sacred lines: The post- traumatic disco

The Post Traumatic Disco

I walk into a club like it’s a temple. 

 My eyeliner is war paint. My boots are altar stones. 

The bass drops like thunder, and I pray— 

 not to be seen, but to survive the seeing.

There’s a choreography to queer survival. 

We learn it young. 

How to smile without showing fear. 

How to dance without taking up too much space. 

How to glitter just enough to be celebrated, 

but not so much that we become a target.

The disco was freedom. 

Under the strobe lights, we could be anything. 

But no one warned us that our presence of joy weaponized their cruelty

That someone would turn the dance floor into a battlefield

And then a graveyard.

We are in a time I call, “the Post Traumatic Disco”. 

Our souls are still in shock

Our bodies are still trembling.

It’s the space we entered after the parades, after the protests, 

after the heartbreaks,

but during this growing wave of the hate. 

It’s where we’ve been dared to celebrate, 

To show joy, for they have warned us of our consequences

as they watch through their rifles

We always knew we were targets. 

But Pulse made it undeniable. 

The disco wasn’t just metaphor—it was a frontline. 

 But we were dressed for joy, not war.

I remember the way the news felt like a betrayal. 

Not just of safety, but of sanctuary

Pulse was hosting Latin Night. 

I picture in my mind

(because I have attended many of these clubs)

Drag queens were performing. 

People were kissing, laughing, surviving, and dancing

And then the music stopped.

It all stopped.

We were told it was terrorism. 

But we knew it was also homophobia. 

Also, racism. 

Also, the cost of being visible in a world

 that punishes our brand of  visibility.

After Pulse, the glitter felt heavier. 

Every dance floor felt haunted. 

And every Pride celebration carried the weight of mourning.

Not since the days of the quilt

Have I felt this kind of looming threat

We used to whisper that we were targets. 

 Now they’ve stopped whispering back. 

 They’ve written our names into bills. 

 Into budgets. 

 Into 600 plus bans.

In the shadow of this new American government, 

we are not just inconvenient. 

We are expendable.

WE are top of their list for eradication

They say it’s about protecting children. 

But what they mean is: 

protecting children from becoming us.

They cut funding for HIV prevention. 

They ban books with queer characters. 

They criminalize drag, restrict pronouns, 

and force therapists to betray trans youth.

This is not a culture war. 

This is a purge in slow motion.

And yet— 

we still dance. 

We still write. 

We still kiss in public, 

even when the cameras are watching.

We can’t lose hope now

We must remember ourselves.

We are not just survivors. 

We are architects of joy. 

We are the glitter in the wound, 

the bassline beneath the bans, 

the lipstick on the megaphone.

They are trying to legislate us out of existence. 

But we have turned every bill into a beat drop. 

Every erasure into an encore. 

Every threat into a remix of resistance.

We are Dionysus in drag. 

Medusa with a microphone. 

Orpheus with a mixtape and a middle finger.

We are the post traumatic disco. 

We are still dancing. 

Still kissing. 

Still creating sanctuaries out of sound and sweat

and sacred defiance.

So let them watch. 

Let them clutch their pearls and polish their rifles. 

We’ll be over here— 

building altars out of basslines, 

writing scripture in eyeliner, 

and choreographing a future 

where love and joy is not a crime 

but a commandment.

Because if they’re going to put us on a list, 

we’ll make sure it’s a guest list. 

And the party will be unforgettable.

We’ve danced through grief. 

We’ve glittered through bans. 

We’ve turned courtrooms into catwalks 

and protests into poetry.

We’ve won battles—

in California, and right here in Cathedral City. 

We win daily in classrooms, clinics, and capitols. 

But the war on joy is not over. 

And to my young queer friends: 

I’m sorry. 

This war has just begun.

So here’s what we do next:

- We protect our storytellers—the drag artists, the poets, the kids writing queer fanfic in secret. 

- We fund our sanctuaries—the clinics, the collectives, the clubs that hold us when the world won’t. 

- We vote like our joy depends on it—because it does. 

- We show up for each other—in court, in crisis, in celebration. 

- We build archives of resistance—so no one forgets what we survived, and how we danced anyway.

This is not just a monologue.

It’s a prayer and a pleading  

It’s a cry for movement. 

It’s a mixtape of memory and momentum. 

And you’re already part of it.

So, join us. 

Write with us. 

March with us.

Dance with us

Design the future with us.

Because in this Post Traumatic Disco we cannot not just

Sit around and  mourn. 

This is the place where we organize. 

It’s the place we begin again.

And if they’re still watching,

we’ll give them a show 

they’ll never forget.