Democracy is Tanking— So What Are We Going to Do About It?

Trump’s Joint Address to Congress made me want to smoke one! This egomaniac is back in power, and his administration is dismantling public programs at breakneck speed. Prices for basic necessities are skyrocketing, healthcare is becoming even more inaccessible, and a completely illegitimate organization — DOGE, run by Elon Musk — has positioned itself as a shadow government agency, stripping Americans of their rights and enforcing corporate rule. For queer and disabled people, the stakes couldn’t be higher.

We are watching, in real time, what happens when a government fully embraces fascism. And let’s be honest: we’re on our own. So what are we going to do about it?

Trump’s Authoritarianism on Full Display

Trump’s Joint Address to Congress wasn’t just political theater — it was a declaration of power. When Rep. Al Green stood up and dared to challenge Trump to his face, he was thrown out of the chamber. A sitting Black congressman, removed for simply speaking truth.

And how did the Democrats respond?

Did they walk out in protest? Did they stand up and confront Trump’s blatant display of authoritarianism? No.

Instead, they held up tiny signs and wore pink — a weak, performative gesture of dissent while democracy burns around us. This is what the Democratic Party has become: a group of people so terrified of real confrontation that they symbolically oppose fascism instead of actually fighting it.

We cannot afford to follow their lead.

Medicare and Medicaid Are on the Chopping Block — Again

If you are like me and rely on Medicare or Medicaid, Trump is coming for you. Cuts to these programs have already begun, and conservative lawmakers are pushing work requirements and other barriers that will strip healthcare from the people who need it most. Meanwhile, the cost of prescription drugs and medical care is skyrocketing, leaving millions of disabled and chronically ill people with impossible choices: food or medication? Rent or a doctor’s visit?

This isn’t just an economic crisis — it’s an attack on our survival.

The Rise of DOGE: Corporate Fascism in Real Time

Elon Musk’s DOGE is not a real government agency yet wields terrifying power. Under the guise of “efficiency” and “innovation,” this shadow organization is operating outside the law, enforcing policies that strip away basic rights, surveil ordinary Americans, and crush any form of dissent.

Let’s be clear: DOGE is not about democracy. It is corporate fascism, designed to serve the ultra-rich while the rest of us suffer. It answers to no one except billionaires and the politicians who enable them. And as we’ve already seen, Musk has no problem using his power to silence opposition, destroy public institutions, and consolidate control over the infrastructure that everyday people rely on.

If you are queer, disabled, poor, or politically outspoken, DOGE is a direct threat to your ability to exist freely.

Where Are the Democrats?

While Republicans are leading this assault, let’s be real — Democrats have been sitting with their mouths agape. They had years to strengthen Medicare, raise wages, regulate corporate greed, and protect our rights, but they didn’t in the assumption that things would “work themselves out.” Now, when faced with full-blown authoritarianism, they offer nothing but press statements and half-measures.

Rep. Al Green showed us what real resistance looks like.

There is no cavalry coming to save us, and there is no institutional safety net left to fall back on. That means our survival depends on each other.

The Urgency of This Moment for Queer Disabled People

Queer and disabled people have a long history of being treated as disposable, and once again, we are the first on the chopping block. With the gutting of Medicaid, the rollback of disability protections, and the relentless attack on women and trans rights, so many people I love are being forced into crisis mode — again.

So what do we do?

• Build Networks of Mutual Aid

  • Government programs are falling off line-items like gummy bears at the corner store, so we need to support each other. That means organizing local mutual aid networks with your neighbors, family, and friends, to provide food, medicine, and financial assistance to those left behind. If the system won’t take care of us, we will care for each other.

• Take Direct Action

  • Protests, strikes, and disruptions work. The government may not listen to our pleas but will respond to pressure. We need to escalate tactics and clarify that we will not go quietly as they strip away our rights and resources.

• Defend Our Communities

  • If DOGE and law enforcement are being used to target marginalized people, then community defense is essential. That means knowing your rights, having legal support, and building networks that can respond when people are in danger.

• Stop Waiting for the Democrats to Save Us

  • It’s clear that so many of these politicians are not willing to fight for us. That means we need to build independent political power — through local organizing, and direct challenges to the status quo. We cannot afford to keep playing defense.

And Through It All: Stay Fabulous, Stay Joyful, Stay in the Fight

Oppression thrives on fear and exhaustion. The people in power want us to feel hopeless, to be too overwhelmed to fight back. They want to steal not just our rights but our joy, our culture, and our ability to love and celebrate each other.

