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It was a steamy New Orleans night, with a dazzling party well underway: There were people on stilts, dancers donning angel wings, and even a fire eater.

It was an unforgettable queer party. Suffice to say, when the LGBTQ community in NOLA decides to do it up, they don’t do it halfway.

But this wasn’t just any old party.


This night was an incredible show of resilience from a community that was no stranger to struggle.

It was part of the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival, one of the oldest queer literary events in the country — and since 2003, it’s represented a legacy of LGBTQ creatives, surviving and thriving under difficult circumstances.

The festival was first designed to create awareness around HIV/AIDS in the LGBTQ community as well as bringing queer and trans creatives together in celebration of the arts.

And that party with the stilts and the puppets? A fundraiser, with proceeds benefiting not just the festival itself, but the NO/AIDS Task Force, the largest AIDS services organization in Louisiana.

[rebelmouse-image 19533133 dam="1" original_size="2048x1356" caption="Photo by Ride Hamilton via Saints and Sinners Literary Festival/Facebook." expand=1]Photo by Ride Hamilton via Saints and Sinners Literary Festival/Facebook.

It's about more than books. It's a festival with impact.

Paul J. Willis, executive director and founder of the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival, sees the festival as a chance to make waves in the community and beyond. "We can be a voice in our local community and an instrument of change," he explains.

By mobilizing the community, LGBTQ writers find new ways to use the arts to create greater understanding and awareness about the issues that impact them most.

Photo by Ride Hamilton via Saints and Sinners Literary Festival.

Saints and Sinners also creates an intentional space for the queer and trans community to connect and network, celebrate successes and new artists, and recognize the awesome history of LGBTQ creatives paving the way in queer literature.

In a wider culture that so often erases the contributions of LGBTQ people, events like these create an intentional space for community-building.

And with so many opportunities for artists and appreciators of art alike, there are so many different ways to connect with others: You can attend a panel discussion or master class with writers, editors, and publishers. You can learn about some of the up and coming names in LGBTQ lit, attend book launches and readings, meet advocates working toward LGBTQ justice, or just take in the infectious energy of the Glitter with the Literati Party.

"You can lean into conversations with some of the best writers and editors and agents in the country, all of them speaking frankly and passionately about the books, stories and people they love," writes Dorothy Allison, National Book Award finalist for "Bastard Out of Carolina."

"[It’s] hands down one of the best places to revive a writer’s spirit," Allison continues.

Writer Justin Torres. Image via Saints and Sinners Literary Festival.

That spirit, and the healing that takes place at Saints and Sinners, is what the event is truly about.

It’s not just about writing — it’s about uplifting one another, walking away with more energy and purpose than you started with.

"I was a victim of a hate crime several years ago," Willis explains. The impact was devastating: He had to have his right eye removed. But it was at the festival that he found strength, friendship, and a bold new fashion choice.

"That year at Saints and Sinners, several attendees chipped in to an effort led by author and editor Ron Suresha and presented me with an awesome assortment of designer eye patches."

Because at its core, Saints and Sinners isn’t just for the love of the arts; it’s for the strength we lend one another in community.

"The festival helps ensure that the written work from the LGBTQ+ community will continue to have an outlet, that people will have access to books that help dispel stereotypes," Willis explains. "[It also helps] alleviate isolation, and provide resources for personal wellness."

And it’s the breaking down of that isolation and bringing folks together that makes the Saints and Sinners Literary Festival unlike any other.

Photo via Saints and Sinners Literary Festival.

"Imagine the flirting, the arguing, the teasing and praising and exchanging of not just vital information, but the whole spirit of queer arts and creating," Allison writes. "Then imagine it all taking place on the sultry streets of New Orleans’ French Quarter."

"That’s Saints and Sinners — the best wellspring of inspiration and enthusiasm you are going to find."

That inspiration is in abundance in a city like New Orleans. And for the queer community and the folks who support them, glitter and literature has turned out to be a winning combination.

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My white parents adopted African-American twins when I was young. This is our story.

