The basement lights hummed low, amberâtinted, as the old brick walls drank the nightâs chill. Miguel slid a glass of smoky bourbon across the reclaimed oak bar, the amber liquid catching the ceilingâs white glare like a molten sun trapped in a bottle. He tipped the glass toward Wendy, his sultryâchildlike tone slipping over the clink of ice.
Hereâs your firewater, Mom. One more to keep the thoughts from freezing over.
The bourbon burned a slow, honeyed path down my throat, the oakâspice and caramelâvanilla swirling with the memory of a thousand lateânight fights against a world that refused to name us. I tried to let the heat settle, feeling the familiar weight of the title âMomâ settle on my shoulders like a badge forged in steel.
The speakers cracked to life, Rushâs âSpirit of Radioâ thundering through the refurbished sound system. The riff sliced the air, and for a heartbeat I imagined the bar as a battlefield, the patrons as soldiers of a cause no one wanted to admit existed.
Ezra lounged in the beanbag, blue hair catching the strobe of the stage lights, eyes bright with mischief.
Did you hear? The FBI just filed a memoââDomestic Terrorist Designation for Trans Communities.â They think weâre a threat because we exist.
A collective gasp rose from the table. Della, apron dusted with flour from the kitchen, slammed a wooden spoon against the counter, the clang echoing like a gavel.
They can label us whatever they want, but they canât erase the blood weâve bled into these walls.
Keira, perched on the worn couch, folded her arms, the scar of a past argument etched in the lines of her jaw.
Labeling us âterroristsâ is just another way to keep us locked in the closet of fear. We need a plan, not panic.
Miguel poured another round, this time a dark, viscous brandy that glistened like oil on water. He set it before Wendy, the glass trembling slightly in his hand.
You want to talk strategy, Mom? Letâs make it a cocktail of truth and rebellion.
Miguel, ever the bartenderâstrategist, pulled a stack of flyers from under the bar. They were printed on recycled paper, each bearing a stylized phoenix rising from flamesâa symbol the bar had adopted after the 2023 fire that nearly destroyed the basement. He handed one to Brandon.
Distribute these at the community centers, the LGBTQ+ health clinics, the university queer groups. Tag them #SanctuaryNotTerror.
Brandon took the flyer, eyes scanning the bold red typeface.
Got it. Iâll also post a thread on r/TransRights. We need the internet to see us as people, not as a threat.
Sarah stood, notebook now a thick dossier.
Iâll draft a petition to the ACLU, demand a judicial review of the FBIâs designation. Weâll cite the First Amendment, the Equal Protection Clause, and the recent Ninth Circuit ruling that âgovernment labeling of a protected class as terrorist without evidence is unconstitutional.â
Renee, never one for paperwork, slammed her palm on the bar.
And Iâll coordinate with the local bar ownersâ association. If they see us as a unified front, the FBI canât pick us off one by one.
Keira, ever the bridge between theory and practice, added:
Weâll also host a âKnow Your Rightsâ night next week. Iâll invite a civilârights lawyerâmaybe from the ACLUâso anyone who gets a subpoena knows exactly what to say. No one walks into a raid blind.
Ezra, who had been silently sipping his drink, finally spoke, voice dripping with sardonic humor.
And Iâll set up an encrypted Signal chat groups. SECURE Chat only. Weâll have channels for legal aid, medical support, and a meme boardâbecause if we canât laugh, weâll die.
The barâs old jukebox, newly refurbished, flickered to David Bowieâs âHeroes.â The lyric âWe can be heroes, just for one dayâ seemed to echo the resolve humming through the room.
The conversation swelled, each voice a different instrument in a discordant symphony.
Miguel nodded, his eyes flicking to the glass in his hand, the amber liquid catching the light like a warning sign.
And we keep the bar open. This place is a shield. If the FBI wants to storm us, theyâll have to wade through the smell of Dellaâs shakshuka and the sound of our laughter.
The bass of The Clashâs âLondon Callingâ surged, the opening chords a rallying cry. Wendy felt the rhythm pulse through her bones, a reminder that resistance was as much a beat as a belief.
Weâll also flood the narrative, Keira added, voice low but fierce, social media storms, podcasts, art installations. Show them weâre not a monolith of terror, but a mosaic of humanity.
Della turned, a skillet sizzling with a new dishâspicy chorizoâladen paellaâher eyes bright.
Food is politics, too. Every plate we serve is a statement: weâre alive, weâre thriving, weâre feeding each other while they try to starve us of identity.
The conversation spiraled, each suggestion a blade sharpened on the stone of shared experience. Yet beneath the tactical chatter, a softer current ranâPhoenix, hunched in the corner, fingers tracing the ruby ring on their finger, eyes clouded with the memory of a mother who still saw them as a mistake.
While the adults plotted against the federal leviathan, Phoenix sat on the edge of the stage, knees pulled up, the ruby ring glinting in the low light. Their motherâs text sat on their phone, a digital breadcrumb leading into unknown territory.
Renee slid over, her towering presence a protective wall.
Phoenix, you asked for help with your mom earlier. Thatâs still on the table, right?
Phoenix swallowed, voice barely a whisper.
She⌠she sent me a text. Said sheâs reading Baldwin now. I donât know if thatâs progress or a trap.
Renee knelt beside them, her massive frame a comforting wall.
Tell me exactly what she wrote.
Phoenix read the message aloud, voice trembling.
âIâm reading James Baldwin. Iâm trying to understand. I love you.â
Reneeâs eyes softened.
Thatâs a start. Baldwinâs work is raw, unapologetic. Itâs the kind of truth that can cut through the fog of denial.
Sarah pulled a battered copy of âThe Fire Next Timeâ from her bag, laying it on the table.
