The Panopticon in Your Pocket

The basement smells like bourbon, stale smoke, and the particular kind of rage that comes from watching your community get weaponized against itself. Miguel's pouring me something dark—Woodford Reserve Double Oaked, he says, aged in barrels that survived Kentucky floods and came out stronger for the drowning. The liquid catches light like amber holding insects from extinct epochs, complexity layered through trauma into something worth savoring.

That's what we do down here, isn't it? I think, watching condensation bead on plastic. Survive the drowning, come out stronger, get poured into cups that barely hold us.

Rush's "Subdivisions" bleeds through speakers—Geddy Lee's voice cutting through decades like prophecy about conformity and resistance, about finding spaces society pretends don't exist. Alex Lifeson's guitar work creates architecture around Neil Peart's percussion philosophy, and I'm thinking about how this song understood isolation before social media made it industrial-scale.

Ezra bounces over, blue hair electric under refurbished lighting, piercings catching amber glow. Mom! Did you see the thing about TikTok? The surveillance shit?

Language, I almost say, but catch myself. We're past pretending this deserves polite words.

Yeah, baby. Saw it. Researched it. Got righteously fucking pissed about it.

Della emerges from kitchen carrying plates of blackened catfish that smell like defiance seasoned with cayenne and collective rage. She sets them down with aggressive care—metal hitting wood like punctuation mark ending patience.

Y'all talking about how our phones became snitches? Her voice carries decades of watching systems weaponize everything against marginalized people. Because I got thoughts.

Keira looks up from her book—something about surveillance capitalism I've been meaning to read—and her eyes find mine with that particular look meaning here we go, let your people process this together.

Miguel leans against bar, wedding ring catching light as he wipes glasses with mechanical precision born from fifteen years tending this sanctuary. It's fucked. That's what it is. They told us Chinese government was the threat, made it about foreign surveillance, about protecting American data. Then they restructured it domestically and handed every immigrant's location to ICE like it was the whole goddamn point.

Phoenix sits in corner with River, purple and gold hair dimmed under worry. Their voice cracks when they speak, street-rough survival mixing with educated analysis. My mom's on TikTok. She watches cooking videos, plant care shit. And now what—some algorithm's tracking her movements in case they decide legal immigrants aren't legal enough anymore?

River's in forest green scrubs tonight, still wearing hospital ID badge from twelve-hour shift healing strangers. Their nurse brain catalogs damage with clinical precision before girlfriend fury emerges. It's the same infrastructure they use for everything else. Flock Safety's license plate readers in immigrant neighborhoods. Palantir's contracts with ICE. They build these systems claiming they're for convenience or safety, then weaponize them against whoever they decide doesn't deserve personhood this week.

Sarah sits in her usual corner, flannel pressed to military precision, boots making their authoritative statement even when she's sitting still. But tonight there's something different—her phone keeps lighting up with texts she reads with expression I can't quite parse. Not quite smiling, but softer than her usual philosophical stoicism. She catches me watching and her face shutters immediately, phone disappearing into pocket like evidence.

Interesting, I think, filing it away.

Remy lights cigarette with practiced grace, exhaling smoke and Louisiana wisdom. Mon Dieu, cher. They did this with voter registration in the South, with welfare rolls in the '80s, with hospital records during AIDS crisis. Find vulnerable population, build tracking system disguised as services, use data to criminalize survival. C'est la même chose—same shit, fancier technology.

Bubba's deep voice rumbles from window seat where he maintains sentinel position. Been watching this pattern since '70s. FBI tracked Black Panthers through phone records. Reagan administration compiled gay registries during AIDS epidemic under guise of public health. Now they just outsource the surveillance to apps people download voluntarily, make us complicit in our own monitoring.

The Moody Blues' "Nights in White Satin" fills spaces between conversation—Justin Hayward's voice aching with longing for connection in world that seems determined to prevent it. The orchestration swells like grief made audible, like remembering what we had before we understood how thoroughly we were being watched.

