The Safety of a Queer Space: We Won't Hire You Because You Are Trans...

The basement pulses with Genesis's "Tonight, Tonight, Tonight" bleeding through speakers that've seen better decades, Phil Collins's voice bouncing off sunset crimson walls like a pinball ricocheting through my skull. I settle into my usual spot at the bar's end, watching Miguel's practiced hands work their evening magic behind the restored wood grain that tells stories older than half the souls nursing drinks in this sanctuary tonight.

The day's been a motherfucking avalanche of intensity, starting with Sage's panicked text about a potential job interview and spiraling through Grubby's quiet confession about struggling with family acceptance. Now, as the clock edges past nine, the weight of being everyone's surrogate mother presses against my chest like a lead blanket soaked in bourbon and responsibility.

Miguel, sweetheart, make it something that'll burn the day off my tongue, I call out, my voice carrying the exhaustion of someone who's spent eight hours fielding questions about everything from hormone therapy to choosing chosen names.

Miguel's sultry-childlike grin spreads across their face as they reach for a bottle of Maker's Mark, the amber liquid catching the warm lighting like liquid gold. Mom, you look like you've been wrestling demons all day. This'll either kill 'em or make 'em your drinking buddies.

The bourbon hits my glass with that satisfying glug-glug that sounds like comfort arriving by freight train. I take a sip, letting the caramel fire slide down my throat and settle in my chest like a warm hug from someone who actually gives a shit about your wellbeing.

Across the room, Ezra's blue hair catches the light as they shift in their beanbag chair, currently engaged in what appears to be an intense philosophical debate with Grubby about the nature of identity. The kid's gesticulating wildly, their voice carrying that particular brand of youthful certainty that makes me simultaneously proud and terrified for what life's going to teach them.

The thing is, Ezra's saying, their voice pitched with excitement, identity isn't just about what you call yourself. It's about how you move through the world, how you take up space, how you fucking breathe.

Grubby nods slowly, their usually reserved demeanor cracking slightly to reveal something raw and searching. But what if the world doesn't want you to breathe at all? What if taking up space feels like stealing oxygen from people who deserve it more?

The question hangs in the air like smoke from Della's kitchen, where she's currently working her magic on what smells like her infamous jalapeño mac and cheese - the kind that'll make your sinuses weep tears of grateful agony. I catch Keira's eye from her spot near the newly restored pool table, where she's been quietly observing the conversation while occasionally offering commentary sharp enough to cut glass.

Grubby, Keira says, her voice carrying that particular blend of strength and tenderness that made me fall in love with her in the first place, deserving space isn't a fucking contest. You exist, therefore you deserve to exist. End of mathematical proof.

Sage appears at my elbow like a ghost made of anxiety and carefully folded napkin art, their usual quiet presence somehow amplified by nervous energy that radiates off them like heat from a fever. They've been working on what appears to be a mandala constructed entirely from torn beer coasters, but their fingers keep stilling mid-fold, betraying the distraction that's been eating at them all day.

Mom, they whisper, their voice barely audible over Heart's "Alone" now pumping through the speakers, can we talk? I'm freaking the fuck out about this interview tomorrow.

Before I can respond, Eileen's voice cuts through the ambient noise like a rusty blade through butter. She's perched at the bar three stools down, her flight attendant uniform replaced by civilian clothes that still can't hide the ramrod-straight posture of someone trained to handle emergencies at thirty thousand feet.

Sage, honey, she calls out, raising her glass of what appears to be whiskey mixed with something that should probably be illegal, job interviews are just elaborate games of dress-up and bullshit. The trick is figuring out which bullshit they want to hear.

But what if I can't figure it out? Sage's voice cracks slightly, and I watch seventeen years of maternal instinct kick into overdrive as several heads turn their direction with expressions of protective concern. What if I sit there in silence like I always do, and they think I have nothing to offer?

Julie shifts on her stool, her diet Coke and Jameson combination making my liver weep in solidarity. At seventy-one, she's got the kind of hard-earned wisdom that comes from decades of making mistakes and living to laugh about them. Sweetheart, I spent forty years trying to figure out what men wanted to hear, and it got me nowhere but divorced and bitter. The secret is knowing what YOU want to say and saying it with enough confidence that they believe it matters.

