Our Stories Make Us: Queer History, Queer Futures
A Story Saved My Life
When I was in high school in Alabama, I didn’t know if I was going to make it. I couldn’t imagine my life outside of my circumstances — a devoutly religious, deeply conservative family and community that upheld traditional values and a strict heteronormative expectation for all. I often thought death was the only way out for me, though I tried to convince myself that I could marry the “right girl” and have a family.
I entered college, a shell of a human being, still trying to please other people with the way I lived my life. I studied biology, but after four years, nothing really seemed like it was truly worth it. I wanted to live out the fantasy of a thriving queer existence that perhaps involved a loving queer relationship. I just wanted to be myself.
Long story short, after four years of science, I changed my major to a subject that I assumed would be more … gay. Theater was in fact, the gayest, and I couldn’t have been happier with my decision. I was happy to see others living authentically, but I still believed that I would die immediately and go straight to hell* if I came out.
*It’s funny that the phrase is “straight to hell,” right? It’s not “gay to hell.” I’m just saying…
Then, something happened. Cliff Simon, my intro to design professor, saved my life. He told his story. For the first time, I heard somebody talking openly about being queer. Was I being pranked? Or could it be that there was potential for me to thrive in my queerness?
Fast forward. I started coming out slowly to my friends and family. In short, I started being me. I moved to New York. And in the biggest full-circle moment, I officiated Cliff and Julian’s wedding (they had been together years at that point, but gay marriage had not been legal).
It all started with a story. If I had not heard Cliff’s, my story would have been lost forever.
Signaling our Authenticity
Queer stories have long been the lifelines of our community, but we haven’t been able to tell them as easily as we can today. Before the 1958 landmark Supreme Court case — ONE, Inc. v. Olesen — it was illegal to share queer stories in most media. They were considered obscene.
As a matter of fact, the vestiges of this archaic belief still plague the queer community. In 2019, I was uploading a video to YouTube with the word bisexual in the title. My account was suspended and the video did not upload due to a “violation of community guidelines.” Despite the historical and present-day challenges, we’ve figured out how to tell our stories in ways that made sense to us.
Polari, for instance, was a language used almost exclusively by gay people to communicate to one another. A few enthusiasts are keeping it alive, and I’m so grateful.
According to the Victoria & Albert Museum, “Oscar Wilde popularised the Parisian trend of wearing a green carnation as a symbol of gay identity when he asked friends to wear them on their lapels to his play Lady Windermere’s Fan in 1892. Worn on the left lapel, the green malmaison carnation became a ‘code’ for men who were attracted to other men.” You’ve no doubt heard the term pansy referring to queer people. And apparently, roses in Japan have often been used to refer to queer people. There was also the Lavender Scare of the 1940s and 50s. Flowers have always been a way to signal queer identity.
The hanky code was a popular 1970s fashion statement that alerted others in the queer community to your sexual preferences. In the 1980s, it was which ear you had pierced.
More recently, we see key rings on belt loops. In the musical, “Fun Home”, the song “Ring of Keys” refers to a moment when Young Allison sees an old-school, butch lesbian in a diner and immediately recognizes something about herself. We also see thumb rings, unicorns, the pink triangle — and more overtly, the rainbow flag.
These days — much to my sheer delight — the coding is less subtle. I often see queer people wearing t-shirts that say things like “Power Bottom” or “Gay and Proud.” I see tattoos of queer iconography. It’s almost not necessary to signal queerness anymore. Thank goodness, we can just be queer without all the charades.
But whether that freedom continues or is forced to retreat, we queers do what we have to do to tell our stories. And we’re really good at it!
The Fragility of Queer History
Speaking of forced retreat, it’s moments like these, in the face of an anti-queer US president, that we remember how many times throughout history we’ve been erased.
Remember when Donald Trump removed all mention of LGBTQ+ people from White House communications? He wasn’t the first prominent US politician first to try to erase us. Joseph McCarthy orchestrated a "Lavender Scare" against people he presumed to be homosexual, asserting that their sexual activity made them vulnerable to blackmail by communists. He single-handedly turned much of the nation against queer people. But again, he wasn’t the first. It was baked into the puritanical founding of the United States.
Thomas Jefferson, as Governor of Virginia in 1779, proposed a revision to the state’s criminal code that included extreme punishments for same-sex acts. He suggested mutilation for women (boring holes in their faces) and public labor for men (carrying heavy stones). These proposals reflected the harsh societal attitudes toward same-sex relationships at the time and were designed to shame and physically mark individuals for life.
