GRAN VARONES

“Someday we'll be free

I promise you, we'll be free

If not tomorrow

Then (Or) the day after that

And the candles in our hands

Will illuminate this land

If not tomorrow

Then the day after that.”

“The Day After That” is a song that doesn’t leave you. It was written for the Broadway stage, but it carried the weight of queer survival. It became a soundtrack for a community holding on through grief.

Broadway Icon Liza Minnelli was on a search for a way to respond to the devastation she was witnessing as AIDS had taken friends, collaborators, dancers, designers, and her ex-husband Peter Allen. She was grieving, but she was also furious at the silence surrounding the crisis.

When she heard “The Day After That” during a performance of the Broadway Musical Kiss of the Spider Woman, its message of unwavering hope beyond unimaginable loss, resonated deeply with her. It gave language to what queer communities were living through.

Written by Fred Ebb and John Kander, the song debuted in Kiss of the Spider Woman, the 1993 Broadway musical that explored love, politics, fantasy, and resistance inside an Argentine prison. In the show, the song is quiet but devastating, a call for what comes after terror and loss. For many queer people living through the height of the AIDS crisis, those words landed like a hand on the shoulder. Soft and urgent.

Liza was determined to take the song everywhere. She recorded the song in multiple languages including English, Spanish and French.

In June 1994, She performed “The Day After That” at the 25th Annual Stonewall Pride Parade, offering the song as both memorial and rallying cry. Months earlier, on World AIDS Day 1993, she sang it at the United Nations, turning a global stage into a space of remembrance and demand.

I grew up in a household where divas were celebrated, and Miss Liza Minnelli was one of them. My mother wasn’t blasting her records, but she loved Liza as a woman who kept getting back up. Yes, Liza was an accomplished actress, singer, and performer with an Academy Award, a Tony, and an Emmy. But it was her public battles with addiction and her many “comebacks” that made her, much like her mother Judy Garland, a queer icon.

That’s the thing about Liza. Her art is camp and brilliant. But her survival is legendary.

For queer people living through the AIDS crisis, she was more than a star. She was someone who kept returning.

Someone who kept choosing life. Someone who showed up for us, again and again, even when the world didn’t.

“The Day After That” captures that spirit. It is a song about imagining tomorrow when today feels impossible. A song about rebuilding when grief has emptied the room. A song about never surrendering.

And that’s why it mattered. That’s why it still matters.

Because the day after loss, the day after crisis, the day after stigma, we keep going.

We keep remembering.

We keep fighting.

Just like Liza.

“I believe…

This song is about

the war against despair.

This song is about the devastating plague we’re going through.

This song is about hope.”

On this National Latinx AIDS Awareness Day, we remember that:

REMEMBERING is power.

PROTECTING HIV funding is community care.

FIGHTING for each other is a sacred act of love rebellion.

The government may be shut down but we ain’t!

miss major griffin-gracy

she was at stonewall. she was there when the world turned its back on people living with HIV.

she was there when our community was learning how to survive without apology.

miss major mothered generations of us, the lost, the loud, the too-much ones. she didn’t just fight systems, she built love that stretched across decades and borders.

as we grieve the passing of miss major, we hold on to the lessons she left us:

that care is radical.

that rage is sacred.

that we belong to each other.

thank you, miss major. for your laughter. for your fight. for reminding us that we are worth protecting.

rest in power.

rest in love.

I was a sophomore in college when I first heard Rane Arroyo’s name. I was sitting in a Spanish Literature class taught by my mentor, dear friend, and professor, Dr. Betsy Sandlin, when his name came up. A Puerto Rican. A poet and playwright. Gay. That alone made my ears perk up. As a gay Black Puerto Rican still trying to make sense of the world and myself, hearing about Rane felt like being handed a mirror I didn’t know I needed.

Born in Chicago, a Puerto Rican, Rane Arroyo carried a constellation of identities: Puerto Rican, gay, Midwestern, educated, former working class, liberal, atheistic, humanist, American, male, ex-Mormon, ex-Catholic, pseudo-Buddhist, teacher, reader, global, and popular culture-obsessed. Rane wasn't just one thing; he was brilliantly, completely, and beautifully unapologetically himself.

His poetry didn't stick to what "Latinx literature" was expected to be. It wasn't always full of Spanglish or the nostalgia of Nuyorican stories. Instead, his poems wandered into nightclubs and temples. He pulled from everything from Broadway and Buddhism to Bruce Springsteen and Reinaldo Arenas. He pushed us to "let's be unyoked from landscapes," to find our homes not just in places, but in the complicated universes we carry inside us.

Arroyo’s voice was especially powerful during tough times of personal crisis and the urgency of political activism. He wrote unflinchingly about the world around him, and the heart-breaking impact of HIV/AIDS. In his poem "BEING: AN ESSAY ON BEING A MIDWESTERN WRITER," he remembers,

"I was dancing / shirtless in clubs in a frenzy because / of AIDS/SIDA, because the Titanic / seemed to be repeated with go-go boys / on the slippery deck while the band / played 'It's Raining Men'.