So while we resist, while we build, while we fight for our collective survival — we must also protect our joy.

Wear pink! But don’t just wear it as a passive statement — wear it while you’re organizing a rent strike, while you’re setting up a community food bank, while you’re making sure your disabled and chronically ill siblings, niblings, and loves have the medicine they need.

Throw a party and make it a fundraiser for bail funds. Dance, laugh, and love in defiance of their cruelty. Take up space, be loud, and be visible.

Because our existence, our joy, and our community are acts of resistance — and no fascist, no billionaire, and no illegitimate government agency can take that from us.

Now the question is: What are you willing to do?

The Kennedy Center: A Temple of Black, Queer, Disabled Possibility

For me, the Kennedy Center is the epitome of class. Not just because of the chandeliers, the grandeur, or the way the lights hit the marble floors. But because it is a space where art is honored, where performance is sacred, and — on this particular night — where I could exist in my full self, unfiltered and unbothered.

Walking into that space as a queer, Black, disabled person, fully living into my potential, wasn’t just a night out — it was a reclamation. It was stepping into a world that, for so long, told people like me that we were not meant for places like this. That art, beauty, and high culture were reserved for others. But that night, I walked through those doors in my full power, and nothing about me was frowned upon.

Aunties at the Door: Black Hospitality in Cultural Spaces

The first thing I noticed wasn’t the decor. It was the greeting. The reception. The concierge. Older Black women, their presence immediately familiar, like walking into your favorite auntie’s house. And not the strict, “don’t touch my good china” auntie — the one who lets you stay up late and tells you the family tea when no one else will.

It’s the kind of job your auntie would have, working part-time at a museum, making sure folks get to their seats, making you feel like you belong. That kind of welcome is rare in spaces like this. It’s a reminder that we are supposed to be here, that this art — this culture — was meant for us, too.

And to be in that space, comfortable in my skin, in my existence, ready to enjoy the arts without fear of judgment, was nothing short of revolutionary.

Brandy, Legacy, and the Power of Black Art

Seeing Brandy as the lead Roxie Hart in Chicago at the Kennedy Center wasn’t just a perforamce — it was a moment. A reminder that the institutions meant to define “high art” and “culture” would be empty without Black artists, Black voices, Black creativity.

Brandy is more than just a singer — she’s a cultural institution in her own right. She’s the Vocal Bible, the blueprint for generations of R&B singers. From the textured, intricate harmonies that defined her sound to the way she made vulnerability feel powerful, Brandy’s influence runs deep.

But beyond the music, Brandy represents something even bigger. She was the first Black Cinderella, giving an entire generation a fairytale in which we were the main characters. She was a young, dark-skinned Black girl dominating the charts and starring in her own sitcom when Hollywood was still acting like there was only room for one Black star at a time. She made space where there was none and did it with grace, innovation, and an unmatched voice.

So, to see her at the Kennedy Center — this hallowed institution of art and performance — was everything. It was proof that we belong in these spaces. That our voices, our music, our stories are the culture. And that no matter how hard white supremacy tries to redefine what is “worthy” of being celebrated, the truth remains: American culture is Black culture.

Brandy at the Kennedy Center wasn’t just a concert. It was history. It was legacy. And it was a moment I won’t forget.

Brandy taking a bow as the best Roxie Hart in history. Her rich sultry vocals took this performance from great to mesmerizing.

A Bleak Future Under White Supremacy

But now? Now, the Kennedy Center is being run by a man with a vision as dry as his lips. A white supremacist with the wrong color foundation, no understanding of art, no appreciation for beauty beyond the confines of Western Europe. He sees the Kennedy Center not as a temple of cultural possibility, but as a tool of erasure.

They programmed a January 6th chorus — an institution meant to celebrate the arts now platforming the voices of insurrectionists. That is their vision for America: dull, sanitized, stripped of everything that makes it vibrant, bold, and real. A culture that doesn’t challenge, doesn’t expand, doesn’t breathe.

But here’s the thing: art doesn’t belong to them.

Black culture, queer culture, disabled culture — these are the lifeblood of American creativity. They can try to whitewash it, control it, suppress it, but they will never own it. We have always been the architects of beauty, of sound, of movement. And we always will be.

Claiming Our Space

That night at the Kennedy Center was a glimpse of what is still possible. Of a world where Black, queer, disabled people don’t just survive but take up space in the most legendary institutions and make them our own. They may be trying to turn the lights off, but we are the ones who shine.

Whitney Houston: A Black Queer Icon

When I think about Black history, I think about the voices that carried us through generations — the voices that soothed, that lifted, that made us believe we could fly. And no voice did that quite like Whitney Houston’s.