The conversation draws others like moths to a flame that promises warmth instead of incineration. Elaine emerges from the shadows near the stage area, her GraySexual Lesbian energy filling the space with the kind of wit that could strip paint off walls and make you grateful for the privilege.

Julie's got a point, Elaine says, her voice carrying decades of sexual frustration transformed into comedic gold, though in my experience, most people don't know what the fuck they want to hear until they hear it. The trick is making them think they thought of it first.

I watch this impromptu mentorship circle form around Sage, feeling something profound and complicated settling in my chest like sediment in a glass of well-aged whiskey. This is what we do here - not just drink away our problems, but share the accumulated wisdom of our collective disasters in hopes that the next generation might make slightly more interesting mistakes.

Bubba's deep voice rumbles from his corner table, where he's been nursing a beer and observing the conversation with the kind of stoic intensity that comes from surviving decades of being different in places where different could get you killed. In south Georgia in the seventies, being myself was a death sentence disguised as a lifestyle choice. These days, kids got options I couldn't even dream of back then.

His words carry the weight of lived experience, the kind that comes from navigating hostile territory with nothing but determination and the occasional kindness of strangers. Sage turns toward him with the wide-eyed attention of someone hungry for any scrap of guidance that might help them navigate tomorrow's uncertainty.

But how do you know which risks are worth taking? Sage asks, their voice small but determined, fingers unconsciously folding a napkin corner into a perfect triangle.

Before Bubba can answer, Erik materializes from the men's room, his factory worker build and carefully cultivated masculine presentation a stark contrast to the vulnerability I can see lurking behind his eyes. He settles at the bar next to me, nodding to Miguel for his usual beer.

You don't, Erik says simply, his voice carrying the exhaustion of someone who spends eight hours a day surrounded by toxic masculinity while hiding his own truth. But the alternative is dying slowly while everyone else thinks you're living.

The brutal honesty of his statement hits the room like a sledgehammer wrapped in silk. I take another sip of my Maker's Mark, feeling the bourbon burn mix with something deeper and more complex - pride, fear, love, and the terrible responsibility of watching the people you care about make the same mistakes you made, just hopefully with better outcomes.

Della's voice cuts through from the kitchen, accompanied by the sound of sizzling that could wake the dead. Y'all are getting philosophical as fuck over there while I'm back here trying to keep this mac and cheese from becoming a goddamn science experiment!

That's because cooking IS science, Miguel calls back, their voice carrying the affectionate exasperation of someone married to a perfectionist who expresses love through precisely seasoned carbohydrates. Science with cheese and jalapeños.

Don't you start with me about science, you beautiful bastard, Della fires back, but there's laughter in her voice, the kind that comes from years of learning how to fight without drawing blood.

The exchange draws chuckles from around the room, the kind of comfortable laughter that comes from watching people you care about be disgustingly happy together. But it also serves as a reminder of what's possible when you find your people, when you create space for yourself to exist without constantly explaining or defending your right to breathe.

Phoenix appears at Sage's other side like a guardian angel made of purple hair and protective energy, the ruby ring River gave them catching the light as they place a supportive hand on Sage's shoulder. They've been watching the conversation with the intensity of someone who remembers their own recent terror about professional spaces.

Sometimes, Phoenix says softly, their voice carrying the wisdom of someone who's just survived what Sage is about to face, the most radical thing you can do is trust that your way of processing the world is exactly what some workplace needs, even if they don't know how to ask for it yet.

Their words hit Sage like a gentle slap, the kind that wakes you up without leaving marks. I watch understanding dawn across Sage's face, followed immediately by the particular brand of terror that comes with realizing you've been given permission to take up space in a world that's spent years convincing you to shrink.

But what if I fuck it up? Sage whispers, their voice carrying every insecurity I've ever felt about not being enough, not speaking up enough, not being worthy of the chances I've been given.

Keira's laugh cuts through the fear like a sword through morning mist. Honey, fucking up is part of the curriculum. The goal isn't perfection - it's showing up authentic and letting the chips fall where they may.

