The Night We Screamed At Ghosts

Michter's US*1 Small Batch Bourbon, he says, sliding the plastic cup across restored wood grain. Aged ten years in fire-charred oak, tastes like caramel and rebellion. Figured you'd need the rebellion tonight.

The bourbon burns perfect—vanilla and spice coating my throat, warmth spreading through chest cavity like liquid defiance. Clash's "Clampdown" screams through speakers, Joe Strummer's voice cutting through basement atmosphere with razor precision: The judge said five to ten, but I say double it again.

Leila's hunched over her phone at corner table, blue light washing her face ghastly pale. Twenty-three years old and she's watching democracy dismantle itself in real-time, thumb scrolling through fresh horrors like she's checking weather reports. Eileen paces near the pool table, kinetic energy radiating off her in waves—flight attendant posture perfect, eyes burning with particular fury of someone who just witnessed governmental fuckery and hasn't found adequate outlet yet.

Did you see this shit? Leila's voice pitches higher, cuts through Strummer's revolutionary poetry without trying. Trump's says he is going to run Venezuela now. Venezuela. Like we're just—like we're just fucking collecting countries like they're goddamn Pokémon cards.

Greenland & Canada weren’t enough, Eileen spits, wheels on her heel mid-pace. Greenland wasn't enough. Now it's Venezuela, Cuba, Mexico—probably Colombia next week because why the fuck not? Man's playing Risk with actual nations and half the country's cheering like it's a goddamn football game.

Bubba shifts in his seat near windows, mountain of muscle and Georgia memory settling deeper into cushions. His voice rumbles low, carries weight of surviving southern violence when being Black and gay meant choosing between visibility and breathing.

Man's always been a bully, he says, each word measured like gold dust. Bullies don't stop when you ask nice. They stop when you make them stop, or they run out of people to fucking hurt.

I sip bourbon, let conversation wash over me while Pink Floyd's "Dogs" bleeds through speakers—seventeen minutes of Roger Waters dissecting predatory capitalism, David Gilmour's guitar wailing like soundtrack to our collective rage. The heating system clangs again, sounds like it's giving up entirely. A memory of Gizmo floats into my head, as usual.

Remy emerges from bathroom trailing Marlboro smoke like he's manifesting from fog itself. Cajun accent thick as his mama's gumbo when he catches Leila's words.

Mon Dieu, they think they own the whole damn hemisphere, he says, dropping into seat next to Bubba with practiced ease. My people got history with colonizers, cher. They come in claiming they're bringing civilization, democracy, God's own blessing—then they strip everything valuable and leave you with nothing but debt and dead bodies. Trump says dat cuz America is in the title South America, dat means dat it’s his.

Sarah leans against bar, flannel pressed crisp despite hour, boots making authoritative statements against concrete. Her stoic expression cracks slightly, shows philosopher's gears turning behind practiced neutrality.

Onyx sits in corner thinking, tears trailing in her eyes. Late-thirties Black trans nonbinary femme whose empathy manifests as physical pain, who feels world's suffering like it's happening directly to their nerve endings. Steam rises from loose leaf tea—chamomile and lavender tonight, never alcohol, never anything dulling senses already processing too much.

The intersectionality of it though, they say, voice barely above whisper but everyone stops to listen. It's not just imperialism. It's white supremacy meeting capitalism meeting patriarchy meeting heteronormativity all fucking at once. Venezuela has oil. Cuba represents communist resistance. Mexico has brown people crossing borders seeking survival. The Pope—even the goddamn Pope—has to issue statements about sovereignty because apparently we're just annexing countries now like it's 1846.

Keira appears at my side without announcement—she does that, materializes exactly when needed like she's calibrated to my emotional frequency. Doesn't touch me, doesn't perform public affection, just settles into space next to me carrying presence like gravitational field.

And Mike Johnson, she says, voice cutting through room with surgical precision, is too busy trying to keep his speakership to give a single shit about any of it. House Republicans eating each other alive while Rome burns.