Give her this. Not as a gift, but as a bridge. Write a note on the inside cover: âMom, this is where I first heard the word âloveâ spoken without fear.â
Leaning in, Sarah tapped her pen against the notebook.
Baldwin is a bridge. He writes about the black experience, but his language of love and anger can translate to any oppressed soul. Use that as a foothold.
Brandon smiled, a crooked grin that hid a thousand sleepless nights.
Write her a letter. Not a manifesto, but a postcard of your feelings. Tell her what you needârespect, space, acknowledgment. Keep it short, honest, and end with an invitation to meet in a neutral spaceâmaybe here, at the bar, where you both feel safe.
Reneeâs voice softened, surprising the room with its tenderness.
And set boundaries. If she tries to pull you back into the old roles, you have the right to step away. Youâre not responsible for fixing her past, only for protecting your future.
Phoenix nodded, the first spark of agency flickering.
What about the conversation? Iâm terrified sheâll swing back to the old scriptââyouâre a sinner, you need to repent.â
Keira placed a hand on Phoenixâs shoulder, her grip firm but gentle.
If she brings up religion as a weapon, you politely redirect: âIâm here to hear your humanity, not your doctrine.â If she respects that, you move forward. If not, you step back. You control the pace.
Miguel, polishing the bar top, chimed in.
And remember, youâre not alone. Weâre all here. If she shows up, weâll have a seat at the bar for her, a glass of water, and a listening ear. No judgment, just presence.
Phoenix inhaled deeply, the scent of Dellaâs paella mingling with the bourbon fumes.
Okay. Iâll write the note, send her the book, and ask her to come here tomorrow night. Della can we make something nice, with an old Korean flair?
Della laughed pungently, You are asking me if I can cook something? You know what my skills are like shithead. Ill make whatever needs making to have feelings be right. You want the bibimbap, with the tofu and the gochugang?
Immediately Phoenix eyes lit up like they were on fire, with what looked like tears, That would be perfect Della. Perfecter than Perfect.
Renee squeezed Phoenixâs hand.
Thatâs bravery, kid. Youâre turning a possible weapon into a shared meal. Thatâs how revolutions happenâone bite at a time. Della sparked.
Miguel poured a final drink, a neat pour of Hennessy, the dark gold catching the low light like a promise.
Hereâs to the fight we didnât ask for, and the love we chose to keep. Wendy kept preaching
The speakers shifted to Gabrielsâs âGames Without Frontiers,â the melancholy sound began lacing the air. Wendy felt a tear slip down her cheek, not from sorrow but from the fierce pride of watching her chosen family arm themselves with words and wills.
Weâre not terrorists, she said, voice steady, weâre survivors. And survivors donât surrender to labels.
The night stretched, the conversation ebbing and flowing like the tide against the barâs concrete foundation. As the last chord faded, Miguel cleared the glasses, his movements graceful despite the weight of the world pressing on his shoulders.
Remember, he whispered, leaning close enough that only Wendy could hear, the only thing the FBI can truly control is the paperwork. Our hearts, our stories, theyâre untouchable.
Wendy looked around the roomâEzraâs blue hair a halo, Dellaâs apron stained with the colors of the night, Keiraâs steady gaze, Brandonâs notebook brimming with plans, Sarahâs pen poised for the next legal argument, Reneeâs arms crossed protectively over Phoenix. In that moment, the sanctuary felt less like a basement and more like a battleground where love was the ammunition.
The speakers pivoted to Midnight Oilâs âTruganini,â plays melodically now. Wendy and Gizmo had once screamed the chorus at the wheel of Wendyâs car, the words a promise that even when the world tried to rewrite us, we could still sing our own verses.
Weâll keep singing, she murmured, even if the world tries to rewrite the lyrics.
The speakers shifted to Pink Floydâs âOn The Turning Away,â Gilmourâs mournful wail wrapping the room in a blanket of melancholy and resolve. Wendy felt the weight of every word spoken that night settle into her bones like a promise.
She rose, glass in hand, the bourbon now a molten ember at the base of her throat.
Listen up, family. The FBI may try to paint us as monsters, but we know who we are. We are the people who keep each other fed, who stitch each otherâs wounds, who turn theory into action, who turn pain into poetry. Tonight weâve mapped out a battle plan, but we also reminded each other how to love. I wonât let one of you go hungry, lost, or hurt. I swear it.
Miguel raised his own glass, eyes shining.
The crowd echoed, glasses clinking, a chorus of AC/DCâs âHeatseekerâ ripping through the speakers, the electric guitars a perfect soundtrack for defiance.
Getting ready to rock
Getting ready to roll
I'm gonna turn up the heat
I'm gonna fire up the coal
âThe only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men and women to do nothing.â â EdmundâŻBurke
In a world that seeks to brand us as threats, our silence is the loudest weapon they wield. By speaking, acting, and protecting each other, we turn that weapon against its maker.
When the last note faded, the bar was quiet except for the soft hum of the refrigerator and the faint ticking of the clock above the stage. Wendy lingered at the bar, watching the amber liquid swirl in her glass, reflecting the flickering neon sign that read âSANCTUARY.â
She thought of the FBI memo, the looming threat, the letters to be mailed, the petitions to be filed, the Signal chat buzzing with encrypted chatter. She thought of Phoenixâs mother, the Baldwin book, the paella waiting to be served, the ruby ring glinting with hope.
We are not terror. We are testimony. And testimony, when spoken together, becomes a roar that no agency can silence. Wendy thought to herself.
The night slipped into early morning, the first pale rays of sunrise seeping through the narrow alley door, painting the rainbow sticker with a wash of gold. Inside, the sanctuary breathed, alive with the echo of voices that refused to be labeled, and with the quiet certainty that loveâvisceral, scathing, and unyieldingâwould always be their greatest weapon.
Oh, you sweet thing!