Easy for you to say, Sage mutters, but there's no real heat in it, just the reflexive defensiveness of someone who's been disappointed enough times to expect it.

Actually, it's not, Keira responds, her voice softening slightly. But that's what makes it worth saying. Easy advice is usually worthless advice.

I watch the conversation swirl around Sage like water finding its level, each voice adding another layer of support, another perspective, another way of looking at the same fundamental question: how do you trust yourself enough to let others see who you really are?

The answer, of course, is that you don't trust yourself - you trust the community you've built to catch you if you fall. You trust that the people who matter will see your authenticity as strength rather than weakness, and you trust that the people who don't aren't worth the energy it takes to perform for them.

Grubby, who's been listening with the intensity of someone cataloging every word for later analysis, finally speaks up. I've been thinking about what Ezra said earlier, about identity being how you move through the world. What if you don't know how you want to move yet? What if you're still figuring out which direction is forward?

The question hangs in the air like incense, heavy with the weight of someone who's spent years feeling invisible even to themselves. I feel something tighten in my chest, recognizing the particular brand of lost that comes from knowing who you're not without yet knowing who you are.

Eileen sets down her glass with the kind of decisive clink that suggests a decision has been made. Then you move anyway. You pick a direction that feels less wrong than the others and you start walking. The path reveals itself to people in motion, not to people standing still.

But what if I choose wrong? Grubby's voice carries the weight of someone who's been paralyzed by the fear of making the wrong choice, of committing to an identity that might not fit.

Julie's laugh is dry as desert wind and twice as honest. Honey, I chose wrong for forty years and I'm still here, drinking diet Coke with Irish whiskey and giving unsolicited advice to beautiful young people who remind me why I should have been braver when I was your age.

Her words carry the particular kind of wisdom that comes from surviving your own mistakes long enough to find humor in them. There's something both heartbreaking and hopeful about watching someone transform their regrets into guidance for others.

The music shifts to Flock of Seagull's "I Ran," and I feel my throat tighten with the memory of Gizmo at fourteen, belting out the lyrics from the passenger seat of my Honda Civic with the kind of unselfconscious joy that made me believe, that maybe I hadn't completely fucked up this whole parenting thing.

Mom? Sage's voice pulls me back to the present, where my bourbon has somehow diminished by half and the weight of everyone's expectations presses against my shoulders like a lead blanket made of love and terror.

Yeah, sweetheart? I utter.

How do you know when you're ready to stop hiding behind your coping mechanisms and start using them as professional skills?

The question hits me like a freight train made of every conversation I've ever had with myself at three in the morning, staring at the ceiling and wondering if the ways I've learned to survive might actually be valuable rather than shameful.

I take another sip of Maker's Mark, feeling the bourbon burn mix with something deeper and more complicated - the realization that mentorship isn't about having all the answers, it's about helping people reframe their questions until the answers become visible.

Hey Sage, I need to tell you something that happened recently with my job search...

So you know how I've been struggling to find work, right? Months of applications, maybe getting one interview for every twenty résumés I sent out. I'm fifty-three, I'm trans, and let's be fucking honest—the world isn't exactly rolling out red carpets for women like me. The silence after applications was deafening, and I started wondering if my deadname was still haunting some background check somewhere, or if my voice gave me away during phone screenings.

But then this tech firm called me in. The HR person, Sarah, seemed different from the start. During our meeting, she looked at my paperwork and said, So, I see that your email address is cutegirlie, and that your chosen name is Wen, and that when you stood up a second ago, your shirt said 'KEEP CALM AND LET WENDY HANDLE IT'—does this mean that you are called Wendy?

My heart fucking stopped. I answered yes, but I was terrified, Sage. I stopped for a second. That familiar ice-cold fear crept up my spine because I've been discriminated against before for being trans. The fear is viscerally real—it lives in my throat, makes my hands shake.

But Sarah the HR woman smiled and said she understood completely. Turns out, she's trans too. She became my advocate, telling me, I'm going to keep setting up interviews for you in different departments until we find you a place that gives you a job, because you do have value, Wendy. Each interview stage honored both my identity as a trans woman AND my decades in infosecurity and network security. They applauded my expertise while celebrating who I am. It was the first time in months I felt seen as both competent and authentically myself.