For me and for so many Black queer folks, Whitney Houston is more than just a singer. She is a force. A lifeline. A mirror reflecting back to us both our struggles and our infinite possibilities. Personally, professionally, politically — Whitney’s presence has shaped the way I navigate this world. She represents the complexity of being Black and queer, the tension between who we are and who the world expects us to be, and ultimately, the power in reclaiming ourselves.

The Quiet Queerness of Whitney Houston

Whitney’s life was a symphony of beauty, triumph, and deep, aching pain. She was a Black woman who had to fit into an industry — and a world — that demanded she be everything but herself. The whispers about her sexuality were never just about gossip; they were about the violent way the world treats Black women who refuse to fit the mold. The way it polices love, softness, and queerness.

For those of us who saw ourselves in her, those whispers meant something different. They weren’t rumors; they were truths unspoken, truths that resonated deep in our bones. They were proof that we existed, even in spaces where we weren’t supposed to. They were validation.

Black History Month in 2025: Holding Space for Black Queer Icons

In a tie when our identities continue to be threatened and erased, honoring figures like Whitney Houston is more important than ever. Not just as a legend, not just as a voice, but as a deeply human Black woman whose full story deserves to be told.

This Black History Month, we celebrate Whitney not just for her records, her accolades, or her cultural impact — but for the courage she embodied simply by existing. We celebrate her as a symbol of resilience, of queerness, of Black excellence. We celebrate in ways that center joy, love, and truth:

• By loving openly — without fear, without shame, just as she deserved to.

• By creating safe spaces — whether in person or in our virtual brunch space, where we gather to be seen and affirmed.

• By singing her songs — belting every note of I Wanna Dance with Somebody like it’s a prayer, an anthem, a liberation.

• By reclaiming our stories — telling the whole truth, not just the parts that make others comfortable.

The Legacy Lives On

Whitney’s story, like all Black queer stories, is one of brilliance and heartbreak. But more than anything, it’s a reminder: we are here. We are powerful. We deserve to love and be loved fully.

So this Black History Month, I honor Whitney Houston not just as an artist, but as a Black queer icon who meant everything to people like me. I celebrate her, I grieve for her, and I continue the work of making sure that Black queer folks — our stories, our joy, our love — are never erased.

Because the greatest love of all? It’s always been us.

Sylvester: The Power of Black Joy and Resistance

When I think about Black joy as resistance, I think about Sylvester. A pioneer of disco, a gender-bending icon, and a Black queer trailblazer who refused to be anything other than himself. His music—unapologetically joyful, defiant, and free — was more than just a soundtrack to the dance floor; it was a revolution in sound and spirit.

In a time where politicians are actively working to erase LGBTQ+ history, dismantle diversity initiatives, and suppress the voices of marginalized communities, figures like Sylvester remind us of the power of joy as an act of defiance. His music wasn’t just about fun—it was about freedom. It was about claiming space. It was about saying, I exist, I am beautiful, and you cannot silence me.

What Sylvester Means to Me, to Us

Writing about Sylvester in this space isn’t just about honoring his legacy — it’s about recognizing his impact on people like me — like all of us who refuse to fit into the narrow boxes society tries to shove us into. Sylvester was more than just a musician; he was a roadmap to liberation. He was someone who showed us that Blackness and queerness could be loud, proud, and unstoppable.

For me, Sylvester represents what it means to embrace every part of who I am: Black, queer, femme, and faithful. He reminds me that joy isn’t just a fleeting moment — it’s a political statement. To dance, to love, to dress however the hell I want, to praise in my own way — that is resistance. That is the spirit of Sylvester living on in all of us.

Celebrating Black Joy in 2025

Let’s carry on Sylvester’s legacy by celebrating our full, glorious, Black queer selves. 

• Through music — blasting disco classics, house beats, and every song that makes us feel alive.

• Through storytelling — lifting up the voices of our queer Black elders who paved the way.

• Through fashion, through movement, through laughter, through love.

When they try to silence us, we sing louder. When they try to legislate us out of existence, we show up in full force. When they try to erase our joy, we dance harder.

Sylvester once said, “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real).” And isn’t that what we all deserve? To be seen, to be real, to be free?

This month, and every month, we celebrate not just our history, but our future. A future where Black joy is undeniable. A future where Sylvester’s spirit lives on in each and every one of us.

So put on your fiercest look, turn up the music, and step into the fullness of who you are. Because that — that — is mighty real.

