The founder of a popular New York City LGBTQ+ book clubs talks queer literature, book clubs, and what she’s reading this summer for Pride Month.
“It’s so important for everyone to be reading queer books by queer authors,” Joey Lobel said. Envato/Cage Rivera/Rewire News Group
In late 2022, Joey Lobel was frustrated.
An avid reader, Lobel, a 31-year-old butcher in Brooklyn, was struggling to find queer books that didn’t have sad endings.
“I went on a little spiral and I thought, I’m sure other people are feeling the same way,” she said.
So Lobel decided to make a queer book club page on the social networking website Meetup, hoping to build community around LGBTQ+ reads. She wasn’t sure if people would show up. But “worst case scenario,” she recalled thinking, “I’m sitting at a bar with a book, which is completely fine.”
But people did show up. And in the nearly four years since the Queer Book Club started, Lobel’s book club has become a staple in New York City’s LGBTQ+ community—with monthly meetups at the Brooklyn bar Young Ethel’s and an average of between 15 and 30 participants. The book club’s one-off events, like book swaps, are popular and see upward of 60 attendees.
As summer gets underway, Lobel spoke to Rewire News Group about the importance of LGBTQ+ literature, generating a top-notch list of reads for Pride Month, and building community through books.
The following conversation has been edited for length and clarity.
What makes a book queer?
A book is queer if it’s written for queer people by queer people. There are so many books out there that have zero queer characters, or one passing queer character. And to me, that’s not necessarily considered a queer book. But any book written for us, with us in mind, I want to read.
Do you have an all-time favorite queer book or queer character?
That’s so hard. My all-time favorite queer book is In The Dream House by Carmen Maria Machado. … I read a lot of books. And a lot of times, I sort of forget immediately. Like, you’re out of that world and you’re back in your world, and you forget what happened. But In the Dream House has always stuck with me.
Is queer literature for everyone?
I definitely believe queer literature is for everyone. You can learn from anyone. You can be entertained by anyone. And it’s important that we’re able to look at viewpoints other than our own. The amount of straight books that I’ve read in my life that I’ve enjoyed is vast. I just feel like it’s so important for everyone to be reading queer books by queer authors.
And to remind publishers that queer authors are authors people want to read.
There’s such a big audience out there. There are so many queer shows right now being canceled. There are such audiences for them, and they’re still being cancelled. We have to support queer media. And straight people have to support queer media. It’s enjoyable for everyone.
How do you approach building a queer summer reading list?
The reason I love the book club for figuring out what you’re going to read is that I’m always reading books that I would never choose on my own. If it was up to me, we’d be reading cute little rom-coms where everyone falls in love at the end. I love those, and there’s definitely space in my reading list for those—a big, big chunk of space.
I also like being able to read books that other people recommend to me. I look at a lot of Instagram recommendations.
There’s just so many books out there, it’s hard to choose. I also read so much more in the summer. So I try and hoard all of the books that I want to read until it gets warm. And then I’m outside just reading all day.
Speaking of, what are three books on your summer reading list?
I read this book previously, and I definitely want to reread it. It was incredible. It’s called Fracine’s Spectacular Crash and Burn by Renee Swindle. It’s so good. It’s about a young woman who loses her mom. And there’s a really interesting relationship dynamic in there with her mom who has passed, and with this young boy that she meets that she’s protecting, and someone that she starts dating. There’s so many layers to it that I want to reread it, because I know I’m going to get more of it the second time.
Right now, I’m reading Nevada by Imogen Binnie. That’s June’s book club pick. I’m halfway through, and it’s a really great book. It’s so different from the way that I see the world. From this character’s perspective, it’s a little darker and a little chaotic—more chaotic than I’m used to—which I think makes for an interesting dynamic to read about.
I also want to read Mac Crane’s new book, A Sharp Endless Need. Their last book, I Keep My Exoskeletons To Myself, was hauntingly beautiful—and not something I would gravitate toward because it’s not the rom-com, two girls falling in love. But we read it for book club and I was entranced. And that’s why I’m so glad that I get to read books that aren’t just my normal go-tos.
But one that is my normal go-to, which I haven’t read yet, is Puck by Samantha Allen. It’s been pitched to me as a Midsummer Night’s Dream spinoff with reality TV. And I’m already invested.
What advice do you have for people who are unsure about whether book clubs are for them?