Onyx sits near stage, hands wrapped around mint tea—they never drink alcohol, just loose leaf preparations they brew with ritualistic precision. Their voice barely rises above music. Every time I post poetry about being trans, about being Black and trans, about surviving intersection of identities this country wants erased—that data goes somewhere. Gets categorized. Becomes evidence in some future case against my existence.

Not future, Leila interrupts, scrolling phone with intensity of someone monitoring multiple battlefronts simultaneously. Present. They're using this shit right now. Every immigrant community in America just got mapped through their own social media use. Every undocumented person who posted about their job, their kids' school, their neighborhood—that's intelligence gathering they paid billions for during Bush administration, and now people just... volunteer it.

Marcus spins wedding ring nervously, face showing exhaustion of code-switching between identities, between visible and invisible selves. Sara keeps telling me I'm paranoid. That we're citizens, we're safe, surveillance is for 'real' criminals. But she doesn't get it—once infrastructure exists, definitions of criminality expand to fill available enforcement capacity.

Sarah's phone buzzes again. This time she pulls it out, reads whatever's there, and her entire face transforms—just for second, just enough that several people notice. The stoic philosopher who challenges everything anyone says, who carries herself like she solved mysteries of universe but too polite to spoil surprise, is looking at her phone like it contains every answer she's been seeking.

Renee catches it too, I can tell. Her eyes narrow slightly from pool table where she's lining up shot, biceps flexing as she holds position longer than necessary while watching Sarah's face. There's history there—competitive energy around Erin that everyone pretends not to notice—but right now Renee looks genuinely curious rather than jealous.

Foucault wrote about this, Sarah says, pulling herself back to conversation like she's physically dragging attention away from phone. Panopticon prison design where prisoners can't see guards but know they might be watched constantly, so they internalize surveillance, police themselves. That's what this is—distributed panopticon where we carry the guard tower in our fucking pockets.

Right, I say, taking long pull of bourbon. The Woodford burns clean going down, complexity revealing itself in layers—vanilla and oak and something darker underneath, like smoke from fires that never quite go out. They don't need guards watching everyone constantly. They just need us believing we might be watched, so we modify behavior accordingly. Except it's worse than Foucault imagined because the watching IS constant, the data IS permanent, and the consequences aren't theoretical rehabilitation—they're deportation, detention, disappearance.

Miranda sets down wine glass, MILF energy radiating through practical concern. My kids are on TikTok. They're American citizens, white-passing, relatively safe—but their friends aren't. Their friends' parents aren't. And every stupid dance video, every school location tag, every casual mention of where they hang out—that's building database of community connections immigration enforcement can exploit.

She's right, I think, watching how quickly this conversation expanded from abstract policy to immediate threat assessment. That's what they count on—most people thinking surveillance targets someone else, somewhere else, until the knock comes at 4 AM.

Genesis' "That's All" starts playing—Phil Collins' voice deceptively simple over Tony Banks' keyboards creating emotional architecture around Mike Rutherford's bass, song about communication failure and love surviving anyway. It was huge in '83, playing everywhere while Reagan criminalized queerness and poverty simultaneously.

Dani arranges crystals on table, scarves flowing as she speaks with fierce gentleness. The intersectionality matters here. Immigration enforcement disproportionately targets communities of color, but surveillance infrastructure affects everyone. White trans people using TikTok for community? That data feeds facial recognition systems training on gender presentation. Black citizens posting about police brutality? That feeds predictive policing algorithms. We're all being harvested, just with different consequences depending on how many privilege points we carry.

Sarah's phone goes off again—three buzzes in quick succession this time. She glances down, and whatever she sees makes her actually smile. Not the philosophical half-smirk she uses when proving point, but genuine warmth spreading across features usually reserved for Socratic method and dismantling people's arguments with deeper perspective.

Someone's popular tonight, Elaine observes with characteristic snark, rum collins halfway to lips. Sarah, you gonna share with the class or just keep glowing over there like someone discovered the meaning of life in their text messages?

Sarah's face shutters again, but the smile doesn't quite disappear. Just... checking in with someone. Nothing dramatic.

Someone singular? Ezra asks with enthusiasm of someone who loves good gossip. Or someones plural? Because that smile looks pretty fucking plural if you ask me.