He captured the haunting collision of joy and mourning. How he witnessed his queer people danced even as the world burned around them. Around him. His work also showed the personal pain, mentioning a friend's lover lost to AIDS

"AIDS is a war inside the body, / and outside in the streets."

That line knocks the wind out of me.

Once called "the most prolific and most important of the Chicago Puerto Rican poets,” Rane Arroyo goes far beyond any city or label. Rane Aroyo didn’t just write poems. He built portals to worlds with his words, where being complex was celebrated and every part of who you were was worth exploring. Arroyo’s legacy feels especially important and relevant.

His stories remind us why we must keep sharing our experiences to survive. To tell our stories in the fight against HIV. He showed us how art can be a lifeline, a way to deal with sadness, to fight stigma, and to call for action and understanding. His poetry was a form of activism, proof of life and the lasting legacy of queer lives and voices.

We honor Rane Arroyo. Not just as an artist but as a visionary and as a blessing.

Thank you, Rane, for the word. For the permission.

For the invitation to be free.

Nursing a wounded heart and bruised ego are never easy things to do BUT a glorious pop jam but a pop diva will always pull me out of the dumps. Baybee!, Doja Cat’s just released single “Jealous Type” did just that. And a person who is proudly perpetually in love with 80s music, “Jealous Type,” sounds and looks like the 80s never ended. The big synths, neon colors, MTV video vixen attitude. ALL OF IT! Miss Doja captured everything that made that era feel larger than life.

But Doja isn’t pulling from nowhere. By the late 80s, radio already belonged to the pop divas! I know this because I was there consuming it all like oxygen.

Paula Abdul. Janet Jackson. Pebbles. Jody Watley. Chaka Khan. Vanessa Williams. Karyn White. Apollonia 6. The Mary Jane Girls. These women gave us songs that blurred R&B and pop. Songs that lived on every radio format and songs that will no doubt be blasted at my funeral. Check out these jams!

CHAKA KHAN • THIS IS MY NIGHT (1984)

SHEILA E. • GLAMOROUS LIFE (1984)

APOLONIA 6 • SEX SHOOTER (1984)

MARY JANE GIRLS • IN MY HOUSE (1985)

JANET JACKSON • WHEN I THINK OF YOU (1986)

PEBBLES • GIRLFRIEND

PAULA ABDUL•THE WAY THAT YOU LOVE ME(1988)

VANESSA WILLIAMS • THE RIGHT STUFF (1988)

JODY WATLEY • REAL LOVE (1989)

KARYN WHITE • SECRET RENDEZVOUS (1989)

Together they not only broke ground for women in pop music but they built the blueprint. They made pop look bigger, sound brighter, and feel bolder.

In the mid 1990s, Tejano ruled the Texas airwaves. Sparked by the mainstream success of Selena and other break-out stars, Tejano music grew from a regional staple on Latin Music stations to a national phenomenon. This era would later be dubbed “the Tejano Boom.”

But as Tejano reached new and extraordinary heights, AIDS had become the leading cause of death for all Americans ages 25-44 in 1994 with the Latinx community, especially Latinx Texans being disproportionately impacted.

During this period, more and more pop music was addressing the AIDS crisis.Tejano superstar Selena recorded a cover of the Broadway song “A Boy Like That” as part of a 1995 compilation featuring covers of songs from West Side Story to raise money for AIDS Project Los Angeles just before her death. The singer had also hosted several AIDS benefit concerts.

Unsurprisingly for a genre with its origins in an often socially conservative region, Tejano music was largely silent about HIV/AIDS. Despite widespread speculation on the sexuality of some leading male Tejano heartthrobs, the genre remained largely absent of any overt nods to the queer community. But then in 1997, something remarkable happened.

By the mid-90s, benefit albums to raise money for HIV/AIDS-related causes became more and more common. In 1990, the Red + Hot + Blue compilation, featuring covers of songs of iconic American songwriter (and closeted gay man) Cole Porter by pop icons with large queer followings such as Annie Lennox, Deborah Harry and Jody Watley, raised money for the activist group ACT UP. But a compilation centering Tejano music, a genre rooted in South Texas, seemed improbable.

The historic album included several songs recorded by Tejano heavy pioneers and rising stars like Little Joe y la Familia, the legendary group known for their fusion of Tejano, country, blues and jazz.

Artists from the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas (one of the hotbeds of the Tejano boom) included:

Roberto Pulido, genre defining artist from Edinburg, Texas - who helped pioneer Tejano’s modern sound in the 70s and 80s.

Bobby Pulido, son of Roberto Pulido, who had just launched his solo career in 1995 - with “Desvelado” and was becoming an influential presence in the genre and was on his way to becoming one of the defining acts of 90s Tejano.

Grupo Mazz, formed in 1978 in Brownsville, whose danceable cumbias made them both a standout and favorite in the genre in the 1990s.

