#activisim

By Elsie Blackwell

Written January 28th, 2026

Recent federal actions in Minneapolis, Minnesota, suggest a pattern in which the city is being staged as a precedent-setting environment to observe the limits of governmental authority through an orchestrated dance of enforcement, narrative framing, and selective accountability. One might draw a structural parallel between the actions in Minneapolis and the fictional event of the Ghorman Massacre; as depicted in season two of the Star Wars series Andor. While Andor offers numerous points of comparison with contemporary American political conditions, this analysis focuses specifically on the Ghorman Massacre because of the degree of narrative and strategic mirroring observed in Minneapolis.

I believe one of the main reasons this event has caused such a scandal — not only in South Korea but also internationally and among K-pop fans — lies in the striking disparity between its original cause and the atmosphere surrounding it. This enormous gap perfectly illustrates how class inequality has deepened worldwide, not just in Korea, and reveals a broader truth: people today, including K-pop fans, have a far stronger sense of class awareness than ever before.

Even if many artists were likely unaware of the tone or nature of the event beforehand, the footage showing millionaire idols — particularly men — dancing and drinking alcohol to a highly sexualized song at a charity gala meant to support women battling cancer was shocking. It became a symbol of the growing disconnect between “the privileged” and “the ordinary people.” In many ways, it was the final straw.

This phenomenon isn’t limited to K-pop, though. A similar backlash emerged recently when Taylor Swift released her new album, which many listeners criticized for portraying her as an untouchable celebrity lamenting the scrutiny of fame from the comfort of her mansion. What once made her music so beloved was the fact that her fans could see themselves in her lyrics — something that now feels lost. Even her most devoted fans reacted by saying, in essence, “That’s cute, Taylor, but I’m struggling to pay rent and put food on the table — that’s what real problems look like.” I’m exaggerating, of course, but that was the underlying sentiment.

And I think the same dynamic is at play here. The outrage toward the artists at this event goes far beyond moral judgment — it stems from deep social frustration. Particularly when you consider that groups like BTS built much of their identity and success on humanitarian and social causes, addressing class struggle and injustice in their songs, partnering with UNICEF, and promoting empathy and unity. Those messages were a cornerstone of why their fans were so deeply devoted to them. So, to now see them at lavish events, champagne in hand, seemingly detached from the very issues they once denounced, and continuing to collaborate with brands financially linked to Israel — without a single word of concern — feels like a betrayal to many (I also wrote a whole post about this that you can read here). And they’re not alone; numerous idols have faced similar criticism in the past two years for their silence or complacency in the face of political and humanitarian crises.

That’s why this backlash feels justified to many. The glamour and glitter of K-pop no longer suffice to distract from the grim realities of the world. We’re witnessing a genocide unfold live before our eyes, the rise of far-right extremism across the globe, escalating violence, and a steady erosion of human rights. Meanwhile, the wealthy — whether in politics, media, or the entertainment industry — seem more determined than ever to cling to their privilege, even as the majority grows poorer and works itself to exhaustion.

In such a climate, watching celebrities flaunt their wealth and ignorance from within their insulated bubbles has become unbearable for people who are suffering daily. This collective frustration builds up over time, until one symbolic event — one “drop of water” — causes it all to overflow.

That’s exactly what happened here. The anger isn’t solely directed at the artists or the W event organizers themselves, but at everything this moment represents on a societal level: a vivid reflection of the growing divide between privilege and reality, empathy and indifference.

I know these past few days have felt heavy for so many of you, especially women and LGBTQ+ folks. If the election results have left you feeling worried, unseen, or even angry, please know that you’re not alone in this. This is a space where you are supported, valued, and loved exactly as you are.

Take time to feel what you need to feel. It’s okay to be hurt or anxious, but remember: there’s a whole community out here that’s got your back. Let’s keep lifting each other up, sharing resources, and finding ways to stay connected and resilient. Sometimes small acts of kindness and support can mean so much, so don’t hesitate to reach out—here or anywhere.

If you know someone who’s had an abortion, it’s best to keep that private. If you know someone is trans, keep that information to yourself as well. And if you know people involved in providing safe abortions, keep their identity confidential too—don’t share it unless you’re completely certain it’s safe. If you’re queer or have had an abortion yourself, only talk about it with people you fully trust.

Remember, being part of a minority doesn’t mean you have to be an activist. If being open about your identity feels risky, it’s okay to keep it private; that doesn’t make you any less valid or authentic.

For potentially sensitive conversations (like discussing queerness, abortion, organizing actions, or protests), use secure, encrypted messaging services like Signal. Stay anonymous online, especially for research or reporting. Avoid using regular internet services for this—consider a VPN (like Mullvad, which is affordable and reliable), use the Tor browser for both onion and regular links, and if you need to whistleblow, look into using a Riseup email account or Notion

Also, consider looking into genetic testing to explore possible eligibility for other nationalities. Adding an additional passport could offer another layer of security, especially in uncertain times.