I didn't ask you, Sarah says, but there's no real bite to it. Her fingers trace phone edge through pocket like rosary beads, like she's physically preventing herself from pulling it out again.

Oh, I think, watching the tells. Oh, this is interesting.

Erik arrives straight from factory shift, still in work clothes, bringing blue-collar exhaustion and upper-working-class rage about systems that grind workers into data points. Guys on my line were bitching about immigrants taking jobs—same guys who spend lunch scrolling TikTok, posting location-tagged videos from factory floor. I wanted to tell them they're building the database that'll target them next, once they unionize or protest or step outside acceptable worker behavior. But you can't say shit like that without outing yourself as someone who thinks about this stuff too much.

Yeah, Renee grunts from pool table where she's destroying someone at eight-ball with mechanical precision. Biceps strain against tank top as she lines up shot. That's the trick. Make surveillance so normalized, so convenient, that questioning it marks you as paranoid or political. Meanwhile they're literally tracking our movements, cataloging our relationships, building prosecutable cases from our own public sharing.

She pauses mid-shot to glance at Sarah again. Speaking of relationships—you gonna tell us who's got you checking your phone every thirty seconds like teenager with first crush?

No, Sarah says simply, returning to philosophical certainty. I'm not. My personal life is personal. Which feels particularly relevant to conversation about surveillance and privacy, doesn't it?

Except we're not surveillance state, Della calls from kitchen, spatula waving. We're chosen family who notice when someone's in love and want to celebrate that shit.

Who said anything about love? Sarah's voice stays level, but her hand goes to phone pocket again, unconscious gesture revealing everything she's trying to hide.

Your face did, Keira says quietly, marking page in her book. About fifteen minutes ago when you looked at your phone like it contained every answer you've been seeking. That's not 'checking in with someone'—that's being in love enough that text messages feel like physical touch.

Sarah opens mouth to argue, then closes it. Her stoicism cracks just slightly around edges. It's... complicated.

Complicated singular or complicated plural? Brandon asks, leaning forward with writer's interest in human complexity. Because there's a difference between 'it's complicated with one person' and 'it's beautifully complex with multiple people,' and your face is reading way more toward the latter.

You people are relentless, Sarah mutters, but she's almost smiling again. Fine. Yes. Multiple people. Yes, I'm... we're... it's polyamorous and it's new and it's private and I'm not discussing it beyond that.

But you're happy, I say, making it statement not question.

Her eyes meet mine across basement, and for once the philosophical challenge isn't there—just vulnerability, joy, slight fear that admitting happiness might jinx it. Yeah, Mom. I'm really fucking happy.

The entire bar erupts into speculation masked as support. Ezra wants to know if everyone knows about everyone else (yes). Dani wants to know about jealousy management (working on it). Marcus asks about scheduling logistics (Google calendar, apparently). Lisa wants to know if they're all lesbians (not discussing). Elaine makes crack about Sarah finally getting enough sex to stop being so intense (Sarah flips her off while laughing). Miranda gets poetic about multiple loves creating harmony rather than competition (Sarah actually looks grateful).

How many people are we talking? Remy asks, cigarette dangling while his eyes dance with Louisiana mischief. Two? Three? You running full polycule over there?

I'm not answering that, Sarah says firmly. What I will say is that everyone involved is consenting, communicating, and committed to making this work. Beyond that? Not your business, even if you are chosen family.

Fair, Bubba rumbles from window seat. Privacy matters. Especially in conversation about surveillance infrastructure. Good for you, Sarah. Happiness is resistance when world wants us isolated and miserable.

The conversation threads back to surveillance, but there's new energy now—Sarah's revelation adding layer of hope to discussion about systems designed to destroy connection. Her phone keeps buzzing throughout night, and she stops hiding the small smiles, stops pretending she's not constantly aware of it, stops trying to maintain stoic distance from obvious joy.

Grubby's quiet voice cuts through from corner where they usually maintain strategic invisibility. Intersex people barely exist in these systems officially. Medical records often misclassify us, legal documents contain contradictions, our bodies confuse databases designed around binary assumptions. But that's not protection—it's just different kind of targeting. We're statistical anomalies that draw attention, require investigation, need correction.