There’s a lot of reasons why people might be a little nervous to join a book club. I was worried that I would have to always public speak, which is a little tough when you’re not feeling up to it. I was also worried that it would be tough finishing a book on a timeline—it does remind me a little bit of school, in that way. (Editor’s note: Lobel’s club has a rule that not finishing the monthly book is totally fine, so long as you’re “fine with spoilers.”)
But book clubs are very welcoming. You can just go in, and talk to people.
What’s the worst that can happen? You’re surrounded by other queer people who love books.
When approaching recent historical events, where the scope of destruction and loss can be unfathomable in scale, oral history can bring both connection and immediacy through individual stories of loss, grief, rescue, or triumph that would otherwise disappear in the grand sweep of “Great Men and their Deeds.”
[T]he method enables the documentation of certain aspects of historical experience that are often missing from other kinds of historical sources. Oral historians not only interview and engage in conversation with living sources, they also find themselves challenged in a unique way—the historian is transformed into a protagonist in the dialogue. Oral history is perhaps the only field where the sources talk back to the historian, confronting, disputing, disrupting, and sometimes resisting the historian’s understanding of the past (Frisch 1990; Shopes 2012). Oral history works with the interviewee as a partner in dialogue and the verbal form historical truth can take is always co-constructed (Cook and Goodall 2013; Goodall and Cadzow 2009; Portelli 1991).
Some of the most effective (and affecting) projects using this approach concern communities that may be far outside of the audience’s experience, whether due to time, geography, or identity. Works like Shoah by Claude Lanzmann, Hard Times by Studs Terkel, and Boots of Leather, Slippers of Gold by Elizabeth Lapovsky Kennedy document their subjects through the voices of those who lived through specific moments and events that can be overwhelming or remain unknown without a more interpersonal method.
“Many of the best works about this disease have been produced by people at various stages of HIV infection.”
The history of the HIV/AIDS epidemic has recently become the subject of numerous oral history projects, where the stories of survivors, caregivers, activists, and health care professionals have been collected and made available online, traditionally published, and edited into documentaries.
One such collection, Visual Arts and the AIDS Epidemic, was begun in 2015 by the Smithsonian Archives of American Art after receiving a grant from The Keith Haring Foundation. Haring founded the foundation in 1989, a year before his death from HIV-related illness, to maintain his artistic and philanthropic legacy. The project interviewed forty artists about their lives, their work, and how the AIDS crisis intersected and permeated both.
The interviews in the Visual Arts and the AIDS Epidemic collection cover wide ranges of personal and creative history, ranging from insider gossip and “name-dropping” to theoretical discussions of method and art history. They benefit from interviewers who bring their own experience as artists, art scholars, and historians to the conversation, with questions and insights that make this collection a rich multifaceted history of AIDS, the arts, and activism.
as if the artist were immersed in dealing with the epidemic—as so many are. Many of the best works about this disease have been produced by people at various stages of HIV infection. Perhaps they have lost a lover, nursed a dear friend, or attended a dozen funerals at a young age, and feel themselves to be, in every sense, set apart by the experience. They are implicated. Their art signifies a collective trauma—mass death in the midst of life.
Reveal Digital, an initiative “to amplify important, long-overlooked voices of the twentieth century,” has made these histories, and more, available in their developing open access collection HIV, AIDS and the Arts.
Artists in The Early Years of the Epidemic
“I still can’t believe—I still don’t believe that AIDS even existed and wiped out our community in the ’80s, just wiped off our community from the history. It’s unbelievable to me. Everybody who held my—who carried my history is dead.” —Nan Goldin
One year later, William F. Buckley published a New York Times op-ed calling for HIV-positive people to be tattooed on the upper arm and buttocks to protect others (assuming that would protect both future sexual partners and intravenous drug users who might share needles). News reports about the disease largely focused on fear of contagion, the promiscuity and danger of gay men, and the threat of HIV to “normal” Americans.
In the interviews gathered in the Visual Arts and the AIDS Epidemic collection, artists describe how they first became aware of AIDS: from a loved one diagnosed after an illness; from hearing of a friend’s passing after not seeing them for a while; from a doctor telling them to stay with a partner because “there’s something going around”; or by learning of their own diagnosis. Friends were lost to the disease, and surviving family members denied the illness or sometimes actively excluded partners from funerals.