While the world burns, Leila corrects, not looking up from phone. While everything we've built for seventy years gets dismantled by fascists in bad suits who convinced forty percent of the country that democracy is optional if the right people are in charge.

Della emerges from kitchen carrying plates of loaded nachos—comfort food weaponized against despair, cheese melted into rebellion, jalapeños sliced with fury. She slams plates on tables with aggressive care that speaks of too many years taking shit from people who thought they owned her.

Y'all need to eat something before you vibrate through the fucking floor, she announces, wife energy meeting butch authority meeting years of feeding chosen family through every crisis. Can't fight fascism on empty stomachs. Can't fight anything on empty stomachs except each other, and that's exactly what they want.

Miguel refills my bourbon without asking—more Michter's pouring golden in dim basement light, liquid warmth against January cold. Fifteen years married to Della, their love visceral proof that queer families survive when straight world predicts failure.

The Big Tech energy thing is what gets me, I finally speak, bourbon loosening tongue around rage sitting in chest like coal. These fucking companies building AI data centers that consume entire towns' worth of electricity, forcing utility companies to keep coal plants open, devastating communities with pollution—all so tech bros can generate mediocre art and chatbots that sound confident while being completely fucking wrong.

And those communities are always poor, Onyx adds, napkin art taking shape—intersecting circles representing overlapping oppressions, colored in shades bleeding together like watercolor trauma. Always Black, always brown, always Appalachian white folks nobody gives a shit about because poverty's supposed to be moral failure. Tech companies destroy their air quality, their water, their health—but hey, at least you can ask AI to write your emails now.

Ezra bounces over from beanbag throne, blue hair catching basement light like electric coronation. Twenty-something energy vibrating with enthusiasm that somehow survives despite world trying to extinguish it daily. Nose still slightly crooked from John's backhand during the fight—permanent reminder written in cartilage, badge of surviving family violence for chosen family's sake.

It's the nakedness of it all that fucks me up, they say, piercings glinting like armor pieces against forces trying to erase them. Like they're not even pretending anymore. Trump just—he just announces he's taking over countries and half the media's like 'well let's hear both sides.' Both sides of fucking imperialism? Both sides of annexation? What's the other side—colonialism but with better marketing?

The Pope thing though, Sarah says, pushing off bar with deliberation that suggests she's been waiting to make this point. Even Pope Leo—who represents one of history's most powerful colonial forces—even he's issuing statements about respecting Venezuela's sovereignty. When the Catholic Church is taking more progressive stance on imperialism than the United States government, when even they're saying 'maybe don't just invade countries,' that should tell you something about how far we've fallen.

Bubba makes sound like mountain settling, deep rumble of agreement mixed with exhaustion particular to surviving decades of this shit.

Remy's cigarette glows brighter as he inhales, exhales philosophy with smoke.

Mama used to say, he begins, accent making words feel like bayou water—thick, dangerous, alive, power never gives up nothing without a fight. Never has, never will. They're showing their whole ass now because they think they can get away with it. Think we're too tired, too divided, too broke to resist.

And maybe they're right, Eileen says, voice cracking with particular desperation of someone who flies over country watching it fracture from thirty thousand feet. Maybe we are too tired. I see it every flight—people just...existing. Not living, just surviving day to day, trying to afford groceries and rent and insulin. Who has energy to resist imperialism when you're working three jobs just to keep lights on?

The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again" explodes through speakers—Roger Daltrey screaming about new boss being same as old boss, Pete Townshend's guitar riffs cutting through basement air like serrated truth. Heating system punctuates with death rattle, gives up entirely. Temperature drops immediately, January asserting dominance through brick walls and failed infrastructure.

That's the fucking point, Leila snaps, phone finally down, full attention engaged in room instead of screen. Keep people so exhausted they can't organize. Keep them so broke they can't protest—can't risk arrest when missing work means eviction. Keep them so divided arguing about pronouns and bathroom bills that they don't notice wealth extraction and imperial expansion. It's not accidental. It's strategy.