If you’re thinking about moving to another country, go for it. It’s tough to leave behind everything you know, the people you love, and to adapt to a different culture, but your safety and well-being come first. Patriotism isn’t worth much if you don’t feel secure where you are. Sometimes, starting fresh somewhere else can give you the peace and freedom you deserve. It’s a hard journey, yes, but your life and mental well-being are worth any changes you need to make.

This is not the end. You’ve got so much strength together. Let’s keep moving forward and making your voices heard. You are seen. You are powerful. You are loved. 💪🏳️‍🌈💖

Stay safe, and remember that self-care isn’t selfish—it’s essential. Reach out if you need to talk; I’m here for you. 🌸

This weekend marks the anniversary of the Stonewall uprising, a pivotal moment in LGBTQ+ history that ignited a global movement for queer liberation. In the early hours of June 28, 1969, a police raid on the Stonewall Inn in New York City was met with fierce resistance from queer patrons, many of them trans women, drag queens, street kids, and gender-nonconforming people who had long been harassed, beaten, and silenced.

Stonewall wasn't the beginning of queer resistance, and it wasn’t the first riot led by transgender or gender-diverse people. But it was a turning point: a spark that united fragmented communities, radicalised a generation, and demanded visibility in ways that could no longer be ignored.

For non-binary, gender-diverse, and trans folks, especially those living at the intersection of racial and economic injustice, Stonewall was our riot. It wasn’t clean or corporatised. It was led by those who had nothing left to lose but everything to fight for.

At Enby Meaning™, we honour Stonewall not as a historic artefact, but as a living call to action. Today, as queer and trans people continue to face erasure, violence, and systemic neglect, it’s more important than ever to remember that Pride began as a protest. Our rights were not granted; they were demanded by those who refused to be invisible.

This post is a reflection, a reckoning, and a celebration. It’s about reclaiming Stonewall’s radical roots through a non-binary and gender-diverse lens, and reminding ourselves that we’re part of a legacy of resistance, resilience, and joy.

What Were the Stonewall Riots?

In the early hours of June 28, 1969, police raided the Stonewall Inn, a mafia-run gay bar in New York City’s Greenwich Village. But unlike countless other raids, this time the patrons fought back.

As officers attempted to arrest drag queens, trans women, butch lesbians, and queer youth—violently—people refused to be silent. Crowds gathered, coins and bricks were thrown, and for six nights, the streets around Christopher Street pulsed with protest, rage, and defiance.

The Stonewall riots didn’t come out of nowhere. They followed years of state-sanctioned violence: being queer could get you fired, institutionalised, or jailed. In many U.S. states, wearing "the wrong" clothes was a criminal offence. People were surveilled, outed in newspapers, and denied the right to gather in public.

What made Stonewall different wasn’t just the intensity of the resistance, but also the timing and momentum. The world was already changing: Black civil rights, feminist uprisings, anti-war protests, and liberation movements had lit a fire across the globe. The queer community was ready. Stonewall became a flashpoint for organising, and in the months that followed, new groups emerged to fight for the liberation of gay, lesbian, trans, and gender-diverse individuals.

Contrary to many mainstream retellings, Stonewall wasn’t a “gay men’s rebellion.” It was led by some of the most marginalised: street queens, homeless youth, and gender non-conforming people who refused to comply with respectability politics.

Their courage didn’t just open the closet door; it shattered it.

The Intersectional Roots of Stonewall: Race, Gender, Class, and Resistance

To understand the true legacy of Stonewall, we have to move beyond the whitewashed versions taught in (some) textbooks and parades sponsored by banks. Stonewall wasn’t a polished movement led by cis gay elites in suits; it was a messy, radical uprising led by those on the margins.

Among the first to resist were Black and Brown trans women, street queens, butch lesbians, sex workers, and homeless queer youth. Marsha P. Johnson, a Black drag queen and trans rights activist, and Sylvia Rivera, a Latina street queen, are two of the most recognised figures, but they were not alone. The riots were powered by the fury and resilience of those pushed to the edge by systemic racism, police brutality, class oppression, and gender violence.

Many Stonewall participants weren’t welcomed in white gay spaces. They were excluded, policed, and silenced by the very organisations that claimed to represent “homophile respectability.” At Stonewall, they took up space anyway and fought like hell to keep it.

That intersectional legacy is crucial. Stonewall wasn’t just about the right to love; it was about survival. It was about poor trans girls getting kicked out of shelters. It was about Black and Brown queers brutalised by police. It was about immigrants, sex workers, and those criminalised for living authentically. If we forget that, we forget what Pride means.

Liberation is only truly realised when it encompasses all of us, especially those most marginalised from mainstream narratives.

Why Stonewall Matters for Non-Binary Folks

Stonewall’s legacy isn’t just about same-sex marriage or rainbow crosswalks; it’s about liberation for non-binary, gender-diverse, and trans people, especially those living at the intersections of race, class, and disability, that struggle continues.

In 1969, there wasn’t a language like “non-binary” in mainstream discourse, but people existed beyond the binary then, just as we do now. The queens, femmes, butches, and street kids who led the riots were resisting not only homophobia but the violent policing of gender itself. They danced, fought, and lived outside cisnormativity, refusing to fit into a world that demanded conformity.