Queer love has historically been punished and stigmatized:
Sodomy laws persisted into the late 20th century, with some states retaining them until the Supreme Court overturned them in Lawrence v. Texas (2003). These laws delegitimized queer lives and relationships, fostering silence and shame. I grew up in Alabama, and often heard that “butt sex” was nasty and illegal (two things I know from first-hand experience to be untrue!).
LGBTQ+ literature and art were often banned or censored. Authors like Oscar Wilde were imprisoned, and queer themes were stripped from published works to align with societal norms. I can’t remember a single time before college being made aware that any prominent figure we studied was queer (for instance, Walt Whitman, James Baldwin, Virginia Woolf, Langston Hughes, Emily Dickinson, Tennessee Williams, Lorraine Hansberry, Oscar Wilde, Frida Kahlo, Andy Warhol, Eleanor Roosevelt).
From the 1930s to 1968, the Hays Code censored overt depictions of LGBTQ+ characters in films. Queer characters were either erased or portrayed as villains or tragic figures, reinforcing stereotypes and denying authentic representation. The hilarious truth is that Hollywood has always (and still is) full of queers. As a matter of fact, the first movie ever made was gay ("The Dickson Experimental Sound Film", created in 1894 or 1895 by William Kennedy Laurie Dickson at Thomas Edison’s laboratory, shows two men dancing to a violin tune).
Throughout the 19th and 20th centuries, homosexuality and gender variance were labeled as mental illnesses. This led to treatments like conversion therapy and institutionalization, silencing queer voices under the guise of "curing" them. Framing queerness as a disease erased the validity of LGBTQ+ experiences, forcing many to hide their identities to avoid persecution. I didn’t want to come out, for a very similar reason, which was that it was an abomination — a sin deserving of hell and treated by Chirstian conversion therapy.
During the height of the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s and 1990s, mainstream media largely ignored the crisis, even as thousands of LGBTQ+ individuals died. This lack of coverage erased the human stories behind the epidemic and delayed critical action. For instance, the republican superhero, Ronald Reagan, refused to acknowledge the epidemic until years into his presidency, compounding the silence and stigmatization of those affected.
Queer movements like Stonewall were initially dismissed or misrepresented in mainstream narratives. Even today, LGBTQ+ history is often excluded from school curriculums, leaving gaps in collective memory. Queer people of color, trans individuals, and those living at the intersections of multiple marginalized identities are often erased even within LGBTQ+ spaces, compounding the denial of their stories.
Efforts to ban LGBTQ+-inclusive books and restrict discussions about queer topics in schools, like Florida’s “Don’t Say Gay” bill, continue to erase queer experiences. Anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric perpetuates harmful myths, fostering confusion and fear that suppress authentic queer stories.
While history itself may be fragile, the resilience of the LGBTQ+ community has never been stronger. That’s exactly why, in the face of centuries of systemic oppression, queer storytelling is critical. While we’re strong, we must reclaim and preserve our narratives. We must tell our stories, particularly in a society that has tried so hard to erase and criminalize us, so that tomorrow is better for all of us.
Why Queer Storytelling is Important
In 2016, I started a nonprofit called VideoOut. We traveled all over the United States recording interviews of LGBTQ+ people. We were in really good company with incredible organizations doing similar work: I’m From Driftwood, OUTWORDS, It Gets Better, MyStoryOutLoud, and The Generations Project, to name a few. This collective work accomplished monumental goals, overcoming several insurmountable challenges.
The stories in these archives combat misinformation. Everything from “it’s a choice” to “all queer people act the same.” I mean, just take your pick from any of the collections and you’ll find unique stories from the most diverse slice of the world. It’s the most beautiful rainbow of shared humanity available with a click of a button.
These initiatives also highlight historical contributions by LGBTQ+ people across science, art, politics, and culture, correcting the erasure of queer history. My favorite part about the stories is that they showed the incredible ways queer people give back to the world. It reminds me of Debra Shore, an elected official in Chicago, who talked about wanting more queers to run for office. VideoOut also started doing animations that share more educational content about our history and culture.
But perhaps the most important reason we tell our stories is not to convert or convince the world that we are valid or deserving, but to inspire and encourage others just like us. Queer stories create a sense of belonging for the next generation of queer people. The small-town kid who is struggling to come out or the hot-shot CEO who has a reputation to maintain — our stories help fortify queer courage and break the walls of oppression so that all of us can live, and share our stories, more freely. What a gift!
