Sitting With Our History at the Howard Theatre

There are evenings that feel like events.

Then there are evenings that feel like history.

This week I had the extraordinary honor of being invited by Dr. David J. Johns and the Center for Black Equity while joining my dear friends at the National LGBTQ Task Force as a guest at their table. Before I say anything else, thank you.

Thank you for opening the door.

Thank you for creating space.

Thank you for allowing me to listen.

The evening was held at the historic Howard Theatre, a venue that carries the weight of generations. Long before many of us were born, the Howard stood as one of the most important cultural institutions in Black America. Legends walked its stage. Communities gathered within its walls. History unfolded beneath its lights.

To sit in that space while honoring the legacy of ballroom culture felt profoundly meaningful.

The evening celebrated excellence, resilience, and community. But what I carried home with me was something deeper. I left thinking about history. I left thinking about elders. I left thinking about the responsibility each generation inherits from those who came before us.

Most of all, I left thinking about the people who built spaces of belonging when the rest of the world refused to make room for them.

As I looked around the room, I couldn't help but think about how many people never lived to see nights like this.

People who were thrown out of their homes.

People who lost jobs because of who they loved.

People who faced violence because of how they expressed themselves.

People who were criminalized, marginalized, ignored, and forgotten.

And yet somehow, against all odds, they kept building.

They built communities.

They built movements.

They built families.

They built hope.

Their fingerprints were everywhere in that room.

Nowhere was that more evident than in the presence of Ms. Rayceen Pendarvis.

For those who may not know her, Ms. Rayceen is Washington, D.C. royalty. She is a beloved transgender elder, activist, storyteller, community advocate, and one of the most important keepers of our city's LGBTQ history. For decades she has been a source of wisdom, joy, advocacy, and love for countless people throughout the District.

Listening to her speak reminded me of something our movement desperately needs to remember.

Our elders matter.

Not because they are older.

Because they remember.

They remember the battles.

They remember the victories.

They remember the names.

They remember the people who didn't make it.

They remember what it cost to get us here.

In an era of social media, instant commentary, and constant urgency, there is a temptation to believe that history began when we arrived. We celebrate Pride every June. We attend events. We post hashtags. We debate politics.

But how many of us have actually sat with someone who lived through the darkest chapters of our movement?

How many of us have listened to elders describe life before anti-discrimination protections?

How many of us have heard firsthand stories about surviving the AIDS crisis?

How many of us have listened to transgender elders talk about navigating a world that offered them almost no legal protections, almost no public understanding, and often very little safety?

Too few.

Younger members of our community need to spend more time sitting with our elders.

We need to hear their stories.

We need to learn their lessons.

We need to ask questions.

We need to understand not only what they fought against, but what they fought for.

Most importantly, we need to carry the torch they are passing to us.

There is a tendency within activist spaces to focus exclusively on what remains undone. There is certainly plenty of work left to do. But if we fail to understand how far we have come, we risk taking our victories for granted.

The freedoms many of us enjoy today did not arrive by accident.

They were earned.

They were fought for.

They were purchased through sacrifice, courage, heartbreak, and perseverance.

The least we can do is listen to those who paid the price.

That lesson felt particularly powerful because ballroom culture itself stands as one of the greatest examples of what happens when people create belonging where none exists.

Many people outside the LGBTQ community know ballroom through its most visible elements.

The fashion.

The categories.

The performances.

The creativity.

The fierce competition.

All of those things are beautiful.

But ballroom was never just about performance.

Ballroom was about survival.

For generations, LGBTQ people… particularly Black and Brown LGBTQ people… found themselves rejected by institutions that were supposed to protect them.

Families turned them away.

Churches condemned them.

Employers discriminated against them.

Housing became unstable.

Safety became uncertain.

So they built something new.

They built houses.

Not houses made of wood and nails.

Houses made of love.

Houses made of mentorship.

Houses made of accountability.

Houses made of protection.

Houses made of family.

The genius of ballroom culture is that it recognized a simple truth long before the rest of society caught up:

People need somewhere to belong.

House mothers and house fathers became exactly that source of belonging for countless young people. They stepped into gaps left by biological families. They provided guidance, support, structure, encouragement, and love.

They saw people the world had overlooked.

They celebrated people the world had dismissed.

They reminded people they mattered.

Sometimes that reminder saved lives.