I'm white. My adopted brothers are black. This is how their world differs from mine.

In 1969, my white parents adopted twin, 4-month-old African-American and Mexican-American baby boys.

I was born a year later, making us three children under 3 years old. And, boy, were we a handful.

This was just two years after the landmark United States Supreme Court decision invalidating laws prohibiting interracial marriage, and just five short years after the Civil Rights Act of 1964 outlawed discrimination based on race, forbid racial discrimination in schools, and allowed people of color to drink from the same water fountains as white people.


Many people over the years have asked me what it was like growing up with my African-American brothers as my “real” brothers.

The boring truth is that this was my “normal.” My brothers and I bickered and fought like the close-in-age siblings we were.

Image courtesy of Elena Kennedy.

Our circle of friends included other families who were also interracial. I didn’t even notice at the time that I was the only white kid in my first grade class until years later when I saw my class picture, and there I was  — the only white kid, with a white teacher.

We lived in a pretty progressive town, Montclair, New Jersey. That year, the school system was creating “magnet schools” to help integrate the schools. So while I walked to our neighborhood school, my brothers were bused to the area of town that was primarily white to desegregate and improve integration.

I didn’t really like that my big brothers and I wouldn’t be at the same school. I think, to this day, there are acquaintances of ours that know us separately and don’t put it together that we’re brothers and sister even though we have the same last name.

Although we were being raised in the same family, their experiences were separate and different from mine.

Out in the world, they were being treated differently than I was.

When we went to the same middle school, I remember us walking home together and noticing that one of my brothers said someone was looking at us funny. Billy and Toby would always notice who was looking at us funny, and I never ever noticed.

One time, my brother Billy was chased in a store for taking a shirt off the rack and running back to us to say this was the shirt he wanted our mother to buy. The store clerk followed in hot pursuit, thinking a theft was in progress.

Later, when Billy could drive, I remember him getting stopped by police on the parkway driving home, and the police looked over to the passenger side where my white dad sat and asked if everything was all right. My dad replied: “Yes, my son is just driving us home. Was he speeding?” We knew this was an odd traffic stop because, no, he wasn’t speeding.

Last year, I asked my brother to do me a huge favor and drive my son from New Jersey where we were visiting family to our home in Dayton, Ohio, (where I live now) — a 10-hour drive.

In order to drive my son home, we agreed it would be best to write and sign a letter saying my brother had permission to drive my car and was taking my son home to Ohio and include a picture of my driver’s license in case there was any trouble.

It made all of us feel better to know he had that note. It also made us miserable to write it. And we held our breath the whole way they drove to Ohio and until Billy returned safely back to NYC.

Image courtesy of Elena Kennedy.

My brothers go into the world as African-American men, and the world treats them as African-American men  —  with implicit bias, prejudice, and fear. I go into the world a white woman and I am afforded the benefit of the doubt and second chances.

When I went away to college in Ohio, people were surprised to learn that I grew up with African-American brothers.

“What was it like?” The question stumped me. It was just my normal. I didn’t know anything different to compare it to. Yet, I do know that it’s not everyone’s normal, and in some circumstances, people don’t interact with people of color in their daily lives.

Under different circumstances, I might have been a white person who didn’t regularly interact with people of color. I could have had an understanding of race taken from books, biased news reports, from TV or movies. Instead, I have agonized over my brothers “driving while black,” and I worry for their lives when they come to visit me.

I want to make the world safer and more fair for my family and yours.

Maybe now you’ll speak up when you witness something that seems unjust.

Maybe now you will see an uncomfortable interaction involving a person of color and you’ll think, "What if that were my brother or sister?"

What can you do? You can talk to your friends and neighbors about how you feel about injustices in the world. You can join a racial justice group in your town, your school, or your place of worship.

I am sharing this because I hope my story starts just one constructive conversation today that wouldn’t have happened otherwise.

Just days after the election, a Muslim student at the University of Michigan  was approached by a stranger who ordered her to remove her hijab under threat that he would set her on fire.

