I smile at my bandmates when someone in the crowd gives a littlewhoop!of approval. I’m pretty sure it was Emmy.
“This article talks about my troubled childhood and some of the trauma I endured in a way that is not only deeply invasive but also harmful to every child who lived through abuse or trauma. No child deserves to be abused. No child ends up in foster care because of something they did. Yes, I had a troubled childhood,” I say, my voice steady even though my palms are damp. “I went to bed scared most nights. I flinched from mere shadows. I learned how to be small and quiet and invisible because it was safer that way.”
The silence in the cavernous room of the building lobby feels heavy. It’s harder to talk about this than I expected, and I’m starting to wish I’d chosen to write out my statement.
“I was too small and too scared and too weak when I was moved into Don Malloy’s house,” I continue. “My foster father was cruel and mocking. He enjoyed my fear. Even now, as an adult, he attempts to use it against me because he believes that I am the same weak little boy he once bullied.”
Will’s hand brushes against mine behind the podium. I link our fingers together.
“I didn’t feel much safer in my foster family’s home than I did in the house where I nearly died. The best thing that ever happened to me came from the worst,” I say. “In the form of a boy not much older than me. I loved him. I loved him then, and I love him now.”
I don’t look at him. I don’t need to. But I tighten my grip on his hand.
“Maybe you think it’s wrong because we grew up in that same house. Maybe you want to make it something dirty or twisted because that fits your narrative better. But I’m telling you, you’re wrong. We were all each other had. We protected each other. We trusted each other. We built something out of survival that grew into something stronger as we became adults.”
I let that settle.
“The rest of it is none of anyone’s damn business.”
There is a murmur somewhere in the room. A snicker, perhaps.
“There are always going to be people who judge you for who you are, what you look like, the choices you make, the choices you don’t make.” I say evenly. “It’s inescapable. So, judge me if you want. But don’t let it distract you.”
I take a breath before continuing.
“Because that’s what they want. They want to distract you from millions of pages of files where certain names show up again and again. From gunshots in the streets. From human beings locked in cages that are not fit for the rats they are forced to share them with. They want to distract you by pinning the worst crimes on the people statistically least likely to commit them. And they want to distract you by painting love as evil.”
My voice does not waver.
“Love is love. Love is joy. Love is resistance.”
I glance at the band behind me.
“Stand proud and stay loud,” I finish. “Because we will not let them get us down.”
FORTY
WILL
The Superbowl was surreal, but the kick-off for ourStay Loud Resistance Tourfeels like a fever dream. Nothing about the chaos feels controlled, and we’ve navigated a lot of obstacles, threats, and opposition from all our favorite haters.
Instead of a stadium built for our brand of spectacle, we’ve taken over a city park that has been home to protests, candlelight vigils, and more than a few tense standoffs with riot shields and tear gas. The stage is smaller than we’re used to, the lighting less polished, and there’s very little separation between us and the enormous crowd of people who showed up.
I like it so much better.
Local community leaders speak before we go on—organizers who have been doing this work long before we came along to amplify it with guitars and stage lights. A public defender talks about families separated without warning, incarcerated young children crying to go home, and the injustice of innocent people not being allowed due process, that is supposed to be the law of the land. A local high school teacher talks about students missing from class because people are too afraid toleave their homes to go to school or the grocery store. A group of young people who give me hope for the future stand up and tell a crowd of thousands how masked, unidentified “police” in mismatched military prints and armored vests have tried to intimidate them with racist and homophobic slurs. A trans woman speaks about how community is what’s helped her survive a sharp increase in harassment and legislation that tries to erase her existence.
The crowd doesn’t scream and cheer the way fans do at a normal concert. They respond with grit and intention, because this means so much more than four jackasses jumping around onstage ever could. It’s personal. It’s life and death.
As I stand in our curtained-off makeshift backstage area, listening to the last speaker finish, I feel a similar buzz of nerves that I did at the Superbowl, only different. This little stage matters so much more.
Ari bumps his shoulder against mine. “You good?”
I smile, then lean into him to press a kiss to his cheek. “Better than good. You ready?”
Just then, Naz bounces on his toes, twirling a drumstick between his fingers. “We’re on.”
Ari grins, eyes alight with the same energy I’m feeling. “Let’s light it up.”