Elida Reyna, Dallas born and Mercedes, Texas raised, debuted in 1992 with her band Avante and helped lead a wave of female artists in the wake of Selena’s success.

The album also included Laura Canales, a trailblazing vocalist from Kingsville who was the dominant female voice in Tejano music in the 1970s and 1980. Though not born in the Valley, Canlaes had deep ties to the area and a huge following in the region. Following her semi-retirement in 1989,, she returned to performing in the mid-1990s, as conversations around female representation in Tejano in the wake of Selena’s rise led to renewed attention on Canales’ music.

Canales also sang “Cien Obejas” at the fourth-annual World AIDS Day event held in the Rio Grande Valley at the San Juan Basilica in 1998. A moving moment that underscored her connection to the Valley and commitment to supporting HIV/AIDS advocacy.

Canales also sang “Cien Obejas” at the fourth-annual World AIDS Day event held in the Rio Grande Valley at the San Juan Basilica in 1998. A moving moment that underscored her connection to the Valley and commitment to supporting HIV/AIDS advocacy

Here for the first time on the Internet are the lyrics and audio to “Tenemos Que Abrir Los Ojos”

Spanish (Original) Lyrics

Soñar es vivir

Pero tenemos que abrir los ojos para ver que tan preciosa es la vida

¿Y Que Si Fuera Yo?

¿Y Que Si Fueras Tu?

La vida no es clasista

Cuando quita la salud

Tenemos que apreciar

Siendo en la vida

Y va sin avisar

Destroza sin piedad

Al joven y el anciano

No importa la edad

Tenemos que ayudar

Con lucha con pasión

Por que somos tejanos unidos en corazón

Canta a la vida (Tenemos que abrir los ojos

Y todos a unirnos con mucho amor

Canta a la vida

Por que solo juntos venceremos

Estas penas y dolor

Y juntos pelear contra todo el mal

Ya basta raza, ya no hay que cerrar los ojos a nuestra realidad, a este virus que nos quiere matar

Y hay que batallar, hay que pelear

Por que nuestros voces se escuchan hasta al final

English Translation (By Me)

Dreaming is Living

But we have to open our eyes to see just how precious life is

And what if it was me

And what if it was you

Life is not classist

When it takes away our health

We have to appreciate

Being a part of life

And it leaves without a warning

And it destorys without mercy

The young one or the old one

It doesn’t care about age

We have to help

With our struggle and with our passion

Because we are Tejanos united at heart

Sing to life (We have to open our eyes)

And all of us have to come together with so much life

Sing to life

Because only by being united will we triumph over

These sorrows and this pain

And together fight against all that is wrong

The time has come, raza, we cannot close our eyes to our reality, to this virus that wants to kill us

We will have to struggle, we will have to fight

Because our words will be echo until the end.

Gabriel Sanchez (they/she/he) is a queer and nonbinary native of the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas.

Gabriel is a community historian who has spent the past several years researching, documenting, and sharing the history of the LGBTQIA2S+ community of the Rio Grande Valley and the rich stories of resistance, visibility, and creativity from within this community.

40 years ago this summer, (uh, actually it’s 41 years ago but I prefer round numbers) - one of the most underrated and groundbreaking sitcoms in television history premiered as cable’s first weekly sitcom. That show was Brothers.

Development for Brothers began in 1983, when creators David Lloyd and Gary Nardino pitched the show to ABC and NBC. Both networks declined, uncomfortable with its prominent queer themes and openly gay characters. But Showtime embraced it. The network picked up the show, and on July 13, 1984, Brothers debuted as cable’s first sitcom.

To understand how radical Brothers was in 1984, we have to remember where LGBTQ rights stood. There were no out politicians in Congress, sodomy laws remain existed in most states, the federal government ignored AIDS, and queer people were demonized for everything. If we appeared on TV at all, we were queer coded and/or usually the punchline. But Brothers didn’t just introduce a gay character, it gave us two! And it built an entire world around them.

One of the boldest episodes of season one is episode 12, “It Only Hurts When I’m Gay.” Cliff is gay-bashed while cruising in a park. When the police dismiss the attack, Joe, Lou, and Donald stage a stakeout at the park the next night. It’s a moment of family solidarity and a reminder that Brothers wasn’t afraid to show the real violence queer people faced. Or the ways family, chosen and otherwise, could show up.

Two of the show’s most tender episodes come in season two. In episode seven, “Donald’s Dad,” Donald (while under-cover in nurse’s drag) reconnects with his estranged and dying father after more than a decade. It’s a rare and moving portrayal of reconciliation between a queer son and a disapproving parent. Donald’s pain, vulnerability, and healing make it one of the show’s most unforgettable moments.

The episode that marked me the most is the “The Stranger.” Originally airing on October 23, 1985, a few weeks after actor Rock Hudson, the first major American public figure to publicly disclose he had AIDS, died at age 59. His death shocked the country and brought about unprecedented media coverage.