So you don't wait until you're ready, I finally answer, my voice carrying forty-three years of making it up as I go along. You start translating your survival skills into professional language and see what happens when you present them as capabilities instead of apologies.

Erik nods slowly, his beer forgotten as he processes words that probably hit closer to home than comfort allows. My wife keeps asking me when I'm going to stop being so 'intense' about everything and just relax into who I am. Like paying attention to every social cue is a character flaw instead of a skill that keeps me safe.

That's because she doesn't understand that hypervigilance isn't paranoia when you're actually living in hostile territory, Elaine says, her voice carrying the sharp edge of someone who's spent decades watching people pathologize survival skills. And what looks like anxiety in one context looks like exceptional pattern recognition in another.

The brutal honesty of her observation settles over the conversation like morning frost - beautiful and sharp enough to cut if you're not careful. I watch Sage process this, see the recognition dawn in their eyes followed immediately by the kind of hope that comes with understanding something you've been trying not to know.

Della emerges from the kitchen carrying a plate of her jalapeño mac and cheese that smells like comfort food designed by someone who understands that love and pain often use the same ingredients. She sets it in the center of our impromptu circle, her femme butch energy commanding attention without demanding it.

Y'all are getting heavy as fuck over there, she says, but her voice carries affection rather than criticism. Sometimes the best advice is to eat something that'll make you feel like your grandmother loves you, even if she doesn't know how to show it.

The offering of food shifts the energy slightly, transforming our philosophical debate into something more intimate and communal. Hands reach for shared sustenance while voices continue to weave stories of struggle and survival, creating the kind of connection that happens when people stop performing their strength and start sharing their uncertainty.

Sage takes a bite of mac and cheese and makes a sound that's half moan, half prayer. This is what love tastes like when it doesn't need you to be different.

Exactly, Della says, settling next to Miguel behind the bar with the easy intimacy of people who've learned how to love each other's sharp edges. Love that wants to change you isn't love - it's renovation with feelings attached.

The wisdom in her words hits me like bourbon on an empty stomach - immediate, warming, and slightly disorienting in its accuracy. I think about Gizmo, about the space between us that feels like a chasm made of good intentions and missed connections, about how desperately I want to bridge that gap without losing the person I've fought so hard to become.

The hardest part about being someone's mentor, I hear myself saying, my voice carrying thoughts I didn't know I was having, is learning when to share your scars and when to shut the fuck up and let them earn their own.

Phoenix looks up from where they've been quietly supporting Sage, their eyes reflecting the kind of understanding that comes from recent experience. But how do you know the difference?

You don't, Bubba says, his deep voice carrying the weight of someone who's made both mistakes more times than he cares to count. You just try to err on the side of love instead of control, and hope that's enough.

The conversation continues to spiral and flow like smoke from Della's kitchen, touching on everything from chosen family dynamics to the particular challenges of being authentic in spaces that weren't designed for people like us. But underneath all the words, there's something deeper happening - the slow, careful construction of trust between people who've learned to be suspicious of easy answers and quick fixes.

I watch Sage absorb every word like someone dying of thirst being offered water, see their usually guarded expression soften as they realize they're not the only one struggling with questions that don't have clean answers. This is what community looks like when it's not performing itself for an audience - messy, honest, and absolutely essential for survival.

The music shifts to Queen's "Innuendo," and again I'm transported to afternoons with Gizmo, watching her discover Freddie Mercury's voice like it was a revelation delivered personally from the gods of authentic self-expression. The memory makes my eyes water in a way that has nothing to do with the bourbon and everything to do with the particular grief of watching someone you love grow beyond your ability to protect them.

Mom, you okay? Miguel's voice cuts through my reverie, their concern evident in the way they refill my glass without being asked.

Yeah, sweetheart. Just remembering when Gizmo was young enough to think I had all the answers instead of just really good questions.

The mention of my daughter creates a ripple of understanding through our small circle. Everyone here knows the particular pain of complicated family relationships, the way love and distance can coexist in the same heart like bourbon and regret.