Fuck, I think, taking another drink. Every marginalized identity comes with unique surveillance vulnerability, and they're all feeding same enforcement mechanisms.

Brandon gestures animatedly, more successful writer than me though neither of us mentions it. I've been writing about this for months. Published essay about Ring doorbells in immigrant neighborhoods, how Amazon partnered with police departments to create warrantless surveillance network. Got death threats, got called propagandist, got accused of exaggerating. Now here we are—TikTok's domestic surveillance infrastructure making my 'exaggerations' look conservative.

Throughout the discussion, Sarah's presence shifts subtly. The philosopher who usually challenges everything with deeper perspective, who questions life, universe, and everything—she's softer tonight. Still engaged, still sharp, but carrying lightness suggesting that being multiply loved creates foundation strong enough to question world from position of security rather than defensive isolation.

Must be nice, Renee says quietly during lull in conversation, not quite to Sarah but clearly meant for her. Finding multiple people who get you completely. Most of us struggle finding one.

Sarah looks at her—really looks, with something like compassion cutting through competitive energy around Erin. It is nice. It's also terrifying, complicated, requires constant communication and vulnerability that goes against every self-protective instinct. But yeah... it's really nice.

Good, Renee says, and means it. You deserve nice things. We all do.

The conversation about Sarah's mystery partners—because by now everyone's convinced it's at least three people, possibly more, and speculation is running wild through basement like philosophical wildfire—weaves through larger discussion about surveillance. Connection as resistance. Love as political act. Chosen family witnessing each other's joy even when world says we should be too afraid to experience it.

Leila scrolls through phone, tracking legislative attacks real-time. The thing about polyamory is that it's literally illegal in most states. Cohabitation laws, polygamy statutes, custody battles where non-biological parents lose rights—the legal system is designed to recognize only one legitimate relationship structure. So being openly poly is its own form of resistance against state definitions of valid love.

Exactly, Sarah says, phone buzzing again in her pocket. She doesn't check it this time, fully present in moment. Every form of queer love threatens status quo. Every relationship structure that doesn't fit heteronormative monogamy becomes target for legal surveillance, social judgment, systemic erasure. That's why privacy matters—not because love is shameful, but because state weaponizes non-conformity.

Elaine drains rum collins—tonight it's Plantation Rum cut with Coke and bitters—and her sixty years of survival lines deepen with smile lacking humor. They did this shit to us during AIDS crisis. CDC built registry of HIV-positive people under guise of public health, then local governments used it for housing discrimination, insurance denial, employment termination. We learned then—any data collected WILL be weaponized against most vulnerable people in dataset. History doesn't repeat, but it sure as fuck rhymes.

Julie nods, mixing Jameson with Diet Coke in proportions suggesting she believes soda magically erases whiskey calories. Spent seventy-one years learning that systems built to help always end up used for harm. Social services become surveillance. Healthcare becomes tracking. Community support becomes informant network. They promise protection, deliver prosecution.

Lisa's pragmatic farm girl voice carries authority of someone who figured out life the hard way. So what do we do? Delete TikTok, they say—but that doesn't delete data already collected. Switch to 'safer' platforms, but who's to say those won't get co-opted next? Feel like we're playing whack-a-mole with surveillance state.

That's because we are, I say, signaling Miguel for refill. He pours two fingers of something darker—Blanton's Single Barrel, he says, each bottle unique like survivors of same trauma processing differently. The bourbon tastes like Kentucky thoroughbred country at sunset, like something too good for plastic cups but poured anyway because we're worth good things even in basement sanctuaries.

But here's what they're counting on—that we'll feel helpless, overwhelmed, unable to resist because resistance seems futile. Except we've been resisting surveillance since forever. Since slave patrols tracked escaped people. Since police raided gay bars with photo documentation. Since FBI infiltrated civil rights organizations with wiretaps.

Gus looks up, young face showing small-town confusion trying to process urban complexity. But how? How do we resist when surveillance is literally everywhere?