The episode pulls no punches. Joe’s former football teammate Bubba (played by the brilliant James Avery of Fresh Prince fame) returns to Philly and reveals he has AIDS. Joe is devastated. Cliff shuts down. Donald steps in, as always, with truth and tenderness. When Cliff says AIDS is a boogie man waiting for him to fall in love, Donald reminds him that AIDS cannot and should not stop loving.

Brothers was ahead of its time and still doesn’t get the recognition it deserves. At a moment when queer people were either invisible or vilified, this show created space for gay characters to be flawed, funny, loved, and fully human.

In December 1993, Philadelphia starring Tom Hanks and Denzel Washington, did something no other major Hollywood film had done. It looked directly at AIDS, at stigma, at grief, and at the humanity of people living and dying with the virus. And it didn’t flinch. And against all odds, the movie became a box-office hit and cultural landmark that opened hearts and minds. It was so ubiquitous and it cracked something open.

Then came The Net in 1995. And that crack? Chyle, Hollywood tried to fill it with fear… again.

The Net is an action-thriller that stars Sandra Bullock as Angela Bennett, a reclusive computer wiz who works from home (way before that was a flex), has no real friends, and orders pizza online. Me in 2025, really. Anyway, she stumbles across a government conspiracy hidden in a floppy disk, and suddenly, her entire identity is wiped. Credit cards gone. Medical records changed. No one believes she exists. She’s forced to outsmart hackers, agents, and police. All while trying to prove she’s real. It’s actually very 2025.

This was Sanda Bullock at her zenith. Speed (1994) made her an action star and while you were sleeping (April 1995) made her America’s rom-com darling. The net tried to make her both. And for me, it worked! That’s why I was in the theater opening weekend for a glimpse of how computers were going to leave our world in ruins. Now looks at us, living or dying through it.

For all its “give us the floppy disk!” drama, The Net is mostly remembered as a campy cyber-thriller. That is, if you can look past the cringey subplot where the anti-gay Under Secretary of Defense has his medical records hacked and dies by suicide after being falsely told he tested positive for HIV. That’s a lot, right? It was the film’s attempt at framing both computer viruses and HIV as threats that destroy lives. My gawd.

When The Net hit theaters on July 28, 1995, over half a million people in the US had been diagnosed with HIV.

And while the movie warned folks (most of whom, including myself, still didn’t know what a modem was) about the dangers of dial-up, real-life organizers were fighting for housing, access to care and treatment, for dignity, and for an end to HIV criminalization.

One of the film’s most surreal moments happens during a chase scene in San Francisco. Angela is running from tech assassins. And where does she end up? In the middle of an AIDS candlelight vigil!

Or march. Shown are protest signs, candles, and people honoring those lost.

There is no explanation at all. She uses the vigil to hide and escape. You. Can’t. Make. This. Up. But Hollywood did.

Actually, that moment says more about 1995 than the entire movie. HIV activism was everywhere. Queer grief was public, even when Hollywood tried to push it to the background.

That same year, on April 25, 1995, ACT-UP and a multiracial coalition of organizers shut down the Queens-Midtown Tunnel in New York City. It was part of a massive protest against Mayor Giuliani, who was slashing funding for AIDS services, higher ed, and other programs poor and working-class people relied on.

Pop culture is a record. The Net is a record of how HIV was still being talked about in 1995. It painted the internet as a dangerous frontier of hackers, viruses, and surveillance (no lies there), but it also used HIV as a scare tactic. Something to weaponize.

Philadelphia wanted people to feel compassion. The Net wanted people to be afraid.

The Net, along with Hackers, Virtuosity, and Johnny Mnemonic (movies all released in 1995), is peak 90s internet paranoia. “Our whole lives are in the computer!”

It’s ridiculous. It’s dated. And my gawd, still one of my favorite movies. But it’s also an artifact. A reminder that pop culture doesn’t just reflect the world, it shapes it. And The Net, for all its glitches, was part of a larger cultural operating system. (see what I did there?)

While it’s easy (and fun) to critique 90s Hollywood for how it mishandled HIV, misinformation isn’t some relic of the past. it’s a plague that’s still with us. We are witnessing this administration implement anti-trans laws, banning health care, erasing identity, and policing bodies. And the US Secretary of Health asks for proof that HIV causes AIDS.

HIV Stigma doesn’t fade. It mutates. It evolves. And it gets embedded into our cultural code. Just like a computer virus. Maybe, and I am providing all the grace my spirit is able to summon, that’s what The Net was trying to do. And it if was, maybe it needed better anti-virus protection.

this is the only photo i have of myself as a child with my mother.

she’s young in this picture, a teenager, a wife, holding my older sister at a baby shower preparing for my arrival. i’m in her belly, waiting to be born.

there are no snapshots of us at my first or any birthday celebration. no polaroids of me in her lap. no holiday photos holding her hand as a child. just this one image. one frame. one moment that managed to survive everything else we lost.

It’s been ten years since my mother took her last breath. She left the world like she lived in it with defiance, with beauty, with no apologies.

Ten years later, I still catch myself laughing at her jokes, whispering her name in my rare prayers, playing her music.