Sur Rodney (Sur), a New York City-based writer, gallery co-director, and archivist, relates that the late artist David Wojnarowicz would go to his local bodega in New York City where the clerks returned his change in a paper bag, out of fear. He describes his own anxieties when stepping in after a friend’s death to help save and archive their artworks and collections so they wouldn’t be destroyed (before there were nonprofit organizations to do so).
These personal experiences unfolded within the larger context of governmental indifference, active discrimination against people with the disease (or belonging to groups that were deemed “at risk”), and a growing consciousness of the political landscape of the epidemic. Robert Vasquez-Pacheco, a member of ACT UP and Gran Fury, recounts,
as I was becoming more and more politically aware, I became more and more pissed off, you know, because I was seeing. I was beginning to understand how women were being treated. I had an understanding, a firsthand understanding, of how people of color are treated, you know, because I knew that. But then I started to understand the institutional stuff and all of that, and consequently, as a gay man. So I started to put all of this stuff together and I was just super pissed off.
Some version of this process, repeated for many of the subjects, led people to activism, whether through art, volunteer work, protest, or sometimes all three. Nancy Brooks Brody (1962-2023), a visual artist and member of the fierce pussy collective, describes the progression in her interview.“Because when people were dying,” she explains,
we just kept going. […] You went to a funeral, and then you were out on the streets. Or you were at a meeting, and then you went to a hospital to take care of someone and feed them. Feed someone’s cats, walk their dog, help someone move. You know? These things just—we didn’t have any—I didn’t have any room or perspective on it. It was just what was happening.
The meetings she, and others, refer to were those of ACT UP New York (The AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power), which began in 1987 at a community meeting where Larry Kramer asked, “How long does it take before you get angry and fight back?” Kramer, a playwright and essayist who had been covering AIDS since the beginning through journalism, had co-founded the non-profit Gay Men’s Health Crisis in 1982. His play The Normal Heart, an impassioned call to action, spurred members of the audience to meet and subsequently take part in one of the most significant and effective activist movements of the twentieth century.
Creating Art in an Epidemic
The artistic works of those interviewed are diverse, both in media and approach: photographing people living with AIDS, using détournement to turn existing works into calls to action via graphic design, or using their body to confront audiences with the existence of the disease through performance. In some cases, their illness became an essential component of their art: John Dugdale, a former commercial photographer, began using nineteenth-century methods to capture and produce his work after HIV-related retinitis and a stroke left his sight significantly impaired. Ron Athey, one of the NEA Four, used his own HIV-positive body to create work exploring sex, trauma, and desire. The place of the artist within (or outside) a community could become a contentious issue, especially at a time when representation of people with AIDS was so fraught.
Rosalind Fox Solomon, whose 1988 show Portraits in the Time of AIDS featured photographs of the subject alone or with loved ones, some with visible lesions or in the hospital, relates that her project was critically panned and called “exploitative” at the time.
Some of the most vibrant, and now iconic, images of AIDS were created as (and for) protest: Silence = Death, the work of the Silence = Death Collective (and not ACT UP, as Avram Finkelstein relates in his interview) became the primary pictorial representation of ACT UP and a rallying slogan for the fight against the disease. Keith Haring did his own take on it for a poster, adding “Ignorance = Fear” to a “See No Evil, Hear No Evil, Speak No Evil” scene.
Collectives like Gran Fury and fierce pussy, which organized inside the ACT UP activist group, created posters for wheat-pasting that served as art, education, and calls to action around AIDS, homophobia, health care, and visibility. Whether newsprint works of text, guerrilla-installed bus station “ads,” or rolls of stickers of bloody hands announcing “One AIDS Death Every 10 Minutes,” the art of AIDS activism used any means available to communicate the urgency of the crisis.
The Visual Arts and the AIDS Epidemic collection demonstrates the power of oral history to preserve not just historical events, but what it felt like to live in the moment and survive it when so many people did not. Together with Reveal Digital’s HIV, AIDS, and the Arts archive, the collection ensures that these voices, experiences, and creative histories continue to be available to inform and educate future generations.