When we talk about chosen family within LGBTQ spaces, ballroom culture represents one of the most profound examples of that idea in practice. Entire generations survived because someone looked at them and said, "You belong here."

That is not merely community building.

That is life-saving work.

And while the language may differ, the need remains exactly the same today.

People still need belonging.

People still need community.

People still need places where they are seen, valued, and loved.

Ballroom has been teaching that lesson for generations.

But perhaps the most important lesson I carried home from the evening was one of solidarity.

Real solidarity.

The kind that demands something from us.

The kind that challenges us.

The kind that requires action rather than words.

One of the most powerful observations shared during the evening has stayed with me ever since.

The slave ship didn't care about your sexual orientation.

The chains didn't give a damn about your gender identity.

That statement is important because it reminds us of a truth that can sometimes be overlooked.

Black queer people have always existed.

They existed before Stonewall.

They existed before Pride.

They existed before ballroom.

They existed on plantations.

They existed during Reconstruction.

They existed during Jim Crow.

They existed during the Civil Rights Movement.

They have always carried multiple identities simultaneously because those identities are inseparable parts of who they are.

Too often conversations about race and conversations about LGBTQ identity become separated from one another. But for countless people, those experiences cannot be separated.

They never could.

As a white transgender woman, I understand discrimination.

I understand fear.

I understand rejection.

I understand what it feels like to have people debate your humanity.

But I also have to acknowledge something that can be uncomfortable.

I am still white.

And that matters.

Too often white LGBTQ people convince ourselves that because we have experienced hardship, we no longer possess privilege.

That simply isn't true.

The reality is that many white LGBTQ people can choose when to engage conversations about race.

Many Black LGBTQ people cannot.

Many white LGBTQ people can step away when discussions become uncomfortable.

Many Black LGBTQ people live those realities every single day.

Recognizing that truth isn't about guilt.

It's about responsibility.

Responsibility to listen.

Responsibility to learn.

Responsibility to show up.

Responsibility to understand that our liberation is interconnected.

I was reminded throughout the evening of something President Barack Obama often challenged Americans to understand: our destinies are tied together.

The same is true within the LGBTQ community.

We cannot afford to be Black queers over here and white queers over there.

We cannot afford to separate transgender people from gay people.

We cannot afford to divide lesbians from bisexual people.

We cannot afford to fracture ourselves into smaller and smaller groups while expecting to build a stronger movement.

Our opponents rarely make those distinctions.

The people attacking LGBTQ rights do not stop to sort us into categories before they act.

The people attempting to erase our history do not care whether their target is Black, white, gay, transgender, lesbian, bisexual, or nonbinary.

They simply see someone they wish to silence.

Our answer must be unity.

Not performative unity.

Real unity.

The kind that shows up.

The kind that listens.

The kind that advocates.

The kind that fights alongside rather than merely cheering from the sidelines.

For white members of the LGBTQ community, that means supporting organizations led by people of color.

It means amplifying Black voices.

It means making room at the table.

It means recognizing that equality is not achieved simply because our own immediate needs have been met.

It means understanding that none of us are truly free until all of us are free.

That is not a radical concept.

It is the very foundation of community.

And community is exactly what I witnessed at the Howard Theatre.

I saw elders and young people sharing space.

I saw history and future sitting side by side.

I saw activists, artists, organizers, advocates, ballroom legends, and everyday people united by a common belief that every human being deserves dignity.

I saw what becomes possible when people choose connection over division.

For one evening, surrounded by the history of the Howard Theatre and the legacy of ballroom culture, I was reminded how much our community has overcome.

I was also reminded how much work remains.

That work belongs to all of us.

To the elders who continue teaching.

To the young people preparing to lead.

To the organizers who build movements.

To the artists who tell stories.

To the house mothers and house fathers who continue creating spaces of belonging.

To the Black LGBTQ leaders who have carried this movement forward despite burdens many of us have never had to bear.

And yes, to white LGBTQ people like me who must continue learning how to listen better, show up better, and stand more firmly alongside our siblings of color.

So once again, thank you.

Thank you to Dr. David J. Johns.

Thank you to the Center for Black Equity.

Thank you to the National LGBTQ Task Force.

Thank you to the ballroom community.

Thank you to Ms. Rayceen Pendarvis and every elder who continues to share their wisdom.

And thank you to those who came before any of us were here.

The torch is still burning.

May we prove worthy of carrying it.

Wishing each of you a happy and safe pride

Love

Allie