Bubba's weathered face shows sixty-plus years of surviving what should have destroyed him. Same way we always have. Build parallel infrastructure. Create networks they can't monitor. Use encryption, use anonymity, use strategies learned from decades of surviving state violence. And most importantly—don't carry their surveillance devices into community spaces.

He glances at everyone's phones on tables, screens dark but still recording, still tracking, still feeding databases we'll never see.

This bar, Remy says, cigarette dangling like promise of fire. We make it phone-free zone. Stack 'em by door, pick 'em up leaving. What happens here stays here—not because we doing illegal shit, but because surveillance is violence and we deserve spaces free from it.

Sarah's hand goes to pocket one more time, unconscious gesture. Then she pulls phone out deliberately, looks at screen showing three new messages, and sets it face-down on table. Yeah. I'm in. Whatever I need to say to them, I can say after I leave. This space should be sacred.

Phoenix's voice cracks with mixture of hope and terror. But what about people who need phones for safety? For rideshares home, for emergency contacts?

We adapt, River says with nurse practicality. Dumb phones for emergency calls. Encrypted messaging apps on devices without location tracking. Signal instead of texts. Proton mail instead of Gmail. TOR browsers instead of Chrome. The tools exist—we just have to commit to using them even when they're less convenient.

The Clash's "Should I Stay or Should I Go" hits speakers—Joe Strummer's voice asking eternal question about commitment and fear, about risking everything versus protecting yourself. Mick Jones' guitar work creates urgency around question we've all been asking since we understood what loving openly costs.

Eileen's flight attendant posture remains perfect even when she's furious, which is nearly always. And we organize. We pressure legislators for data protection laws. We support EFF's legal challenges. We make noise about commercial surveillance infrastructure becoming de facto government tool. We don't accept this as inevitable.

Chris shifts uncomfortably, polo shirt pressed to religious certainty. But isn't some surveillance necessary? For safety, for order, for—

For whom? I interrupt, not angry but firm. Safety for who, Chris? Order benefiting whom? Because from where I'm sitting, surveillance infrastructure consistently targets people who already lack safety, who already experience disorder as state violence. Immigrants, trans people, sex workers, activists, people in non-traditional relationships—we're the ones getting tracked, prosecuted, disappeared through these systems supposedly built for everyone's protection.

His face shows conflict—evangelical background wrestling with lived reality of people he's come to care about being hunted through technology.

Sage sets down colored pen they've been using to create intricate mandala on napkin—this one incorporating surveillance camera eyes into Celtic knotwork, panopticon prison tower into sacred geometry, but also hearts connecting between figures suggesting love surviving observation. They rarely speak, but when they do, words cut like tuning fork finding perfect pitch.

The art of resistance is making visible what power tries to hide. Surveillance only works when people don't understand they're being watched, don't know who's watching, don't realize what's being done with their data. So we make it visible. We talk about it. We refuse to pretend it's not happening.

They slide napkin toward center of table—the mandala now clearly showing how surveillance infrastructure connects to historical oppression, how current technology implements ancient control mechanisms with modern efficiency, but also how love creates networks surveillance can't fully map.

Keira's voice cuts through chaos with scalpel precision. This is why chosen family matters. Biological families often comply with state surveillance—they're invested in maintaining structures that privilege them, even when those structures oppress their own children. Chosen family understands that what threatens one threatens all, that protecting each other means resisting surveillance infrastructure together.

Pink Floyd's "Another Brick in the Wall (Part 2)" fills the basement—Roger Waters' voice leading children's choir in rebellion against educational control systems, song banned by South African apartheid government because they understood its power. David Gilmour's guitar solo soars like freedom might sound if you could hear it from inside prison walls.

This was one of our songs, I think, chest tightening. Gizmo and me, singing in the car during grocery runs. She'd belt the "we don't need no education" part with such conviction, such joy, such certainty that she understood what the song meant even at eight years old.

Miguel catches my expression, knows immediately what's happening. You okay, mom?

Yeah, I lie, taking long pull of bourbon. Just remembering that every surveillance system is wall they build around us, brick by brick, until we forget what freedom felt like.