She'll come back, Sage says softly, their voice carrying the kind of certainty that only comes from someone who understands the complexity of family relationships. Maybe not the way you expect, but she'll come back. People always come back to love that doesn't try to fix them.

The wisdom in their words hits me like a slap made of hope and terror. Because they're right, of course, but coming back doesn't always look like reconciliation, and love doesn't always look like proximity.

As the evening winds toward its natural conclusion, I find myself looking at Sage with something approaching maternal pride - not because I've solved their problems, but because I've watched them reframe their relationship to their own experience in ways that open new possibilities.

Sage, the napkin art you create while everyone else is talking? That's not hiding. That's processing. That's taking complex information and transforming it into something beautiful and coherent. That's a professional skill disguised as a coping mechanism.

They look down at their creation with new eyes, seeing perhaps for the first time that their adaptive behaviors might actually be evidence of capabilities rather than symptoms of inadequacy.

And the way you listen, really listen, to what people are saying underneath what they're saying? That's analysis. That's pattern recognition. That's the kind of skill that makes people successful in any field that requires understanding human systems.

The recognition dawns across their face like sunrise - slow, then sudden, then impossible to unsee.

I've been thinking about my survival skills as things to overcome instead of things to translate.

Their words carry the particular amazement of someone discovering they've been carrying treasure while thinking it was baggage.

Exactly. And maybe your next step isn't figuring out how to be someone different. Maybe it's figuring out how to articulate the value of who you already are in language that professional contexts can understand.

As people begin to gather their things and say their goodbyes, Sage approaches me one more time, their napkin art carefully folded and tucked into their pocket like a talisman.

Mom, thank you. For sharing your story, for helping me see that invisible doesn't mean worthless, and that the skills we develop surviving marginalization might actually be exactly what some workplaces need, even if they don't know how to ask for them yet. Your interview experience... it gives me hope that maybe there's a Sarah out there for me too.

I pull them into a hug that smells like possibility mixed with determination and just a hint of Della's jalapeño mac and cheese, feeling the particular satisfaction that comes from watching someone discover their own value rather than having it assigned by others.

That's what family does, sweetheart. We share our scars so you know the wounds are survivable, and we help each other see ourselves clearly enough to show up authentically. Your Sarah might look different than mine, but they're out there.

As the last patron leaves and Miguel begins the ritual of closing down the bar, I find myself thinking about the strange alchemy of mentorship - how sharing your failures can sometimes be more valuable than sharing your successes, how the best guidance often comes not from having found the right path, but from having survived taking the wrong one long enough to help others avoid the same potholes.

The Sanctuary settles into its after-hours quiet, the kind of silence that's full rather than empty, pregnant with the conversations that will happen tomorrow and the relationships that will continue to deepen and evolve. This is what legacy looks like when it's built from love instead of obligation - not perfect wisdom handed down from on high, but imperfect humans sharing their imperfect truths with other imperfect humans who need to know they're not alone in their imperfection.

I finish my bourbon and head toward the exit, feeling the weight of the day transform into something manageable, something purposeful. Tomorrow Sage will face their job interview, Grubby will take another small step toward self-acceptance, and Erik will continue navigating the complicated terrain of being authentically himself in spaces that weren't designed for authenticity.

And I'll be here, ready to pour another drink and offer another imperfect piece of hard-won wisdom to anyone brave enough to ask for it. Because that's what mothers do - not just the biological kind, but the chosen kind, the community kind, the kind that shows up with bourbon and honesty when life gets too heavy to carry alone.

"The only way to make sense out of change is to plunge into it, move with it, and join the dance." - Alan Watts

This ancient wisdom captures the essence of mentorship within our queer community - not as rigid instruction passed from elder to youth, but as the shared courage to move through uncertainty together. Watts understood that wisdom isn't about having all the answers, but about embracing the questions with enough grace to help others find their own rhythm in the dance of becoming. In our basement sanctuary, we don't teach people how to live their truths; we simply show them it's possible to keep dancing even when the music changes, and that the best mentorship happens when we're all brave enough to admit we're making it up as we go along, together.