And it's working, Onyx whispers, tears flowing freely now while colored pens keep moving. It's working so well. We're in here talking about it, knowing about it, understanding the mechanisms—and we're still mostly helpless to stop it. Because what do we do? Vote? We voted. Protest? We protested. Organize? We're organized. They just...they just keep doing it anyway.

But we're still here, I finally say, bourbon making words possible when silence threatens to consume us. That's something, isn't it? We're still here, still showing up, still giving a fuck when giving up would be easier. Still building this— I gesture around basement, encompassing crimson walls and restored wood and chosen family gathered in January cold, —when they want us too exhausted to build anything except profit for them.

The Sanctuary Bar as resistance, Sarah muses, philosophical wheels turning visible behind stoic expression. Queer space as inherently political act. Our existence as refusal to comply with their vision of acceptable humanity.

Our survival as revolution, Keira adds, voice carrying pride I hear when she thinks I'm not listening. Every day we wake up and choose to keep living authentically instead of quietly, keep loving each other instead of competing, keep building community instead of accepting isolation—that's resistance. Might not feel like much against military industrial complex and imperial expansion, but it's what we've got.

And it's more than nothing, Remy says, lighting fresh Marlboro from dying embers of last. More than nothing, cher. They want us dead, atomized, alone, too depressed to organize, too broke to resist. Every night we gather here—queer, trans, Black, brown, intersex, ace, pan, every flavor of humanity they want erased—every night we show up for each other, that's choosing life over the death they're selling.

Pink Floyd's "Dogs" still playing—seventeen minutes means we're deep in the middle section now, guitars wailing like prophets screaming warnings nobody heeds. The heating system stays silent, temperature dropping enough that breath becomes visible, ghost-steam rising from living bodies refusing to freeze.

Good, Bubba rumbles, mountain settling into wisdom earned through surviving what should have killed him. Stay angry. Anger's fuel. Anger's what kept me alive in Georgia when being Black and gay meant hiding or dying. Anger's what builds movements. Just— he pauses, considers words with care particular to man who learned young that wrong words could end you, —just don't let anger consume you. Use it. Channel it. But don't let it eat you from inside until there's nothing left but rage.

Ezra bounces slightly, blue hair catching light like they're conducting electricity through skull.

So what do we do? they ask, voice carrying enthusiasm that shouldn't survive but does. Besides show up here, besides exist authentically, besides refuse to die quietly—what do we actually do?

What we've always done, Della says from kitchen doorway, spatula in hand like weapon, wife standing next to husband who pours sanctuary into plastic cups. We take care of each other. We share resources. We organize locally even when national feels hopeless. We protect our most vulnerable. We document everything— looks at me specifically, writer whose words might outlive us all, —so future generations know we were here, know we fought, know we didn't go quietly into their fascist night.

We remember, I say, finishing thought she started. We bear witness. We refuse to let them memory-hole the resistance. Every book they ban, we preserve. Every history they rewrite, we document truth. Every person they try to erase, we say their name until it echoes through generations.

The Stones finish, brief silence before speakers start "Baba O'Riley"—The Who declaring teenage wasteland while synthesizers build toward inevitable explosion. Onyx's napkin art complete now—intersecting circles forming flower pattern, petals labeled with different oppressions, center reading "we" in letters that seem to glow.

And whether we survive to see it, Remy says, exhaling smoke and wisdom in equal measure. Whether we build something better in the rubble, or whether we just get different masters with same old chains.

Keira's hand finds my knee under table—rare physical contact carrying weight of everything unsaid. We sit in cold basement surrounded by chosen family processing collective rage and helplessness and determination to keep breathing despite everything designed to suffocate us.

Miguel refills my bourbon—third pour, Michter's flowing like he's personally invested in keeping my blood warm when heating system gave up. Wedding ring catches light as he works, fifteen years with Della proving queer love survives when straight world bets against it.

For what it's worth, he says, sultry voice carrying childlike tone mixing jazz club with maternal instinct, I'm glad we're all here tonight. Glad you came even though weather's shit and news is worse. Glad we have this space to scream at ghosts together.