Mary sits quietly beside Keira, wine glass catching light. She rarely speaks during these conversations, but her presence acknowledges shared history—we built family together before my transition destroyed everything, and now we're rebuilding something different but still connected through Gizmo, through survival, through stubborn commitment to showing up anyway.

The TV above bar flickers with Super Bowl replays—Patriots getting destroyed by Seahawks in way that felt cathartic after everything this year has thrown at us. Bad Bunny's halftime show plays on loop because fuck it, I can, and I will enjoy it. Fuck Trump. Also, Kid Rock—that turd-munching ass-waffle—needs to hang it the fuck up. Got that, "Grandpa" Rock?

That's what joy looks like under pressure, I say, gesturing at screen where Bad Bunny performs for millions while being openly queer, openly political, openly himself. They want us scared, isolated, silent. So we dance, we sing, we throw Super Bowl parties in basement bars where we plan resistance while celebrating survival.

And we love, Sarah adds quietly, eyes on her phone lying face-down on table like she's physically practicing separation from it. We love multiple people, we love in ways that don't fit scripts they wrote for us, we love openly even when love becomes surveillance target. Because they can track our data, but they can't legislate our hearts.

Onyx wipes tears—they cry about strangers' suffering while being terrified to pursue their own joy, but tonight they're here, present, processing this with us. Every time I want to hide, to make myself smaller, to pretend visibility isn't necessary—I think about people like Bad Bunny. Like you, Wendy. Like Sarah being brave enough to admit she's poly and in love. Like everyone here who refuses to disappear even when disappearing would be safer.

That's the thing about surveillance, I think. It works by making us police ourselves, by making visibility feel dangerous, by convincing us that safety requires invisibility. But we're already targeted whether we're visible or not—at least visibility means community, means witness, means someone will notice when we disappear.

Def Leppard's "Photograph" comes through speakers—Joe Elliott's voice aching over Phil Collen's guitar work, song about holding onto memories when physical presence becomes impossible. It was everywhere in '83, playing constantly during period when I was still trying to be William, still trying to make masculinity fit, still years away from understanding why nothing felt right.

Another car song, I think, remembering Gizmo's voice harmonizing with mine, her enthusiasm making my terrible singing sound beautiful. Another ghost-stab of memory about child I'm trying to protect from world that wants to catalogue her, track her, use her data against everyone she loves.

Ginny's dark red hair catches light as she speaks—nineteen years of believing Zoe's lies slowly being rebuilt into something like sisterhood. I didn't understand surveillance as violence until recently. Thought privacy was for people with something to hide. But watching what's happening to Phoenix's mom, to everyone here, to you—it's not about hiding, it's about existing without everything you are becoming evidence against you.

Progress, I think. Slow, painful, but present.

The conversation expands, contracts, spirals through personal experiences and political analysis. Erik talks about factory surveillance monitoring bathroom breaks. Dani discusses how spiritual communities get infiltrated when they organize politically. Marcus explains bisexual invisibility as both privilege and vulnerability—under radar until suddenly targeted for not being gay enough or straight enough. Miranda describes trans motherhood under constant surveillance from medical system, schools, even grocery stores where strangers photograph her kids to "prove" children are being harmed.

Throughout it all, Sarah's phone stays face-down on table. But speculation continues—whispered theories about who her partners might be, how many people we're talking about, whether anyone in the bar knows them. The mystery grows with each non-answer she provides, each deliberate subject change, each time someone asks direct question and she responds with philosophical deflection about privacy and consent.

At least three, Ezra stage-whispers to Phoenix. Did you see her face? That's definitely at least three people making her smile like that.

Could be more, Phoenix whispers back. Could be whole polycule. Could be she's at the center of like six people all loving each other in different configurations.

Could be you're speculating about my private life right in front of me, Sarah says without heat. But yes, it's more than two. No, I'm not saying how many. Yes, they all know about each other. Yes, I'm ridiculously happy. Can we return to discussing surveillance infrastructure now?

We can multitask, Della calls from kitchen. We can resist surveillance state AND celebrate that you found multiple people who make you smile like teenager with first crush. Those things aren't mutually exclusive.