Shaping The Future
We focus so much on what happened in the past: our trauma, circumstances, and past experiences. Those are important to remember, share, and process. But they are not the only part of our stories that matter.
Most queer people know about Stonewall, but our cultural memory extends far beyond the riots of 1969. We have been here forever, and we’ll always be here. We have fought hard to win our rights, and we will continue fighting until equity is secured…
The Mattachine Society (1950, Los Angeles)
Daughters of Bilitis (1955, Los Angeles)
The Cooper’s Donuts Riot (1959, Los Angeles)
The Black Cat Tavern Protest (1967, Los Angeles)
Compton’s Cafeteria Riot (1966, San Francisco)
The Sip-in at Julius' Bar (1966, New York City)
The Lavender Menace Protest (1970, New York City)
The Christopher Street Liberation Day March (1970, New York City)
The White Night Riots (1979, San Francisco)
ACT UP and the AIDS Activism Movement (1980s–90s, Global)
The Dyke March (1993–present, National/Global)
Transgender Day of Visibility and Transgender Day of Remembrance (1999–present)
…but that legacy of resilience is best honored by the way it secures our future.
We tell our stories to combat erasure and misinformation, to encourage those living through oppression today, and to remind us of the future we are securing for ourselves. Our stories help shape our progress — and when we listen to them, learn from them, and grow because of them, we create a future that feels more like home for everyone.
We’re not alone in this. Communities throughout history have reclaimed their narratives and shaped their futures by refusing to be erased.
During the Montgomery Bus Boycotts, Black Americans collectively withdrew their participation from an unjust system. They reclaimed their dignity and forced the country to reckon with its oppression. Much like queer communities, they proved that visibility, solidarity, and action could disrupt systems designed to silence them.
Indigenous land movements, like the resistance at Standing Rock, show how communities reclaim their sacred land, asserting their right to protect their histories and futures from destruction. Queer people, too, reclaim spaces — whether through Pride parades, visibility campaigns, or storytelling — as sacred sites of identity, resilience, and belonging.
The youth climate movement, led by figures like Greta Thunberg, reminds us that the future is ours to fight for. Young people across the globe have refused to accept a narrative of despair. Similarly, queer communities refuse to accept erasure, ensuring that future generations inherit a world where their stories are known, their identities are celebrated, and their rights are protected.
In the workers' rights movement, leaders like César Chávez and Dolores Huerta stood alongside farmworkers, fighting for dignity, safety, and fair treatment. Their collective action resonates with queer movements, which similarly demand equity, visibility, and humanity in systems that often exploit or exclude them.
These movements remind us that storytelling is never passive. It’s an act of survival, a tool for progress, and a roadmap for the future. Just like those who marched, organized, and resisted before us, queer people today shape our future every time we share our truths, demand our place, and fight for what comes next.
We are part of a long, collective legacy of resilience — and our stories ensure we are irremovable from the story of humanity.
A Legacy of Truth, A Future of Belonging
Queer stories aren’t just for queers — they’re for everyone. When we tell our stories, we’re preserving our history and we’re illuminating what connects us all: shared humanity.
Queer narratives teach us about courage. How hard is it to be yourself in a world that demands we be something else?
Queer stories teach us about resilience. How hard is it to fight for equality, equity, love, and joy in a world that tries to steal those things from us through legislation and erasure?
Queer stories teach us about the audacity required to live authentically in a world that too often demands conformity.
They remind us of the beauty in diversity and the power of community. And honestly, isn’t that what we all want? To be seen, to be valued, to be free to be ourselves?
Our stories remind the world that we’ve always existed, and we’ll continue to exist in every possible color, shape, and form. Our stories are a bridge between the past and the future, connecting generations, and their movements, in ways that inspire the generations that have yet to come.
Sharing stories is about the world we’re creating together. A world where truth can’t be erased, where history can’t be rewritten to fit someone else’s agenda, where every voice matters, and every story has immense value. Imagine what could happen if everyone — queer, straight, trans, cis, Black, white, young, old, citizen, immigrant, people with and without disabilities, wealthy, poor — embraced storytelling as a way to see each other more clearly, to understand one another more deeply, to build a world that feels like home to everyone.
So here’s my challenge to you: tell your story. Share it boldly, even if your voice shakes. Listen to someone else’s story with curiosity. Love the storyteller. Like, truly fall in love with them for their story. Support the projects, the people and the movements that make storytelling possible. And never, ever stop asking: whose story needs to be told next?
Because when we tell our stories, we’re preserving history, and we’re shaping the future. A future that belongs to all of us.