That’s the legacy we inherit.

For non-binary people today, Stonewall is a reminder that we have always been part of this fight, even when history books erase us. It’s a reminder that our visibility, our joy, our defiance, and our right to exist are acts of resistance. Whether we’re using they/them pronouns, creating queer art, or building mutual aid networks this is our continuation of the riot.

And in a world where gender nonconformity is still criminalised, pathologised, or mocked, Stonewall reminds us we’re not new, and we’re certainly not alone.

We must carry this legacy forward to continue empowering non-binary people not to assimilate, but to thrive. We must honour those who paved the way by creating spaces that reflect the full, messy, beautiful spectrum of who we are.

Who’s Been Erased from Stonewall, and Why That Matters

As Stonewall became mythologised, much of its radical, gender-diverse spirit was scrubbed clean. Media coverage, official monuments, and corporate pride campaigns often centre white cisgender gay men, leaving out the very people who threw the first bricks.

Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera were once booed off the Pride stage for speaking about trans rights. Trans femmes of colour, sex workers, and non-binary people have long been pushed aside in favour of more “respectable” narratives. Even in 2025, references to trans and queer people were quietly removed from the U.S. National Park Service’s official Stonewall monument webpage sparking outrage and protests from across the LGBTQ+ community.

Erasure isn’t passive. It’s political.

When we flatten the story of Stonewall, we reinforce the very systems it resisted. We erase the contributions of people who didn’t fit into cisnormative, capitalist, or white-dominated frameworks. We betray the legacy of an uprising that was never meant to be palatable but intended to be revolutionary.

To honour Stonewall is to name those who were there. It’s to remember that the riot began because people were tired of being harassed for how they dressed, loved, or survived. It’s to recognise that non-binary and trans people were not just present; they were central.

How We Can Honour Stonewall

Commemorating Stonewall isn’t about rainbow capitalism or cute slogans; it’s about action, reflection, and remembering that Pride began as a form of resistance. Here's how you can honour the uprising in ways that centre the people it was really for:

1. Support Non-Binary and Trans-Led Initiatives by Donating to Organisations:

The Okra Project

For the Gworls

Tīwhanawhana (Aotearoa-based)

Gender Minorities Aotearoa

House of Tulip

or, us, here at Enby Meaning™

Even a small donation helps support those continuing the legacy of queer survival.

2. Read, Watch, and Learn: Educate yourself and others. Share stories that include the voices of Black, Brown, Indigenous, disabled, and gender-diverse people. Suggested content:

Happy Birthday, Marsha! (film)

Transgender History by Susan Stryker

Podcasts like Gender Reveal or Marsha’s Plate

3. Show Up—But Be Intentional: Attend Pride events that are trans-inclusive, decolonial, and anti-corporate, where possible. Or support grassroots gatherings in your community that honour Pride’s activist roots.

4. Challenge Norms in Your Own Life

Normalise sharing and respecting pronouns.

Uplift non-binary voices at work, at home, and in your networks.

Push back on binary thinking in everyday conversations.

5. Celebrate Queer Joy: Host your queer gathering, wear that outfit you've been scared to wear, or write a love letter to your younger self. Joy is resistance. So is rest.

Enby Meaning™ Spotlight: Carrying the Torch Forward

At Enby Meaning™, we’re choosing to mark Stonewall not just with words, but with intention. By building inclusive content, amplifying diverse voices, and holding space for the messy, complicated beauty of our community, we keep the riot alive.

Everything we create is rooted in the legacy of Stonewall—not as a branding moment, but as a responsibility. We’re not here to sell you an aesthetic. We’re here to build a home for the gender-diverse, non-binary, and queer community that honours where we’ve been and where we’re going.

Our platform exists because so many of us grew up never seeing ourselves reflected in media, in systems, in stories. Stonewall reminds us that change comes when we stop waiting for permission to exist.

Whether we’re sharing non-binary travel safety guides, celebrating queer joy through fashion, unpacking gender identity in our blogs, or creating space for intersectional lifestyle content—you’ll find Stonewall’s spirit in everything we do: radical, unapologetic, collective.

We’re not just here to look back. We’re building what comes next.

This Pride season—and every season—we invite you to be part of that vision. Share your stories. Speak your truth. Connect with others who are walking this path as well. Whether you're newly out or long out loud, there's space for you here.

Stonewall Was a Riot—And Still Is

The Stonewall uprising wasn’t the beginning, and it wasn’t the end. It was a spark—a moment of collective power when those most marginalised stood up and said no more. That legacy lives on every time a non-binary teen finds the language to name themselves, every time a trans woman fights for healthcare, every time we choose community over conformity.

Stonewall was not polite. It was not safe. It was not palatable. It was radical, defiant, intersectional—and deeply human. That’s what we choose to honour.

This weekend, as rainbow capitalism floods your feed, remember who lit the match. Remember Marsha. Remember Sylvia. Remember the butches, queens, hustlers, femmes, and street kids who built this movement with their bodies and their brilliance.

And remember this: Pride is protest. Pride is power. Pride is possibility.

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