Ten years later, I still miss her with every part of me.

The grief doesn’t burn like it used to. There were days, especially in those first years, when my rage burned so hot that it could have set the whole damn world on fire for what it did to her. For what it made her survive. Poverty. Addiction. The loss of a child. The lies and twisted truths people told about her.

She raised seven boys with no money, no help, and no rest. She housed folks when they had nowhere else to go. She fed the whole block every time she cooked. And if you came for her kids? She’d come for you. My mother didn’t play.

But she also loved. Loudly. Deeply. Chaotically.

She loved Teena Marie, Tina Turner, Diana Ross, Stephanie Mills, and Princess Diana. She loved “Tales from the Crypt,” “Dynasty,” and made for TV movies. She loved frozen candy bars and I am sure invented the Snickers ice cream.

She loved Mother’s Day. That was her holy day. And she got dressed up for it, even if she had nowhere to go. Getting dressed was the ceremony.

These things that once seemed small and unimportant are now sacred acts and rituals. They’re proof that she was here. That she mattered. And that she loved me, even in the chaos.

The day before she passed, I took photos of my time in her hospital room. I wasn’t sure why at the time, I just knew I needed something to hold on to. Something to steady me. An elder once told me: when your heart breaks, feel it. Then make art out of it.

And that day, I did. I made art to stay present.

To stay standing.

To remember that she was still here even in her leaving.

That art became my anchor. My offering. A way to carry her with me when my legs felt like they might give out.

So today I declare my mother a Saint. A protector of queers, weirdos, and other women navigating addiction. A Saint to pray to on every Mother’s Day. I claim this for her because she and I fucking earned it.

I love you forever, mom.

Pauli Murray, a trailblazer whose life transcended gender norms long before today’s language existed, stood at the intersections of racial justice, sexuality, faith, and identity. As a Black, gender-diverse scholar, lawyer, activist, and priest, Murray lived and fought for the right to define elf and demand equality.

Today, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld Tennessee’s ban on gender-affirming care for minors in a 6–3 ruling, a painful setback for trans young people, their families and our communities. We are devastated and we continue on the path that Pauli paved. Murray’s legacy reminds us we are not defined by courts or state, but by our resilience.

On this day, we honor Pauli Murray and every transcestor who are calling on all of us to continue advocating for trans youth whose lives depend on dignity, identity, and love.

OUR TRANCESTORS!

A poet. A priest. A freedom fighter. A legal genius. And someone who long before we had the words, lived at the intersection of Blackness, queerness, and gender expansiveness.

Born in 1910, Pauli Murray defied every box the world tried to place them in. Assigned female at birth, Pauli often questioned their gender identity and described feeling like “one of nature’s experiments.” They wrote in letters about wishing for hormone therapy and sometimes asked to be referred to with masculine pronouns. Today, many of us recognize that journey as deeply aligned with trans and non-binary experiences, even if the language wasn't there back then.

Pauli was a civil rights powerhouse. Thurgood Marshall called Pauli’s legal theories the “Bible” for Brown v. Board of Education. Ruth Bader Ginsburg cited Pauli in key gender equality arguments. Paul, like most Black LGBTQ+ folks, always did the work, even when history tried to erase them.

Pauli was the first Black person assigned female at birth to be ordained as an Episcopal priest. I didn’t learn about them until my junior year of college, in a Gender and Social Movements class taught by my mentor and dear friend, Dr. Julie Berebitsky.

Honestly, I should’ve learned about Pauli way earlier, especially since I went to a private Episcopal liberal arts college. The school is literally owned by 28 Southern dioceses of the Episcopal Church, and its School of Theology is an official seminary. If any university should be celebrating Pauli, it’s this one.

Pauli didn’t just break barriers, they changed the entire game! When I think about Pauli Murray, I don’t just see legacy. As a Black queer person, I see possibility. They showed us that you can be Black and brilliant, queer and deeply spiritual, razor-sharp with the law and still soft enough to write poetry. That you can hold contradictions and still be whole.

So during Pride Month, when we’re called to honor the people who paved the way, I hope we remember Pauli. Not just as a “first,” but as a foundation. A non-binary Black icon who imagined a freer world into existence. A world where someone like me, with my rhythm, my softness, and my queer Black joy could be seen as worthy. As sacred.

So to Pauli:

We thank you. Thank you for your fire. Thank you for your faith. Thank you for living the questions that some of us are just beginning to answer.

Happy Pride and resistance, Pauli. We’re dancing because of you.

We remember exactly where we were the morning the news broke. We remember the shock and grief that rendered us unable to process. We remember everything, everywhere, and it’s kind of an obituary. We remember not knowing what to do with all of the love and rage sitting in our chests. We still don’t. But we still remember the faces and names.

This week, Q-Latinx, a grassroots racial, social, and gender justice organization in Orlando, held an ofrenda to honor the 49 lives taken at Pulse. With candles, marigolds, photographs, and prayer, Q-Latinx created space for collective remembrance, rooted in queer Latinx tradition and resistance.