Better than screaming alone, Eileen says, pacing finally slowing as fury finds outlet in community instead of isolation. Better than watching democracy dismantle itself in studio apartment with nobody to witness.

Better than pretending everything's fine, Leila adds, phone dark now, present in room instead of trapped in screen. Better than performing normalcy when nothing's fucking normal.

Better than dying, Bubba finishes, mountain of Georgia survival and wisdom. Which is what they want. Want us dead, broken, silent. So we stay alive. Stay loud. Stay together.

The heating system rattles back to life—reluctant resurrection, half-hearted attempt at warmth. Temperature won't recover tonight, but effort counts for something. Like us showing up counts for something. Like existing authentically counts for something. Like refusing to surrender counts for something even when victory seems impossible.

To being here, I say quietly, raising plastic cup of bourbon toward chosen family. Not a toast—not a special occasion—just acknowledgment that showing up matters even when showing up is all we've got.

Everyone raises their drinks—bourbon and whiskey and scotch and gin and vodka and wine and chamomile tea—plastic cups and ceramic mugs catching dim basement light like ritual objects in underground church.

We drink to surviving another day in empire's dying throes, to resistance manifesting as breathing, to chosen family as political act, to Sanctuary Bar as pocket universe where we practice being human when outside world treats humanity as negotiable.

The Clash starts up again—"The Guns of Brixton" warning about what happens when law breaks people down. Heating system keeps rattling its reluctant resurrection. Temperature stays cold enough to see breath, warm enough to survive.

We sit together in January basement, processing news that shouldn't surprise us anymore but somehow still does, finding solidarity in shared rage, taking comfort in presence when comfort feels impossible.

This is what resistance looks like at ground level—exhausted queers in underground bar refusing to freeze, refusing to surrender, refusing to die quietly. Not glamorous. Not newsworthy. Not enough to stop empire's machinery.

But maybe—maybe—enough to survive until that machinery finally breaks itself.

To being here, I say quietly, raising plastic cup of bourbon toward chosen family. Not a toast—not a special occasion—just acknowledgment that showing up matters even when showing up is all we've got.

Everyone raises their drinks—bourbon and whiskey and scotch and gin and vodka and wine and chamomile tea—plastic cups and ceramic mugs catching dim basement light like ritual objects in underground church.

We drink to surviving another day in empire's dying throes, to resistance manifesting as breathing, to chosen family as political act, to Sanctuary Bar as pocket universe where we practice being human when outside world treats humanity as negotiable.

The Clash starts up again—"The Guns of Brixton" warning about what happens when law breaks people down. Heating system keeps rattling its reluctant resurrection. Temperature stays cold enough to see breath, warm enough to survive.

We sit together in January basement, processing news that shouldn't surprise us anymore but somehow still does, finding solidarity in shared rage, taking comfort in presence when comfort feels impossible.

This is what resistance looks like at ground level—exhausted queers in underground bar refusing to freeze, refusing to surrender, refusing to die quietly. Not glamorous. Not newsworthy. Not enough to stop empire's machinery.

But maybe—maybe—enough to survive until that machinery finally breaks itself.

Lorde understood that liberation isn't individual achievement but collective necessity—that oppression interlocks like machinery, that freedom requires dismantling entire systems rather than securing personal escape hatches. Tonight in the basement, watching chosen family process news of imperial expansion and democratic erosion, this truth manifests viscerally. We can't solve these problems alone, can't escape while others remain trapped. Our survival depends on collective resistance, on showing up for each other when showing up feels futile, on building community networks that sustain us through empire's violence. Lorde knew that fighting intersecting oppressions requires intersectional solidarity—that queer liberation connects to decolonization connects to environmental justice connects to every struggle against systems treating humans as expendable resources. We sit together in cold basement not because we believe we'll win every battle, but because losing alone is death while losing together is just another night preparing for tomorrow's fight. Freedom isn't destination—it's daily practice of refusing to abandon each other to empire's machinery.