As I have written about before I had to remove hate from my system. Because of what I experienced growing up and the toxic nature of those I was raised by / around I developed a deep anger building to intense hate. It was consuming me as I had no outlet for that poison it was ruining the being I was / could be. I saw Ron starting to pull away from me as he saw the effects of my inner struggle with hate even as he did not know why I had such deep emotions and intense reactions. I had a choice. I could go with the hate, give into it and make it all I was. That would make me like those I grew up with. Or I could excise it, leave it behind, look for and crave something far different that might be like cold water on blistered skin. A balm to help me heal and to build the person I wanted to be, not that they wanted me to be. I went from the “slave” name they called me to being Scottie. It was not easy, it still is not. I am not and never will be perfect. I struggle not to be easily angered, to look for the good in others, to not to imagine faults. But by making those first steps I was able to keep Ron and he guided me forward not even understanding he was doing it. Happy hugs. Scottie
I’m still working on “The Forsytes,” and eagerly anticipating beginning my niece’s book, “Reven Across Golden Skies”, but today I bought a book called “When Women Were Dragons,” and I’m really looking forward to that one, too. I might have to start a second book before finishing “The Forsytes” … Anyway, if you’re looking for something, the Smart Ones have a list for June:
Happy Pride Month, one and all! As usual, June is packed to the gills with queer romance, so selecting just five titles felt a nigh impossible task. While I’ve done it, I definitely encourage you to seek out the many more excellent-looking books gracing shelves this month and support as many queer creators as possible!
From the author of I’ll Get Back To You, a sapphic enemies-to-lovers romance that follows a Type-A maid of honor setting out to do the most and a Type-B bridesmaid with her life only just put-together, who must put aside their animosity to plan the wedding of the summer
On the surface, Alice has her life together. She’s got a job in music she loves; she’s firmly sober; and she’s grateful to be back in the good graces of her ex-girlfriend-once-best-friend-now-literal-only-friend Gin. Just in time, too, because Gin’s getting married this summer! And Alice gets to be a bridesmaid.
If only the maid-of-honor wasn’t Renee Type-A, the opposite of her in every way, and a long-time Alice-hater who’s clung to her animosity like a leech. Every second Alice spends around Renee makes her feel like who she used to be, rather than the person she’s spent years trying to make herself into—and she doesn’t want to be reminded of her younger self any more than she wants to be thinking, more constantly than she wants to admit, about her hair, her lips, her wit…. No, Alice has her own stuff to figure out. She still loves music, but her career feels directionless. She’s grieving the loss of her father just a year ago, to alcohol. And then she finds out that her mother’s started to date her father’s ex-bandmate, which sends her reeling…and with the wedding just around the corner, she doesn’t want to bother Gin about any of it.
It’s pure chance that Renee runs into Alice, just when she needs someone the most—and suddenly, everything shifts. Neither of them are what they assumed the other to be. Over the days and nights they’re spending helping Gin throw a DIY summer wedding of epic proportions, Alice and Renee discover that though they have nothing in common—that might be precisely what each of them need. Heartfelt and hopeful, For the Bride is a banter-filled sapphic romance with deep emotional resonance about found family, second chances, and finding love in the unexpected.
Grischow’s sophomore romance revolves around bridal party hijinks, which is already one of my all-time favorite tropes, but this one gave me alllll the feels. Protagonist Alice is still grieving not just the loss of her father but his seeming unwillingness to even try to live for her, and while she herself has reformed from her hard-partying ways, she’s grappling with the visions and memories of her other people can’t seem to shake. It’s a really lovely coming-of-age story alongside a chemistry-filled opposites attract romance, and one of my favorite romantic reads of the year so far. (snip-ordering info on the page)
Love evens the score between two tennis players in this stunning debut romance.
Recently-turned-pro tennis player Austin Hardy has been out since high school and it’s never been a big deal. That is, until he becomes the first openly gay man to compete in a Grand Slam tournament. Suddenly, being gay is a huge deal, with headlines to prove it.
Unprepared for this new spotlight, Austin’s anxiety disorder hits a breaking point, and he trips and falls at practice. Right next to the very attractive, very talented, and probably straight Diego Cruz, ranked second in the world.
The two professional rivals start a friendship off the court. But between their flirty banter, mixed signals, and looming showdown, Austin is thrown further off his game by Diego.
With the eyes of the world on Austin, the weight of history on his shoulders, and Diego across the net, he must decide whether love means nothing or if it means everything as he battles for the trophy during an electric two weeks at the US Open.
Look, I know everyone’s tired of “If you love Heated Rivalry, check out X,” but hear me out. Sports Romance. Rivals. Secretly getting to know each other and developing a physical attraction. Professional athletes of significant talent facing each other in a major competition. This is a debut that’s earned its comp to the series of the moment while also very much being its own thing, starring an already out tennis player who’s quickly rising in the ranks and being spread out over the considerably shorter time span of the US Open. I was a fan of this one from chapter one, and I’ll definitely be picking up whatever Schmit puts out next. (snip-ordering info on the page, plus More Books!)
