The alley door slammed behind me with its familiar metallic shriek, and I descended into The Sanctuary's crimson embrace just as Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain" bled through the speakers—that bass line thrumming against my ribs like a second heartbeat. The sunset-painted walls seemed to pulse with more than just Lindsey Buckingham's guitar tonight; they absorbed something darker, heavier, from every soul packed into our underground cathedral.
Miguel caught my eye from behind the bar, his expression carrying that particular exhaustion I'd seen too many fucking times lately—the kind that settles into trans bodies when the world decides we're today's favorite political football. Without asking, he reached for the Woodford Reserve, that amber liquid catching the warm lights we'd installed last month. The pour was generous, the kind that says I know what kind of day you've had without you having to tell me.
Mom's here, Miguel called out, his sultry voice cracking just slightly on the second word.
Thank fuck, Ezra's voice erupted from their beanbag throne, blue hair catching the stage lights as they twisted around. I was about to start a riot without adult supervision.
I navigated through the crowd—larger than usual for a Thursday—noting how bodies clustered in protective formations. Brandon stood near the pool table, his usually animated hands still for once as he listened to Chris wrestle with something theological. Sarah sat at the bar's far end, her stoic mask firmly in place, but I caught the white-knuckle grip on her beer bottle. And Phoenix—my Phoenix who'd moved into our spare room after that beating—sat pressed against River's scrubs-covered shoulder, that ruby promise ring catching light as their fingers intertwined.
Another state, another fucking bill, Leila's voice cut through Rush's "Tom Sawyer" as I approached the bar. North Carolina just passed theirs. Third one this week.
The kitchen's sizzle punctuated her words—Della working her anger into tonight's special, what smelled like blackened catfish with enough cayenne to make your ancestors weep. She emerged through the service window, spatula in hand like a weapon.
They're not even pretending it's about safety anymore, Della said, her femme butch energy radiating fury. Just straight-up saying we're predators. Like my existence in a fucking bathroom is an act of violence.
Bella, mi amor, your existence is art, Miguel murmured, reaching across to squeeze his wife's flour-dusted hand. Their fear doesn't change that truth.
I took my first sip of bourbon, letting it burn away the day's accumulation of rage and grief. Gizmo had texted me earlier—another incident at her university, someone had reported a trans student for using the "wrong" bathroom. My daughter, my brilliant psychology-studying daughter, trying to make sense of senseless hatred while I sat three states away, unable to protect her from any of it. The familiar sting behind my eyes threatened, but I pushed it down.
Mom, you good? Brandon asked, abandoning his conversation with Chris to slide onto the barstool beside me.
Peachy fucking keen, I replied, the sarcasm thick enough to spread on toast.
Queen's "Princes of the Universe" started up, and my chest tightened. Gizmo used to belt this from her car seat, all of five years old and convinced Freddie Mercury was singing directly to her. Before the world taught her that some people would rather legislate her friends out of existence than let them piss in peace.
It's the sports ban that's killing me, Phoenix's voice carried over, young and raw. My cousin—she's thirteen. Thirteen! Been playing soccer since she could walk. Now they're saying she can't play with her friends anymore because she's trans. Like she's got some fucking superhuman advantage at thirteen.
River's arm tightened around Phoenix, and I watched them press a kiss to Phoenix's temple, rotating pronouns be damned in this moment of needed comfort.
The cruelty is the point, Sarah finally spoke, her stoic facade cracking just enough to show the fury beneath. They know it's not about fairness or safety. It's about making us disappear, one degrading law at a time.
Merde! Remy's attempted humor fell flat as he switched to French frustration. When I was young, we thought things would get better, non? After Stonewall, after marriage equality... But here we are, watching them try to legislate our youth out of existence.
Chris shifted uncomfortably on his stool, that eternal conflict written across his face—the gay Christian trying to reconcile a God of love with followers who weaponized scripture against his very existence.
My pastor says— Chris started, then stopped as the entire bar turned to look at him.
Your pastor can fuck right off, Leila said, not unkindly but with zero room for debate. Unless he's standing with us at the capitol, unless he's using his pulpit to denounce this shit, his opinion means exactly nothing.
The opening notes of Black Sabbath's "Paranoid" crashed through the speakers, and wasn't that just fucking perfect? Because paranoid was exactly what they wanted us to be. Looking over our shoulders in bathrooms, second-guessing our existence in public spaces, questioning whether that person staring was curious or dangerous.
You know what pisses me off most? Della emerged fully from the kitchen, bringing plates of that catfish that could strip paint. They act like we just appeared yesterday. Like trans people haven't been here forever, using bathrooms without incident, playing sports, living our fucking lives.
It's the historical erasure that gets me, Sarah added, accepting a plate with a nod. They burned our books, destroyed our histories, and now act surprised we exist.
Brandon's phone buzzed, and his face went pale as he read. Shit. SHIT. They're bringing one to committee in our state. Next week.
Wait, hold up, Leila interrupted, her own phone glowing in her hand. Holy fuck. They caught the shooter from yesterday. The one who killed Charlie Kirk.
The bar went still, everyone remembering yesterday's shock when news broke that some conservative talking head had been gunned down. We'd all assumed—hoped, maybe—that it was someone finally snapping back at the hate machine.
It was one of their own, Leila continued, voice dripping with disbelief. A fucking Groyper. Nick Fuentes follower. Killed him because—get this—he wasn't racist enough. Wasn't pure enough in his hatred.
Jesus fucking Christ, Sarah muttered. They're eating their own now.