Celebrating Our Full Selves in Trump’s America

Here we are, February 2025. Black History Month arrives in the thick of another Trump presidency — a reality that is both exhausting and familiar. We’ve been here before. We’ve fought through before. And yet, as always, we celebrate. Not because it’s easy, but because it’s necessary.

For Black queer folks like me, this month is more than a reflection on the past — it’s a radical act of survival and self-love. In a time when our very existence is being challenged at every level, to celebrate, to shine, to take up space is an act of defiance. And I plan to celebrate in all my fullness.

The Power of Black Joy & Resistance

Black history isn’t just about what we’ve endured — it’s about how we’ve thrived. It’s about James Baldwin writing truth to power. About Marsha P. Johnson and Miss Major fighting for liberation. About gospel choirs that turned pain into praise. About ballroom houses where we crafted families when the world turned us away. It’s about the fact that, despite every attempt to erase us, we are still here.

In 2025, the fight for Black freedom is as urgent as ever. Policies are being rolled back, history is being rewritten, and our communities are being pushed to the margins. But the thing about us? We don’t disappear. We organize. We create. We love. We resist.

Celebrating Our Full Selves

This Black History Month, I refuse to shrink. I refuse to let anyone tell me that my queerness, my faith, my Blackness can’t coexist. We have been here, living in our truth, long before they tried to legislate us out of existence, and we will be here long after.

Moving Forward

Black History Month is about reclaiming our power. It’s about making sure the stories of people like us—Black, queer, faithful, bold—are never erased.

So in February 2025, I am celebrating. I am marching. I am loving. I am existing in my fullest, Blackest, most unapologetic self. And that, in itself, is revolutionary.

Who is Blessitt Shawn?

I grew up in the first city of Kansas, where the welcoming committee was a slow-grazing herd of buffalo outside the U.S. penitentiary. Leavenworth wasn’t exactly a cultural melting pot—unless you counted the military families like mine who settled there, drawn by affordability, low crime, and the allure of a quiet life. But beneath its small-town charm, I discovered a reality that was harder to ignore: deep-seated homophobia and racism. The cracks in my yellow brick road became painfully clear.

I was raised Pentecostal, in a family of five. My mother, an Evangelist, led Sunday services in a church packed with Black families praying through systems designed against them. Many men in our congregation worked in the penal system, their testimonies echoing the same warning: "Had it not been for the Lord, I could be behind bars." They sweated through their Stacey Adams shoes, shouting in gratitude for their redemption. After service, we’d joke about the holes in their socks, because when the spirit hits, nothing stays hidden.

I went everywhere with my mom. As one of the first women in Kansas to be ordained as an Evangelist, she was a force. I watched her pray, speak in tongues, and lead worship, embodying strength in a world that often sought to quiet her. I saw what it meant to claim space—her ordination certificate even had the "he" crossed out to read: "SHE was called to the ministry." Without knowing it, she taught me how to live up to my name, Blessitt, and how to be authentically myself — including as a queer person of faith.

Blessitt Be: A Queer Person of Faith

What does it mean to have a relationship with God as your most authentic self?

That’s the question I wrestled with when my mom first asked if someone could be both LGBTQ+ and Christian. By then, I had already distanced myself from Pentecostal traditions, realizing they weren’t built for someone proudly Femme like me. But I also knew one thing for certain — God wasn’t done with me. Not in the way Black churches often mean it, but in the sense that I knew I was meant to thrive, to be blessed, to be exactly who I was created to be.

Faith isn’t about erasing yourself to fit into someone else’s version of holiness. It’s about stepping fully into who you are and knowing you are loved in that fullness. Every part of me—my queerness, my Blackness, my femme energy — pulls me closer to God every day.

Growing up in the Church of God in Christ taught me this: Praise has no rubric, rules, or style guide. Some folks gave a two-step, others a toe-tap with a tambourine, and some put on full summer Olympics floor routines for the Lord. So why should my praise — or yours — be any different just because we’re queer?

Looking Your Best for the Lord

In the Black church, fashion is a spiritual practice. Patti LaBelle. Sylvester. The Church Mothers. I grew up in a world where women wore ankle-length ensembles with reverence, but also found ways to make them dazzling. Kirk Franklin may have ushered in a more casual era, but Black women never let up on the sanctified stuntin’. Hats weren’t just hats — they were adorned with glitter-crusted ribbons. 

Brooch-and-scarf combos were so gloriously ungodly, you had to repent just for looking too long.

That mix of unapologetic Black femme glamour, humble restraint, and unwavering faith? 

That’s style. 