Renee crushes another opponent at pool, biceps flexing as she calls shot with professional precision. Here's what pisses me off most—we're not paranoid. Every fear we express, every surveillance concern we raise, it's not exaggeration or anxiety disorder or political hyperbole. It's pattern recognition from decades of watching systems weaponized against us. And we're supposed to stay calm, stay quiet, keep acting like this is normal.

It's not fucking normal, Della calls from kitchen, spatula waving like weapon. And we don't have to pretend it is. We can be angry, we can be loud, we can refuse to accept that carrying surveillance devices everywhere is just how life works now.

The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again" thunders through basement—Roger Daltrey's primal scream echoing Pete Townshend's guitar fury, Keith Moon's drums pounding like revolution sounds when it finally arrives. "Meet the new boss, same as the old boss"—lyric understanding that power structures persist through technological updates, that surveillance state just implements ancient oppression with modern efficiency.

I drain bourbon, signal Miguel for one more. He pours Pappy Van Winkle 15—something we barely have, something he reserves for nights when chosen family needs reminder that we're worth the good shit even in plastic cups, especially in plastic cups, specifically because plastic cups mean we're still here, still surviving, still finding sanctuary in basement spaces world tries to ignore.

So here's what we do, I say, voice carrying weight of fifty-three years surviving what should have killed me, raising it to cut through music and conversation. We delete TikTok. All of us, right now. We switch to encrypted platforms, federated social networks that can't hand our data to fascists with warrants. We make this bar phone-free sanctuary—devices by door, protected space in here. We support EFF's legal challenges, we pressure legislators, we make noise about surveillance infrastructure targeting marginalized people.

But most importantly—we keep showing up. We keep being visible, keep building community, keep creating spaces where we can exist authentically without everything we are becoming evidence against us. They want us isolated, paranoid, too scared to connect. So we connect anyway. We love anyway—in whatever configurations make us happy. We document anyway. We survive anyway.

Phoenix's voice cracks with hope competing against terror. What if it's not enough? What if they come anyway?

Keira answers before I can, her voice carrying particular authority of someone who's watched chosen family survive impossible things. Then we face it together. That's what this is—chosen family creating infrastructure of care and resistance that survives whatever they throw at us. No guarantees, no safety promises, just commitment to showing up for each other regardless of consequences.

The bourbon tastes like something too good for this moment, too refined for basement bars and plastic cups and conversations about surveillance state hunting our neighbors. But that's exactly why it matters—we deserve beauty even in resistance, especially in resistance, specifically because refusing to disappear means insisting we're worth good things even when world says otherwise.

Spent the morning researching surveillance infrastructure and HIV defunding—because of course this administration is targeting both immigrants and AIDS healthcare simultaneously, like they're following playbook from '80s Reagan era. Got righteously pissed, watched Bad Bunny clips to remember what joy looks like under pressure, pivoted to writing this so you'd have something true to hold. The world's a fucking nightmare factory, but we're still here making beauty and trouble in equal measure.

The basement empties slowly—people collecting phones from basket by door, re-entering world where surveillance is constant and resistance requires daily commitment. Ezra hugs me before leaving, blue hair electric even in dim light. Phoenix and River depart hand in hand, ruby ring gleaming with promise that love persists through surveillance and fear. Marcus spins wedding ring one more time before heading home to Sara and conversation that's probably overdue.

Sarah lingers, picking up her phone and scrolling through accumulated messages with expression suggesting she's been missed during the hours she spent fully present with chosen family. Thanks for not pushing, she says to me specifically. About the relationship stuff. I know everyone's curious, but—

But you get to decide what you share and when, I finish. That's literally what tonight's been about. Privacy as resistance. Boundaries as survival. Love as political act that doesn't require public performance to be valid.

She nods, genuine gratitude softening philosophical certainty. Exactly. And for what it's worth—they're wonderful. All of them. I'm... I'm really fucking lucky.

You're really fucking brave, I correct. Loving one person openly takes courage in world that wants us isolated. Loving multiple people openly, building polycule when polyamory is literally illegal in most states? That's resistance on par with anything else we discussed tonight.

Her smile could light entire basement. When you put it that way... yeah. Yeah, I guess it is.