Born in the aftermath of the tragedy, Q-Latinx emerged to fill the void left by institutions that failed to meet the needs of the queer and trans Latinx community. What began as a healing space quickly grew into a powerful organizing force, centering queer and trans voices of color in the fight for justice, safety, and joy in Central Florida.

Pulse is not just a tragedy to remember. It is a reminder that every drag show, every house party, and every Latin Night where we are free to be ourselves are ultimate acts of survival and resistance. And for all the queer young people finding their first dance floor, we pray that they experience exaltation.

Nine years later, we still mourn and dance. We follow the lead of survivors, and we speak the names of the 49.

One by one. Out loud. Again and again.

gran varones and @lasombrillacuir teamed up to curate this year’s Our Pride Is A Vibe Playlist🎶 As part of our work to promote the @stophivtogether campaign during Puerto Rico LGBTQ+ Pride (June 1-30, 2025), we’re also highlighting the amazing work of La Sombrilla Cuir.

La Sombrilla Cuir is a transfeminist and queer initiative dedicated to educating & empowering trans, queer, & non-binary communities in Puerto Rico. They create educational media, host podcasts like their “Ponkcast” where community members share their voices, and facilitate workshops. They also discuss “the concept of ‘Ponk’ and the definitions surrounding it,” and “how to work from a more decolonial perspective from transfeminism.”

This collaboration will use music & stories to promote wellness and open dialogue around HIV prevention, treatment, and care. Check out the link in our bio for the playlist.

To understand the power of “X,” you must know the woman at its heart: Angie Xtravaganza. A Puerto Rican trans woman raised in the Bronx, Angie ran away from home at 13 and built her own family – one rooted in love, survival, and queer kinship. She became the founding mother of the House of Xtravaganza, one of New York’s first predominantly Latino ballroom houses. By 1990, she and her house were introduced to the world through the Paris Is Burning documentary. Her name traveled far, and everyone wanted Angie to be their mother.

She earned that reverence. Angie created a home for gay and trans kids who had been cast out, and she made sure they never felt alone. When House co-founder Hector Xtravaganza died of AIDS in 1985, Angie held the family together. When her daughter Venus was murdered in 1988, it was her fierce love that kept the house from crumbling. Even after testing HIV-positive in 1991, she kept caring for her kids and showing up for her community.

By the early ’90s, Angie was a legend. A friend recalled that she dragged him out to the Sound Factory Bar just weeks before her passing to lift his spirits. Like many during those brutal years of the AIDS crisis, Angie turned pain into dancing and heartbreak into nightlife. She was both mother and healer, using music as an elixir.

When Angie died of AIDS-related complications on March 31, 1993 at just 28 years old – it shook the Ballroom community and beyond. The New York Times ran her photo with the headline “Paris Has Burned.” As the community mourned deeply and they found room on the dance floor to grieve. And that is how the pulsating anthem “X” was born.

Junior Vasquez, a queer icon in his own right, working with legends such as Madonna, Cher Donna Summer, Beyoncè and Janet Jackson. Vasquez ruled Sound Factory’s dance floor in the 90s. His Saturday night sets at that massive Chelsea club became legendary and defined an era. By the time Angie passed, Ballroom culture had already hit the mainstream – Madonna’s “Vogue” and Paris Is Burning ensured that – and Junior embraced it fully.

Junior loved the energy the Ballroom kids brought and often crafted tracks just for them, like “Gotta Be a Drag” and “Get Your Hands Off My Man.” Sound Factory became a second home for the House of Xtravaganza.

It was that energy that moved Junior to create “X” in 1994. The title was no secret – it stood for Xtravaganza, and the label on the vinyl even read “In memory of Angie Xtravaganza.” Junior was close to the house and wanted to honor Angie in the way he knew best: through music. House member Karl Xtravaganza later confirmed it that “X” was made for Angie.

“X” runs like a 10-minute house epic: tribal beats, soaring drama, and Ballroom energy. And the inescapable “X! X! X! Xtrava-GANZA!” refrain is both a mantra and shouted chant that not only whispers Angie’s name but conjures up her spirit. “X” was a love letter for a legend still guiding the gworls from the blaring speakers.

Three decades later, “X” still gets played – and it’s still magic when it does. It’s one of the defining underground house tracks of the 90s and remains a touch stone of Ballroom culture. Angie Xtravaganza lives on in every joyous scream of “Werk!” at a Ball, in every young queer person who finds family in a house, and in every DJ who understands that the right beat can heal a heartbreak.

His name was Rob.

We met in the bronxm4m AOL chat room in 2005 — when that was still a thing. His screen name was br0nxprynce. We clicked instantly. He was funny as hell. For a week, we chatted all day while I was at work, then all night once I got home.

Mariah’s The Emancipation of Mimi was just a week away from being released. I remember trying to convince him to buy it — I did that with all my friends. I even had a Mariah album release party. But I digress.