That’s praise. 

That’s me.

Faith in 2025: Finding Your Own Path

As we step further into 2025, we’re seeing more people reclaiming faith on their own terms, rejecting the idea that queerness and Christianity are incompatible. More churches are affirming, more spaces are opening up for us to worship freely, and more of us are realizing that our spiritual journeys are ours to define.

If you're looking to explore your faith in a way that honors your full self, start within. Show kindness. Walk in truth. Remember that your existence is divine, just as you are.

God isn’t waiting for you to change — God is waiting for you to show up.

Faith, Identity, and the Queer Journey

What does it mean to live authentically—especially when it feels like the world is asking you to hide parts of yourself? 

Growing up in Leavenworth, Kansas, my journey to understanding my identity as a queer person of faith wasn’t easy, but it was filled with moments of revelation that shaped who I am today. The small town I grew up in was a place of contradiction: it felt safe, familiar, and quiet, but beneath the surface, I found cracks in the foundation of my understanding of identity and faith.

My childhood was steeped in the Pentecostal tradition, raised by a mother who was a trailblazer in a male-dominated religious world. But even with all the love and support from my family, I felt the tension of wanting to be myself, truly and fully, in a world that often didn’t make space for me. My faith, my queerness, my Blackness—all of these pieces of me didn’t always seem to fit together. But the more I explored these intersections, the more I came to understand that living authentically wasn’t just an act of defiance; it was an act of spiritual connection.

Growing Up with Faith: The Influence of Family and Church

I was raised in a Pentecostal family of five. My mom, an Evangelist, was a constant source of inspiration. She was one of the first women in Kansas to be ordained, breaking barriers with every sermon she preached and every prayer she led. Watching her was my first lesson in living authentically. She showed me how to embrace the fullness of who I am, even when the world told me I couldn’t.

I remember sitting in church, watching the Black families around me testify about their journeys—men who had spent time in prison but had found redemption through the Lord, their voices rising in song as the congregation clapped along. For many of them, church was a refuge from the world’s harsh judgment. For me, it was a reminder that we all had stories to tell, but our stories weren’t always accepted by the larger world.

My mother’s ordination certificate, hanging proudly in our living room, was one of my first glimpses into what breaking barriers truly meant. She was called to the ministry, and though the certificate originally said "he," it was crossed out with a bold “SHE”—a subtle reminder that she had to fight for every inch of space in a world that didn’t believe women, especially Black women, had the right to lead.

Faith and Queerness: Finding God in My True Self

As I got older, I began to ask myself, “What does it look like to have a relationship with God as my most authentic self?” It wasn’t a question that came easily. For years, I believed I had to separate my queerness from my faith. I had to choose one or the other. But the truth was, my queerness and my faith weren’t separate; they were two sides of the same coin.

It was a conversation with my mom that truly opened my eyes. She asked me, "Can you be LGBT and Christian?" I had already known for some time that the Pentecostal church wasn’t the right place for me—not in the way it was being taught. But I also knew that my connection to God was real, and it was through living authentically as a queer person that I began to experience the fullness of that connection.

It wasn’t about trying to fit into a prescribed mold; it was about honoring the highest version of myself, embracing every part of my identity. And as I did that, I began to feel a deeper connection to God—one that was unconditional, just as I wanted my love for myself to be.

Style as Spiritual Expression: Black Femme Glam and Faith

Growing up in a Southern-style Pentecostal church, one thing was always clear: church was not just a place to worship, it was a space for self-expression. The women in my congregation—many of them my style icons—showed me that faith and style could coexist. Every Sunday, they would wear head-to-toe ensembles, often with glittering brooches, colorful scarves, and hats that could turn heads. These women knew how to take a restrictive dress code and turn it into a runway show, all while embodying a grace that spoke to their deep spirituality.

I remember thinking to myself, “If I can’t break the rules of dress, I’ll at least break them in style.” These women were living proof that you can honor the Lord while showing up as your most authentic self—and that includes your style. They taught me that spiritual expression didn’t have to be quiet or modest—it could be bold, glamorous, and unapologetically Black.

The Journey of Living Authentically

As I continue to walk my faith journey, I ask myself: How can I honor God by being my truest self? My journey hasn’t been easy, but it’s been rewarding. Every day, I strive to integrate my queerness, my Blackness, and my faith into every aspect of my life. I know that my faith journey is my own, just as yours is yours.

I encourage you to take a moment to reflect: How can you honor your own authenticity? How can you live with the fullest version of yourself, knowing that it’s in your authenticity that you can truly connect with God?

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