According to Nusayba Tabbah, the internal vice president of the school's Muslim Students' Association, this was not an isolated event, but rather, an acceleration of an anti-Muslim climate on campus.

In response, the school's Muslim students decided to reclaim their space on campus — a reminder that they have the same right to be there as any other student.

MSA program committee member Rami Ebrahim suggested the group gather to pray one of their five daily prayers, ishaa, in public. In doing so, the community would be making a powerful statement, letting those who seek to antagonize them know that they will not be bullied into hiding who they are and what they believe.


The Muslim Student Association held a group Ishaa prayer at University of Michigan, with two hundred non-Muslims standing guard in a circle around them

Posted by MSA National on Monday, November 14, 2016

A few non-Muslim friends were asked to circle around the group during the prayer as a show of solidarity. What they got was so much more.

"I was surprised and overwhelmed by the number of people there — both Muslim and non-Muslim," Tabbah wrote in an email. The crowd was made up of an estimated 300 people.

Mohammed Ishtiaq, University of Michigan’s Muslim chaplain, leads prayer. Photo by Benji Bear.

"It reminded me that I have a lot to be grateful for," she continued. "We are part of an amazing community that has repeatedly spoken out about the growing hostility towards Muslims and other minorities."

Photo by Benji Bear.

Solidarity and compassion for one another is crucial. Nobody should be made to live in fear because of their religious beliefs or skin color.

"We must not stand silent while facing expressions of bigotry, discrimination or hate that have become part of our national political discourse,” wrote school president Mark Schlissel in an email to students.

Photo by Benji Bear.

Right now, more than any other time in recent history, we must stand on the side of acceptance; we must stand against bigotry. The Southern Poverty Law Center, an organization that tracks hate crimes and hate groups, has found the uptick in hate crimes to be greater in the current post-election landscape than even in the immediate aftermath of the 9/11 attacks. Since Election Day, the group has logged more than 400 events of harassment and intimidation.

Now is the time to be an ally to Muslims and other minorities, and that means taking action.

For one, it's important to educate yourselves and to help educate others. Tabbah recommends getting to know your Muslim neighbors, noting that many people who fear or hate Muslims simply don't know any.

Photo by Benji Bear.

Just as important: We can't let this type of bigotry and harassment become the accepted norm.

"I think it's important to speak out when we hear or see something wrong," Tabbah adds.

"We can't let ourselves become desensitized to hateful rhetoric because that just normalizes it."

Photo by Benji Bear.

We don't have to give in to a culture of fear. We can fight back. We can be a force for good in this world.

On Saturday, Nov. 12, Jesse Sanders and Josh Seifert stood hand-in-hand in Central Park.

The afternoon was colder than usual, but the couple smiled, warmed by the occasional sunbeam and the confidence that things were about to change for the better. Sure, they'd been engaged for a year, but this day, their wedding day, happened like a goodnight kiss: slow at first, then all at once.

Jesse (left) and Josh during their wedding ceremony. Photo by Karen Seifert/I Heart New York, used with permission.


Just days prior, the couple had no clue they'd be getting married so soon. Their quick wedding had everything to do with Donald Trump.

"We were big Clinton supporters so [the election] hit us very hard," Sanders wrote in an email. "We had been considering getting married sometime soon, but I don't want anyone to get the impression that we got married last Saturday out of fear. "

The future is uncertain, but love isn't. Photo by Karen Seifert/I Heart New York, used with permission.

Instead, they say they wed as tribute to an era of almost unimaginable positive steps for the LGBTQ community, diversity, and inclusion: from the election of the country's first black president and the repeal of Don't Ask Don't Tell to marriage equality reaching all 50 states. The happy couple wanted to be a part of it, especially with the future looking so uncertain.

"We don't know what the next historical era holds but so far, it is looking to be unsettling," he said.

After proposing one more time to Seifert, Sanders sent an invite to his friends and 3 million strangers to their wedding, which suddenly was just three days away.