A group of Black Skimmers in flight resembles an aerial ballet, circling, banking, and gracefully alighting as one. Although taxonomists place this unique, long-winged waterbird in a separate genus, it’s closely related to gulls and terns.
The Black Skimmer’s most striking feature is its gaudy red-and-black bill: Both jaws are long and narrow like a knife blade, with the lower jutting out well beyond the upper. Its unique appearance lends the Black Skimmer a number of evocative folk names, including Scissor-bill, Cutwater (Cortagua or Corta-agua in South America), and Seadog (after its calls, often compared to dog barks).
This odd bill is what affords these birds their distinctive foraging style, and the name “skimmer.” A feeding skimmer flies low over the water with its beak open and lower mandible partially submerged. Where a broader bill would send a continuous spray of seawater straight down the throat of another species, the uniquely narrow mandible of the skimmer cuts through the water like a fin. When the extended lower mandible touches prey, such as a small fish, the bill’s upper mandible snaps down, securing the bird’s meal.
Another remarkable feature of the Black Skimmer is its eyes, which have large pupils that can narrow to vertical slits, like a cat’s pupils. This adaptation compensates for glare off the water’s surface and may enhance the bird’s vision as it hunts in dim light or at night.
Threats
According to the North American Breeding Bird Survey, Black Skimmers have declined in the United States by almost 90 percent since 1966. This is largely due to habitat loss and human disturbance at nesting colonies. These birds are also affected by oil spills and chemical pollution in coastal waters, and may face additional threats during the breeding season with climate change as sea levels continue to rise. (snip-MORE)
Life has been happening here with me this couple of weeks, and I have a few things I’ve picked up here and there to post when I’m busy. Most of this is positive, because why not?
Hey-today is World Environment Day! Let’s be proud to care for our home; we all get overheated.
June 5, [since 1972]
World Environment Day was established by the U.N. General Assembly to commemorate the opening of the Stockholm Conference on the Human Environment in Sweden. The United Nations Environment Program (UNEP) was established as a result of the conference.
UNEP’s mission: To provide leadership and encourage partnership in caring for the environment by inspiring, informing, and enabling nations and peoples to improve their quality of life without compromising that of future generations.
After a three-year push, Hawai’i officially has implemented a shield law to explicitly protect providers and patients of gender-affirming care for the trans community.
House Bill 1875, also known as Act 059, was signed by Governor Josh Green—himself a physician—late last week. The bill explicitly adds gender-affirming care to its existing shield law, which broadly covered reproductive health, and established safeguards from “abusive litigation” coming from outside states.
Shield laws create “legal protections for patients, health care providers, and people assisting in the provision of certain health care in states where that care is legal from the reach of states with civil, criminal, and professional consequences related to that care,” according to the Center for Reproductive Health, Law and Policy at UCLA. For example, it means Hawai’i state actors may not aid out-of-state attacks—such as, say, through the extradition of health care providers—over lawful care rendered in Hawai’i.
“The legislature finds that the people of Hawai’i have a long tradition of protecting an individual’s right to privacy and bodily autonomy independently of, and more broadly than, the United States Constitution,” the bill reads. It emphasized that the right to privacy and bodily autonomy extends to minors.
“It is the policy of this State that the rights of equality, liberty, and privacy guaranteed under […] the Hawaii State Constitution are fundamental rights and that those rights include an individual’s right to make health care decisions about one’s own body, including the right to seek and receive health care services that affirm their expressed gender.”
The signing was a resounding victory for LGBTQ activists on the islands. Hawai’i was among the last of the blue states to enact a shield law for the transgender community and their providers.
“We’ve heard from legislators that this is considered a controversial topic and that they’d rather not engage in bills that could draw attention to Hawai’i from the Trump Administration,” Abby Simmons, Chair of the Stonewall Caucus of the Democratic Party of Hawai‘i, told Erin in the Morninglast year.
Now, she’s singing a more triumphant tune. “This bill truly was a team effort,” she said in an interview this week. “Lawmakers wanted to understand the legal implications, hear from stakeholders, and make sure they were crafting legislation that would withstand challenges. While that process can sometimes feel slow, it also means that when legislation succeeds, it often has a stronger foundation.”