She leaves, and I watch her text rapidly while walking toward door—probably letting her partners know she's finally free, probably arranging to see one or more of them tonight, probably navigating complex scheduling that makes single relationships look simple. But the joy on her face suggests complexity is worth it, that multiple loves create harmony rather than competition when everyone's committed to making it work.

I stay, because I always stay. Because someone needs to witness what happened here, document what was said, remember that on this particular Tuesday night in February 2026, chosen family gathered in basement sanctuary and decided surveillance would not make us silent, isolation would not make us alone, fear would not prevent us from loving however many people our hearts could hold.

Miguel wipes bar with practiced precision, wedding ring catching light. Della emerges from kitchen, spatula still in hand like she might need to weaponize it. Keira marks page in her book about surveillance capitalism and closes it with finality suggesting she's done reading about it, ready to start resisting it. Mary drains wine glass and sets it down gently, presence acknowledging that co-parenting means protecting Gizmo from surveillance infrastructure together even if we couldn't protect our marriage from my transition.

The music shifts—someone changed playlist, and now Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain" fills the basement. Stevie Nicks and Christine McVie's voices twine around each other like chosen family sounds when it harmonizes, Lindsey Buckingham's guitar and John McVie's bass creating foundation strong enough to hold everything we can't say directly. "Chain keep us together"—lyric about connection surviving everything trying to break it.

That's what this is, I think, looking around refurbished basement that somehow contains entire universe of resistance and care. The chain keeping us together even when surveillance state wants us fractured, even when fear makes connection dangerous, even when showing up costs more than we can afford to lose.

The bourbon glass sits empty, amber residue clinging to plastic like memory refusing to fade completely. Tomorrow there'll be more surveillance, more threats, more systems weaponized against marginalized survival. But tonight there was this—chosen family processing fear into resistance, isolation into community, helplessness into strategy, curiosity into celebration of Sarah's mysterious multiple loves that proved connection still possible even under constant observation.

And that's something. Not everything, but something. Which is all we've ever had, really. Small spaces of sanctuary where we can breathe freely while planning how to expand those spaces, how to protect them, how to make them available to everyone hunting safe haven in world that wants them disappeared.

The basement breathes with possibility despite everything. Or maybe because of everything. Maybe sanctuary only matters when danger is real, when surveillance is constant, when existing visibly requires courage bordering on recklessness, when loving openly means risking everything including the data trail that could be used against you later.

I finish writing this in my head, translating bourbon and conversation into words that might help someone understand what it feels like to carry surveillance device everywhere while trying to maintain authentic community. What it costs. What it requires. What it makes possible anyway.

Because someone needs to remember we were here. That we refused to disappear. That we built sanctuary even when—especially when—world was watching. That we loved in configurations that confused databases, resisted in ways that created community surveillance couldn't fully penetrate, survived in basement bars where plastic cups held more sacred meaning than crystal goblets ever could.

This quote captures tonight's essence—we live under constant surveillance, performing compliance while watchers remain invisible. But collective visibility transforms spectacle into solidarity. When marginalized people claim visibility together, when we refuse to be isolated through fear of being watched, surveillance loses its power to control. The panopticon only works when prisoners believe they're alone. Chosen family reminds us we're never alone, that being watched together means building resistance networks surveillance can't fully penetrate. Foucault understood that power operates through visibility asymmetry—those with power watch while remaining unseen, those without power are constantly visible while their watchers hide. Tonight we reversed that—made surveillance infrastructure visible, named the watchers, claimed our visibility as collective resistance rather than individual vulnerability. The spectacle remains, but we've transformed it from instrument of control into declaration of defiant survival. Sarah's polyamorous loves—multiple connections creating networks more complex than surveillance can easily map—embody this perfectly: love as infrastructure that confuses single-point tracking, relationships as distributed resistance that can't be reduced to simple data points. When we love in configurations that don't fit prescribed patterns, when we connect in ways databases struggle to categorize, we create small spaces of freedom within surveillance architecture. Not complete escape, but strategic complexity that makes total observation harder, makes reduction to data points incomplete. That's resistance too—building lives so multifaceted that no single system can capture them fully.