Our first in-person meeting took place outside of the famed Beacon Theater in New York on April 11, 2005. I was there to attend the live taping of Mariah’s segment of The Music: A Concert To Benefit The VH1 Save The Music Foundation. Rob drove up to say "Hi" and introduced himself as I waited in line. He was even more handsome in person. Our chemistry was immediate but the moment proved fleeting as the line began to move. We hugged and made plans to see each other for a proper date a few days later.

The Thursday after the album dropped, I called out of work and caught the train to New York. Rob picked me up from the train station. He blasted Sweet Sensation’s Hooked on You as we drove to pick up lunch. We headed to his apartment and we hung out all day — talking about life, dreams, and how he really needed to buy Mariah’s album. We kissed. And I remember thinking, Wow. Latino dudes do like me. I still had some internal shit to work through, but at that moment, I felt wanted. I felt “enough.”

During our make out session, Rob took off his shirt and said, “I know, I’m skinny. Don’t worry, I’ve always been that way.” I thought it was a weird thing to say, but I didn’t question it. I had my own body issues too. I was afraid to take off my shirt because I was NOT skinny. But, we moved past the awkward moment and kissed some more. It was all like the romantic shit I saw in movies but it could not last. I had to head back to the life that was waiting for me in Philly.

That Saturday, Rob and I spoke over the phone. The energy was different. So I asked, “What’s going on?” He paused and then briefly mentioned his best friend had betrayed him. I asked how, and he said, “I don’t want to talk about it, but he said something he shouldn’t have said.” I didn’t press. He said he’d call me later that night.

He didn’t.

I didn’t see him online.

I was mad.

I told myself he ghosted me because I was ugly. Fat. Not enough. I believed every awful thing I told myself. Then I reminded myself, no man is worth this spiraling. So I tried to forget him.

Weeks later, he messaged me:

How are you?”

I replied, “Fine. You?”

He said he wasn’t feeling well — maybe a cold.

I remember thinking, good — that’s what you get for playing me. He tried to chat, but I kept my guard up. I didn’t want to be charmed again. I needed to NOT forget that I wanted to forget him.

We had a mutual friend from the chat room who lived in New York. As we were chatting, I told him about Rob and I told him how hurt I was that he ghosted me. The friend was surprised and said “But Rob is such a sweet guy.” But he added, “You know how dudes are. Fuck him.” I am sure he was providing the kind of support he thought I needed. And admittedly, it helped.

As the summer of 2005 came to an end, Mariah’s The Emancipation of Mimi was one of the year’s biggest selling albums. And as a huge Mariah fan, I was in full celebratory mode. That was until I got a call from our mutual friend. It was late August, I was watching Family Guy when the phone rang. Yes, I still had a landline. We talked about our summer, and what other escapades we had experienced.

Then he asked, “Did you ever talk to Rob again?”

I said, “Not really. Our last convo was short.”

Then there was silence. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but he passed,” the friend said.

My heart dropped. My body went hot. I rose from the couch and with baited breath, I asked how — scared of the answer.

“Complications from HIV," he replied.

Rob was 26 years old.

I hung up and ran to my computer and Messaged Rob via his AOL screen name br0nxprynce:

“Hey! Please respond to this ASAP!”

I waited.

No response.

I couldn’t make sense of it. If he was gone, why was his AOL account still active? Why were my messages still being delivered? I couldn’t process it. Rob’s virtual existence was still present.

I replayed every conversation in my head. Every word.

Why didn’t he tell me?

I work in HIV, God dammit!

Why didn’t I ask?

Why didn’t I say “this?”

Why didn’t I do “that?”

Why did I assume the worst — that his silence had something to do with me?

Then it hit me: he could’ve made up stories about me, just like I made up stories about him. I convinced myself he disappeared because I wasn’t enough. I never once considered it had ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with me. The loss felt so heavy.

That’s the pain of missed chances. Of grief wrapped in what-ifs.

I think of Rob often.

Whenever I start making up stories about people.

Whenever I catch myself assuming shit.

Every time someone shares their story with gran varones.

And every time I play The Emancipation of Mimi.

That album turns 20 on April 12th.

So does the memory of losing Rob.

Growing up as a Puerto Rican teenager in North Philadelphia in 1990 meant three things:

1. you could duck underneath a car in 1.5 seconds whenever you heard a gunshot

2. you danced to Latin-Freestyle music at damn near every party

3. And whenever someone mentioned HIV, you would immediately respond by singing, “¡Oye! Listen! AIDS is a killer!”

That last one? A 90s’s North Philadelphia cultural reflex. That hook was from an inescapable local AIDS Public Service Announcement that hit Philly airwaves in 1990. It used hip-hop—and more importantly, voices of young people—to get the message across.

By that time, the AIDS crisis was hammering Black and Latino communities across the city. More than half of the Philly’s reported AIDS cases were among Black and Latino young people under 25. This meant that young people like me— who were surviving poverty, gun violence and the war on drugs— were also navigating the risks of HIV.

