of something that would set a precedent for the following years.  Before 2021, Juneteenth and Provincetown rarely, if ever, existed in the same sentence. Still, a band of engaged humans has joined forces to create something quite beautiful and important for our little town.  

After the summer of George Floyd, a group of like-minded action-takers from Gays Against Guns (GAG) & the Provincetown League of Visionary Revolutionaries (PLOVR) found themselves all living at the same residence and having conversations around race & equity.  And because all of our worlds are connected, Aaron Clayton, Jaimie de Sousa, and Trevor Pittinger got an introduction to Tomik Dash, creator of the Black and Brown Equity Coalition (BaBEC) on Fire Island. Next, Chris Hartley of Provincetown Brewing Co,  joined the group, and talks soon led to a joint action of Fire Island and Ptown “sistering up in celebrating Juneteenth, diversity, true equity, and inclusion in our queer spaces”-AC.  

With a goal in place, the team quickly started to recruit. First, a handful came from PLOVR. Elspeth Slayter explains, “We had been working on getting the DEI officer in town… it was a natural progression”. Then, as more names came up, they were called, emailed, and tapped on the shoulder, including Pastor Brenda of the Unitarian Universalist (UU) church and Racial Justice Provincetown. It must be mentioned that in the beginning, there was trepidation amongst some with the idea of a Juneteenth celebration being pitched “by a couple of white boys,”… but putting in the time, building bridges, and really doing the work was visible to us onlookers and the doubts quickly vanished.  An assembly of intelligent, compassionate, honest people for change had started to take shape, and I had no choice but to join the collective.

Our early meetings held a lot of space for us to get to know each other and tell stories about why we were there.  There were moments of solemn silence, belly laughter, red-faced frustration, and tears of joy and grief. Building these intimate relationships was paramount to us being able to move forward with the arduous task of organizing an event about race in Provincetown.  We had logistical agendas to get to, but everyone who had something to say had the floor, and I can't remember a single story being cut short for time.  As a BIPOC, to be given space to be seen and heard with regard to a production in Ptown was (and still is) such a rare thing.  

This also meant our decisions had intention and would often require people to do personal research and then return to the topic at the next meeting. For example, landing on flying the Pan-African flag took three meetings of back-and-forth conversations about our audience, message, and goals. There was also no shortage of guests being asked to join us and give insight on our progress and direction. This process is about “the willingness to expose yourself and make yourself vulnerable… it’s all about learning, sharing and trusting”- Ngina Lythcott.  

It’s June 19, 2021, and a beautiful morning at the Pilgrim Monument. Our day starts with a land acknowledgment by Steven Peters of the Wampanoag tribe and several speakers, including Pastor Brenda Haywood, our own Donna Walker, Lamb Rahming of Men of Melanin Magic, and 5th-grade students Nath’allia, Shakira, and Georgina of Provincetown Schools.  The ceremony went off beautifully and was capped with the Pan-African flag being raised to the sound of Qya Cristál singing “I Know Where I’ve Been” from the musical Hairspray. Then, after a moment of silence, the African drummers began the heartbeat and made their way down to Commercial Street with about 200 people in tow.  The march paused at different points of historical landmarks of Black life in Provincetown and dispersed at the West End Lot.  Trusting the process and many hands lifting each other up got us through our first successful event, and we instantly knew we wanted and needed to grow. 

The following year the first email went out in April to twenty-seven people to begin the process again.  Our first meetings covered standard life updates with a core group of about 7 or 8 people, and soon we were analyzing the previous year and how to better our efforts. Many of our talks were about enhancing the sense of community and creating a space for conversations. Many of us would regale over stories of potlucks from our youth, family park cookouts, food carts during festivals, and how we learned about our community over breaking bread.  Before we knew it, the UU had offered up their front lawn, and almost every business we asked to participate in some way said yes. We had signs, chairs, tents, stages, a sound system, tons of food, and volunteers. The ceremony included speeches, readings, and performances by Pastor David Brown, Ngina Lythcott, Senator Julian Cyr, Donna Walker, Qya Cristál, Aaron Clayton, Ephen Glenn, students from the Provincetown IB School, and more.  The people who came out to join us that Sunday afternoon were from different socioeconomic, cultural, and ethnic backgrounds, but they all shared the desire to make our beloved Ptown a better place for all.  Much like some of our first meetings, there were moments of solemn silence, belly laughter, red-faced frustration, and tears of joy and grief.  We also took donations to pay for all the entertainers who gave everything they had during our time together and made to-go containers available for all who wanted some extra food to take home. 

It’s now 2023, and our first email went out in February to twenty people. Our core group goes between 8 and 10 people these days. We’re excited to grow and build on the work we’ve done. We’re back at the UU lawn and are adding more entertainment and engagement opportunities for our guests to learn and share with Myra Kooy and William “Mohoganny” Whitaker. Our talks have also expanded past a singular event and have made space for topics of greater change and needs in town.  So much of what I've learned over the past couple of years working with this group is the patience and compassion of listening and the personal agency required to make a change. Thank you, Juneteenth Coordination Committee, for existing when I needed you most.

See this article and more in in Volume 2 Issue 1 of Fag Rag Provincetown.