And watch them still blame us, Della called from the kitchen, her spatula clanging against the grill. Watch them twist this into somehow being about the 'violent left' or 'trans extremists' even though it was literally their own fascist spawn consuming itself.
Brandon laughed, bitter and sharp. The snake devours its tail, and somehow we're still the monsters in their narrative. Ouroboros.
That's what happens when you build a movement on pure hatred, I said, taking another pull of bourbon. Eventually, no one's pure enough. No one hates hard enough. They cannibalize each other looking for the perfect bigot.
Chris shifted uncomfortably again, and I could see him processing—his conservative upbringing warring with the reality that the violence came from inside the house this time.
But they'll still use it, Phoenix said quietly. They'll still find a way to make this about us being dangerous. Watch. By tomorrow, they'll have spun this into why we need more bathroom bills, more sports bans, more restrictions. Because that's what they do.
The bar erupted—voices overlapping in a cacophony of rage, fear, and exhaustion. I watched my chosen family fracture and reform, bodies gravitating toward comfort, hands reaching for hands, the space suddenly feeling too small for all our collective grief and the absurd horror of watching fascists destroy each other while still managing to aim their weapons at us.
ENOUGH! Miguel's voice cut through the chaos, and silence fell like a hammer.
He pulled out a bottle I recognized—Patrón Silver. My stomach turned.
Oh, fuck no, Miguel. You know I can't—
Mom, he said, and there was something in his voice that stopped my protest. We're not drinking to forget. We're drinking to remember. To remember we're still here. Still fighting. Still fucking breathing despite their best efforts.
He poured shots with the precision of a surgeon, one for everyone present. Even Chris took his without protest. The tequila gleamed like liquid silver under our new lights, deceptively beautiful for something that had been my nemesis since that incident in '03 I still wouldn't talk about.
They want us scared, Miguel continued, holding his shot aloft. They want us silent. They want us to disappear into the margins of their comfortable world. But here's the thing—we've survived worse. Our ancestors survived worse. And we're still here, in this basement, chosen family strong, refusing to fucking vanish.
To the kids, Leila added, raising her glass. To every trans kid who can't play sports, who's afraid to use the bathroom, who's watching adults debate their right to exist. We see you. We've got you.
To the fighters, Della said, her voice thick with emotion. To everyone testifying at hearings, protesting at capitols, writing letters to representatives who don't give a shit but need to hear it anyway.
I thought of Gizmo again, of Charlie's growing anxiety about their future, of Alexander's analytical brain trying to make sense of illogical hatred. My throat burned with more than impending tequila.
To survival, I finally said, my voice steadier than I felt. Which is its own form of resistance. To every trans person who got out of bed this morning despite the headlines. To everyone who chose to keep living in a world actively trying to erase them. That's the real fucking revolution.
We drank as one, the tequila burning like liquid fire, like rage, like hope despite everything. I grimaced at the familiar agave assault on my senses but didn't complain. Some moments demanded discomfort.
The opening harmonica of Supertramp's "Take the Long Way Home" filled the sudden quiet, and Brandon laughed—bitter and beautiful.
When I was young, it seemed that life was so wonderful, he sang along, his voice cracking. A miracle, oh it was beautiful, magical...
And then they taught us to be logical, Sarah continued, unexpected. Responsible, practical...
One by one, voices joined in, until the entire bar was singing—off-key, tear-stained, but singing nonetheless. Even Chris, his evangelical upbringing warring with his queer reality, mouthed the words.
Phoenix suddenly stood, pulling River up with them. You know what? Fuck their laws. Fuck their bathrooms. Fuck their sports bans. We're going dancing. Mom Wendy, Della, Miguel—thank you for this space. For giving us somewhere to be angry, to be real, to be whole.
Always, baby, I said, and meant it with every fiber of my being.
As bodies began to move to the music, I noticed Brandon pull out his notebook, scribbling furiously—probably another essay that would get published while mine collected rejections. But tonight, I didn't care about professional jealousy. Tonight, we were all just trying to survive the weight of paper wars waged by people who'd never bothered to know us.
The Who's "Won't Get Fooled Again" exploded through the speakers, and Ezra leaped from their beanbag, blue hair flying as they air-guitared through the opening. The bar erupted in laughter—not because anything was funny, but because sometimes you laugh to keep from screaming.
As I watched my chosen family dance, drink, and hold each other up, I thought about those legislators in their air-conditioned chambers, debating our humanity like an abstract concept. They'd never understand this—the beauty of survival, the power of chosen family, the revolution of simply refusing to disappear.
The catfish was perfect—angry and spiced with enough fury to make you feel alive. The bourbon continued to flow, punctuated by Miguel's occasional concerned glances my way. And through it all, we held space for each other's rage, grief, and stubborn fucking insistence on existing.
Tomorrow, there would be more bills, more debates, more attacks on our basic humanity. But tonight, in this sunset-painted basement with its perfect acoustics and hard-won warmth, we were family. We were whole. We were enough.
And that, in itself, was resistance.
"In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." - Albert Camus
The bills may pile like snow, threatening to bury us in legal winter, but here in The Sanctuary's crimson glow, we carry our own season. Each shot of tequila becomes sunshine, each shared story a warm breeze, each act of showing up when the world wants us gone—that's our invincible summer, burning beneath whatever legislative blizzard they throw our way. We don't survive despite the cold; we survive by becoming our own heat.
Yeah definitely “we won’t be fooled again.”
More truth than poetry to that one. We have existed for centuries, probably millennia. And we are still here. For whatever time homo sapiens has left. GO QUEER!!!