Simmons also said the playbook for getting the bill over the finish line was rooted in building a big tent. “I think what finally made HB1875 successful was that supporters increasingly focused on a message that resonated far beyond the LGBTQ+ community,” she continued.
“The conversation wasn’t simply about gender-affirming care. It was about protecting patients, families, and healthcare providers who are following Hawaiʻi law. It was about preventing out-of-state actors from interfering with healthcare decisions made here in Hawaiʻi. It was about provider stability at a time when Hawaiʻi already faces healthcare workforce shortages. And it was about preserving Hawaiʻi’s ability to govern itself.”
The bill arrived on the Governor’s desk amid rising federal threats from the Department of Justice against hospitals, including the use of judge and forum shopping to prosecute gender-affirming care providers in conservative jurisdictions based outside of their state. Last month, the Northern District of Texas—an infamously conservative federal court—ordered Rhode Island Hospital, which is almost 2,000 miles away, to hand over patient records from its transgender youth care program. That legal battle is ongoing.
“Gender-affirming care is lawful in Hawaiʻi, grounded in established medical standards, and essential to the well-being of transgender, nonbinary, māhū, and gender-diverse people,” Hawai’i’s LGBTQ political action committee, HOKU, wrote in submitted testimony from when the bill was being considered by the legislature.
“Failure to protect access to gender-affirming care is not only an attack on patients and providers; it is a violation of parental rights,” reads another submission from Pride at Work Hawai’i. “Parents and caregivers who affirm, support, and seek medically appropriate care for their keiki [child] are exercising their fundamental right.”
Donavan Kamakani Albano, Policy Fellow at the ACLU of Hawaiʻi, further spoke to the importance of gender diversity in Hawaiian tradition. Some right-wing officials may push the myth that transness is somehow novel or a “trend.” But Hawai’i has especially rich ties to its pre-colonial culture—including non-binary concepts of gender.
“In Kanaka Maoli culture, māhū describes someone who embodies kāne and wahine [the masculine and feminine] energies,” Albano’s testimony said. “While the visibility of māhū individuals has recently increased, ongoing barriers to gender-affirming care remain.”
This united LGBTQ advocacy with other causes. “Those principles brought together a broad coalition of supporters and helped lawmakers see the bill as a matter of healthcare access, privacy, and state sovereignty,” Simmons said.
Birds (Sources: Birdsandblooms, Blair Benson, Bill Duncan, Blair Benson, JM Arment, Hummingbird centarl)
It’s June 1, which means Pride Month begins again today. It’s my seventh Pride. I remember my first one, seven years ago—terrified and excited, going out dressed in the clothes I felt best in, using the name I wanted to use for the first time in public. I had people with me that day, people I found safety with, people who helped me grow into the person I am now. Seven years later, so sure of myself and so comfortable in my skin, I look back on those moments as some of the best of my life. And now, this year, as I have every year, I watch the new flock—countless in number—who are wearing rainbow colors and joining a family that will show them more love than they have ever known. They are arriving even after a political winter that was, by any measure, cold and brutal to all of us. It is watching them that has me thinking about the beauty of what we witness starting today.
This year, I took up birding. I always thought it was a silly hobby, but my wife Zooey encouraged me to point my camera at a new subject. I first did so on the Pattee Canyon trail up in Missoula—and caught, soaring in place, a single red-tailed hawk, just hovering, watching the ground below. I stared at it for a while in awe. That was all it took. And the timing was perfect, because in the weeks that followed I stumbled into the best time to be a birder: spring migration. Wave after wave of orioles, tanagers, flycatchers, and warblers of every different color and size came pouring through. I didn’t even know there were so many birds. It made me realize that for most of my life I had been walking through the world completely unaware of the beauty around me—that there was this entire world that had always been there, just waiting for me to lay eyes on it.
What I also didn’t know was the incredible journeys so many of these birds had taken just to be here—how far they had traveled to find the flocks they’d spend the season with, to build nests, to raise families, to simply exist in a place that could sustain them. The Prothonotary Warbler I spotted in the marsh? It spent the winter in the mangrove swamps of Central America, then crossed the entire Gulf of Mexico in a single flight—more than 600 miles of open water, eighteen hours in the air with nowhere to land. It had to travel that far just to find its family. And the most stunning thing about a bird like that—one that has gone through so much, that has flapped its wings until it has exhausted itself and left everything behind? It arrived here in the most brilliant gold you’ve ever seen, and began to sing. The Prothonotary Warbler isn’t nearly the only species that does this. Ruby throated hummingbirds, blackpoll warblers, bobolinks… all take incredible journeys.