Sanders, a member of the private Clinton fan group Pantsuit Nation, shared news of his impending wedding with the groups more than 3 million members. His post received thousands of likes and shares. When complete strangers started asking for an invite, Sanders went with it and invited the well-wishers to join him and Seifert at Sheep Meadow in Central Park.

Wedding guests signing the guest book. Photo by Karen Seifert/I Heart New York, used with permission.

"My husband is self-admittedly quite shy so when I had to break it to him that I might have accidentally invited 3 million people to our wedding, he was a bit shocked," Sanders said. "Once he started reading all of the love, his eyes welled up too and he couldn't say 'no' to inviting these strangers who wanted to share in our happiness. "

The day arrived and Josh, Jesse, their friends, and a few joyful strangers from across the northeast came out to celebrate in Central Park.

There were hugs, well wishes, presents, and even a handmade sign. One guest from Pantsuit Nation, Karen Seifert (no relation to Josh) is a photographer. She volunteered to take their wedding photos.

Josh and Jesse welcome complete strangers to their wedding ceremony in Central Park. Photos by Karen Seifert/I Heart New York, used with permission.

"The combination of friends and family we had known for such a long time and strangers who had simply been touched by our story gathered around me and the love of my life, watching us consecrate our union was the single most incredibly profound event I have ever experienced," Sanders said.

Friends, family, and strangers after the ceremony. Photo by Karen Seifert/I Heart New York, used with permission.

Of course, Jesse and Josh aren't the only folks from the LGBTQ community reacting with love and hope in the wake of this life-changing election.

Bethany Johnson of Springfield, Missouri, woke up on Nov. 10 with a knot in her stomach following the election. Johnson, a 37-year-old transgender woman, had recently moved back to Springfield, Missouri, and decided to take a small but hopeful step by sprucing up her white picket fence and painting her gate rainbow colors.

She started her project with gusto, but after a run-in with Trump supporters at the hardware store, Johnson got discouraged. She even considered dropping everything and moving to Canada. But after talking to some of her friends, she decided to stay and fight — not with fists, but with kindness.

"I realized that it is wrong to leave people here who will be doing the work for the society I want," Johnson said in an email.

She got up and met her neighbors, handing out homemade biscuits and telling them how fearful she was. But reaching out and meeting people face-to-face helped.

"I came home after talking to all of those people and I painted my fence and my gate," she said.

Photo by Bethany Johnson, used with permission.

But for every story of love, hope, and kindness in the wake of the election — like this wedding or the rainbow fence — there is also a story of fear and concern.

Following Trump's victory, Jessica (who preferred not to use her last name) in Georgia is frightened and feverishly scraping together money and legal counsel so her wife can legally adopt their son in case their marriage is thrown out in the courts.

"We're legitimately scared for our family," she said.

It's unknown what Trump, Congress, or the Supreme Court will or won't do for LGBTQ citizens. But if the Republican platform is any indication, representatives at every level and branch may try to roll back the clock on civil rights.

Rainbow-colored lights shined on the White House to celebrate the Supreme Court ruling in favor of same-sex marriage June 26, 2015. Photo by Mark Wilson/Getty Images.

These weddings, fears, and fences prove that we need to turn our emotions into action this year.

"We can be mad about the election or mad about things that have been said by people on both sides," Johnson said. "But that anger has to turn into some kind of positive action for all of us eventually."

It might be meeting your neighbors. It might be attending a stranger's wedding. It might be painting a fence, or volunteering in the community, or making preparations for the months to come to protect yourself and others. But mostly, it will be listening — really listening — to people who feel marginalized and left behind by the new administration.

"...If you are not a person of color, you do not get to decide what racism is. If you are not LGBTQ, you do not get to define homophobia," Sanders said. "Ask them what you can do to help. Don't make assumptions. They'll tell you what they need from you."

But what I hope we don't forget as we walk forward is the possibility of this moment in the sun.

The possibility that exists between these two men, hand in hand with the one they love most.

Photo by Karen Seifert/I Heart New York used with permission.

"Channel the negative emotions into positive change," Sanders said. "Look at your fellow man with compassion and look for every way you can help."