Traditional AIDS Awareness Campaigns of the time didn’t reach me or my friends the way that music and culture did. And campaigns that targeted Latinos were either hard to find, corny as hell or straight up didn’t didn’t feature young people. So, when the regional “¡Oye! Listen!”PSA began airing on TV during after school hours, the response from young people was immediate!

Produced by the Ascoiación de Músicos Latino Americanos (ALMA) and funded by the AIDS Education Project, “!Oye! Listen!” brought together young Latinos from the neighborhood to spit bars about about condom use, HIV testing and challenging myths. And baybee, it worked! The result was a probably not purposeful campy but effective PSA that still lives in my head rent-free.

These days, campaigns like “¡Oye! Listen!” would be called “culturally tailored messaging.” But back in 1990, it was revolutionary. That hook—“AIDS is a killer”—might sound severe today, but at that moment, it wasn’t an exaggeration. There was no effective treatment yet. Just fear. Just funerals. Just stigma. The urgency was real, and the message had to be direct. It cut through the silence and helped start conversations about safer sex—something that was still taboo in a lot of our homes, neighborhoods and schools.

Today, Black and Latine and LGBTQ+ young people are still leading the fight to end HIV. They continue to use art, music, and culture to educate, mobilize, and raise awareness. They do what that little PSA did in 1990: speak truth, break silence, and demand we listen.

So on this National Youth HIV/AIDS Awareness Day (NYHAAD), we honor that energy. We celebrate the power of young people who, for decades, have made sure that prevention, treatment, and care aren’t just buzzwords—but real, reachable things for all of us.

My late mother once had a friend named “Gary.” I remember him vividly because he LOVED himself some Stephanie Mills. Not in a casual, “Oh, she’s nice” kind of way, but in a full-blown, church testimony, hand-on-his-chest kind of way. Anytime one of her songs played on the radio—he’d shout in declaration, “I love Stephanie Mills!”

My love for the one and only Stephanie began in 1985 when she released the very poppy “Bit by Bit.” Chyle, that song had me dancing and lip-syncing in the tiny bedroom my mother rented. The space was so small that it barely fit two full-size beds. I slept on one with my mother, while my three brothers shared the other. But it was home. And I don’t remember it feeling like anything less.

In early 1989, we moved into a house—a whole house. For the first time in fave years, my three brothers and I now had a “proper” home. We had our own bathroom that we didn’t have to share with strangers. We had heat. And my gawd, I had my own room—a space to play to blast my music and imagine a life bigger than the one we had.

To understand Home, you have to go back to The Wiz. The Tony Award winning 1975 Broadway musical reimagined The Wizard of Oz through a Black lens. It blended gospel, soul, R&B, and funk into something uniquely historic. It was a moment that was both commercially and culturally ground-breaking. And at the heart of it all was a seventeen year old Stephanie Mills singing the hell out of Home.

When Stephanie recorded Home again as a tribute to her Broadway roots for her 1989 album of the same title, she wasn’t a teenager anymore. She was an R&B star, an artist who had lived, loved, and felt the weight of the years between then and now. The new version had more depth and more ache. It wasn’t about longing for home anymore—it was about knowing where you belonged. And that’s why it hit so differently.

By the time Home arrived at radio in late 1989, the concept of a home meant different things to me. It meant a physical space of fleeting stability and adults who personified safety. At the same time, the world around me had changed. The AIDS crisis was tearing through Black, Latine and LGBTQ+ communities like wildfire, and the government was still pretending not to see the smoke.

In those harrowing years, music became more than just entertainment. It was healing. It was survival. And songs like Home took on a new meaning.

“When I think of home

I think of a resting place

A place where there's peace,

quiet, and serenity

And that's where some

of my friends have gone.”

Those opening lines alone could make you cry, especially if you had lost someone. And in those years, everyone was losing someone.

Home became an anthem of remembrance. it was about the people who made us feel at home. The family, the friends, the ones who saw us and held us when the world didn’t. And when they were gone, we held onto songs like this because they reminded us that love never really disappears.

Now, as an adult, I cry when I listen to Home. Sometimes it’s because I miss the house we lived in back then. Sometimes it’s because I miss the people who made it feel like home—my mother, my brother, the family and friends I lost along the way.

I often wonder if my mother and “Gary” ever heard Home the way I do now as an adult. I hope they both got to hear the song in any moment when they needed it most.

My current home is sometimes lonely. It is because my son is not here and won’t be here with me anytime soon. But Home, for me, has never just been a place. It’s the people, the memories, the love that never fades—even in long absences. That’s why the song Home still matters. That’s why Stephanie Mills’ voice still reaches somewhere deep inside.

And that’s why, if “Gary” were here, I know exactly what he’d say.

i interviewed and photographed peter on january 1, 2016. we spent the day together laughing, eating cheesesteaks and reminiscing of gay life in the early 1990s. his spirit was big and he was a keeper of a million stories of gay and philadelphia ballroom history. i am so filled with gratitude to have shared time and space with him. peter will be greatly missed.