I was unaware of all of this before I took up birding. It makes me wonder how much else I walk right past without seeing. I remember before I came out, I didn’t know how rich this chosen family was, how many different people were also queer like me. I had no idea that once I came out, I’d find so many of them had been here all along. They were just waiting for me, and all I had to do was stop and look and embrace something new. And I did, and an entire world opened up. I love moments like this, where life teaches you something about itself, and you realize that diversity and surprise might just be the best things it has to offer.
Today, as Pride begins, I am reminded that every single person who has made it here, put on their colors, and found their family has survived something difficult. Every one of them has just lasted through a winter where our rights were systematically stripped away. Politicians who hate us have spent the year dismantling everything we built—healthcare ripped from hospitals, identities stripped from documents. Corporations that once draped themselves in rainbows every June are nowhere to be found. Some of us have quite literally migrated to entirely new states looking for safety. And our gulf crossing this year was met with heavy headwinds.
And yet, so many of us still made it. This year, you will see your city streets filled with rainbows. This year, countless new people will celebrate their first Prides. People will put on the clothes that fit them best. People will love in ways they didn’t know how to before. People will dance and sing, and others will have no choice but to acknowledge our existence, because when we arrive, we do not do so quietly. Every single person you see in the streets this month is a testament to our resilience, and a reminder to the fact that this is a journey we have been making since the beginning of human existence. We call it something different now. We carve out a specific month for it. But we have always been here, and we have always had to search for ways to express ourselves, be ourselves, and find our kin.
Maybe birding is a silly hobby. Maybe dragging myself out of bed before dawn—and I am not a morning person, I might add—is more trouble than it’s worth. Birders look ridiculous. We stuff our pants into our socks so the ticks don’t climb up our legs. We carry binoculars and absurdly large cameras into places where everyone else is just taking a walk. But I think there is something more to it than that, something that opened my eyes to the way the world moves around me—something I wasn’t expecting to find when I first pointed a camera at a hawk and couldn’t look away. I think I understand something about this month that I didn’t understand before because of it. Pride isn’t just a celebration, it’s a testament to survival and a refusal to be quiet even after the journey. It’s putting on your most brilliant colors after the longest winter of your life. And I’m so glad we made it one more year.
When I was coming out of the closet, I was looking for someone—anyone—to share about their experience of coming out as a queer woman raised Catholic.
Any stories I found about reconciling queerness and Catholicism came from the perspective of gay white men. I could not find any accounts of Catholic women, nor could I find stories about deconstructing purity culture as a queer Catholic. But I knew—or rather, had faith—that I couldn’t be alone. So in 2021, I reached out to Bernie Schlager, executive director of the Center for LGBTQ & Gender Studies in Religion at the Pacific School of Religion, and asked if there were any archives, projects, or books that shared my own experience.
Schlager confirmed my suspicions: No such archives existed. But he invited me to begin the work of making an archive. I jumped at the suggestion. After all, I felt a need to find and hear other people’s stories, and I also had the skill set to conduct these interviews, having worked on oral history projects in the past. Maybe it was my calling to create an archive of queer and trans people grappling with their identity and how it related to Catholicism.
In 2022, I founded the Queer and Catholic Oral History Project. The purpose of this project is to record stories of queer and trans people who have some connection to Catholicism—whether they were born into it, converted to it, left it, or returned to it. So far, I’ve recorded over 100 interviews with LGBTQ+ clergy and laypeople who are proud to let the Catholic Church know that they exist, even if the church continues to bar them from being full members of the faith.
And as I’ve discovered, I am not alone in searching for queer Catholic stories as a way to find and affirm my place within this tradition.
As Justin Telthorst, a gay Catholic man who runs the LGBTQ+ Catholic ministry Empty Chairs, shared with me after his interview, many people reached out to him seeking stories of LGBTQ+ Catholics, but he didn’t know where to direct them until he learned about my project.
They’re not alone. Philip Calabro, a gender-fluid Catholic drag queen and employee of PFLAG, an LGBTQ+ advocacy organization, explained his own search for representation in his interview: “One thing I find myself doing pretty consistently is looking for other queer Catholics who are existing as queer Catholics because I want to know how they do it,” Calabro said. “Because I know it is possible. I can feel it.”
Like me, Calabro had faith that we were not the only ones navigating these identities. And what I will say after working on this project for five years is that learning how other people hold these two identities together only strengthens my belief in the importance of recording our histories and the transformative power of an all-inclusive gospel.
Often, anti-LGBTQ+ Christians claim that queer and trans people did not exist before the 20th century, or that modern LGBTQ+ inclusion or theology is shallow because it is rooted in cultural trends rather than the deep wells of the Christian tradition. But it’s less a matter of us not existing, or of there being no evidence that we have always been part of religious communities, than of certain terms only coming into use as society’s understanding of gender and sexuality expanded.
Sister Eva Lynn Goode, a nonbinary and Catholic Sister of Perpetual Indulgence, shared the following with me in their interview: “I come from a long line of queer people in church history, and I am blessed to continue that tradition.” They are not wrong. As I dig into contemporary queer Catholic histories, I’ve learned that there are many saints throughout church history whom people today consider queer and trans. These saints are recognized by the institutional church, but their queerness is not. Although they would not have known or claimed these terms, modern queer historians identify these saints as queer and trans ancestors who lit the way for LGBTQ+ people living today.
Perhaps the best example is queer Catholic author, teacher, and medievalist A.W. Strouse, who believes that their queerness cannot be separated from their spirituality. In fact, as they shared in their interview, being queer is a spiritual vocation.
“I don’t really see them as being distinct,” Strouse explained. “I think that being queer just saturates everything, and being a believer also saturates everything. And I know many people would find this sacrilegious, but I think that being gay for me is a spiritual vocation. I think that it’s my mission to love other queer people. And I mean, talk about loving your neighbor. If there’s anyone more destitute and in need, it is other queer people.”
LGBTQ+ Catholic lay minister and lawyer Yunuen Trujillo agreed that her visibility is an urgent testament to and a call to return to the gospel teachings of love and inclusion in her interview. “I think God made me an LGBTQ person for a reason, and I think that reason was to call the church back to its roots and to be able to show the church that we’re not supposed to be a church of power and dominance and exclusion, but we’re supposed to be a church of love and care,” she explained. “I think they fit perfectly, even though the church might not agree.”
For some people, their faith is only deepened by their identities. As they came to understand themselves more fully, they grew spiritually. In finding queer and trans spiritual ancestries, they realize and affirm the divinity and dignity in themselves—and connect more deeply with Catholicism.
In her interview, Madeline Marlett, a trans Catholic woman and board member of the LGBTQ+ Catholic organization DignityUSA, explained that she returned to the faith after stepping away from the church for a period of time. “It wasn’t until part of the way through transitioning that I felt like I wanted to reconnect with my faith,” she explained, “so that kind of brought me back into Catholic spaces, helped me find dignity.”
It’s one of the reasons many queer and trans Catholics I speak to are often very literate in church dogma and the catechism. After fighting against bigoted members of the church to live how they want and love whomever they want, they have a fuller understanding of gospel teachings and Catholic theologies of the body.
For transmasculine Catholic artist Elliott Barnhill, who creates icons of queer saints online, learning about the fields of queer theology and queer biblical studies was critical. “It’s really important for me in my coming out experience, my own acceptance of Catholicness in myself,” he said in his interview. “I have a very strong interest in the way that this fits together, that queer lives and deaths can be found in Catholic history and the way that echoes back to the present day. I believe that this history is a form of good news, and is a form of Gospel.”
It’s important to note that not all of the people I interviewed are still Catholic or align themselves with the Roman Catholic Church. The project is a testament to the diverse experiences of many queer and trans people raised in Catholic homes, communities, and cultures.
Documenting our queer religious histories and educating the Catholic church about its queer members is, on the one hand, a way to resist the homophobia in our tradition and, on the other hand, a way to honor the LGBTQ+ ancestors and contemporaries who have and are charting pathways forward inside and outside of the church. Their testimony brings attention to the harm that the church has caused, but it also brings attention to the fact that there are people committed to the church even if it rarely loves them back. For those who choose to stay, they live the gospel truth just by showing up as themselves.
Ultimately, my hope is that the Queer and Catholic Oral History Project will offer future queer Catholics what I didn’t have when I was coming out: an archive of stories to remind queer Catholics that we can change things and that we have always and will always exist.
Scottie's Playtime 