granvarones

[granvarones]

this is the only photo i have of myself as a child with my mother.

she’s young in this picture, a teenager, a wife, holding my older sister at a baby shower preparing for my arrival. i’m in her belly, waiting to be born.

there are no snapshots of us at my first or any birthday celebration. no polaroids of me in her lap. no holiday photos holding her hand as a child. just this one image. one frame. one moment that managed to survive everything else we lost.

It’s been ten years since my mother took her last breath. She left the world like she lived in it with defiance, with beauty, with no apologies.

Ten years later, I still catch myself laughing at her jokes, whispering her name in my rare prayers, playing her music.

Ten years later, I still miss her with every part of me.

The grief doesn’t burn like it used to. There were days, especially in those first years, when my rage burned so hot that it could have set the whole damn world on fire for what it did to her. For what it made her survive. Poverty. Addiction. The loss of a child. The lies and twisted truths people told about her.

She raised seven boys with no money, no help, and no rest. She housed folks when they had nowhere else to go. She fed the whole block every time she cooked. And if you came for her kids? She’d come for you. My mother didn’t play.

But she also loved. Loudly. Deeply. Chaotically.

She loved Teena Marie, Tina Turner, Diana Ross, Stephanie Mills, and Princess Diana. She loved “Tales from the Crypt,” “Dynasty,” and made for TV movies. She loved frozen candy bars and I am sure invented the Snickers ice cream.

She loved Mother’s Day. That was her holy day. And she got dressed up for it, even if she had nowhere to go. Getting dressed was the ceremony.

These things that once seemed small and unimportant are now sacred acts and rituals. They’re proof that she was here. That she mattered. And that she loved me, even in the chaos.

The day before she passed, I took photos of my time in her hospital room. I wasn’t sure why at the time, I just knew I needed something to hold on to. Something to steady me. An elder once told me: when your heart breaks, feel it. Then make art out of it.

And that day, I did. I made art to stay present.

To stay standing.

To remember that she was still here even in her leaving.

That art became my anchor. My offering. A way to carry her with me when my legs felt like they might give out.

So today I declare my mother a Saint. A protector of queers, weirdos, and other women navigating addiction. A Saint to pray to on every Mother’s Day. I claim this for her because she and I fucking earned it.

I love you forever, mom.

[granvarones]

Pauli Murray, a trailblazer whose life transcended gender norms long before today’s language existed, stood at the intersections of racial justice, sexuality, faith, and identity. As a Black, gender-diverse scholar, lawyer, activist, and priest, Murray lived and fought for the right to define elf and demand equality.

Today, the U.S. Supreme Court upheld Tennessee’s ban on gender-affirming care for minors in a 6–3 ruling, a painful setback for trans young people, their families and our communities. We are devastated and we continue on the path that Pauli paved. Murray’s legacy reminds us we are not defined by courts or state, but by our resilience.

On this day, we honor Pauli Murray and every transcestor who are calling on all of us to continue advocating for trans youth whose lives depend on dignity, identity, and love.

OUR TRANCESTORS!

A poet. A priest. A freedom fighter. A legal genius. And someone who long before we had the words, lived at the intersection of Blackness, queerness, and gender expansiveness.

Born in 1910, Pauli Murray defied every box the world tried to place them in. Assigned female at birth, Pauli often questioned their gender identity and described feeling like “one of nature’s experiments.” They wrote in letters about wishing for hormone therapy and sometimes asked to be referred to with masculine pronouns. Today, many of us recognize that journey as deeply aligned with trans and non-binary experiences, even if the language wasn't there back then.

Pauli was a civil rights powerhouse. Thurgood Marshall called Pauli’s legal theories the “Bible” for Brown v. Board of Education. Ruth Bader Ginsburg cited Pauli in key gender equality arguments. Paul, like most Black LGBTQ+ folks, always did the work, even when history tried to erase them.

Pauli was the first Black person assigned female at birth to be ordained as an Episcopal priest. I didn’t learn about them until my junior year of college, in a Gender and Social Movements class taught by my mentor and dear friend, Dr. Julie Berebitsky.

Honestly, I should’ve learned about Pauli way earlier, especially since I went to a private Episcopal liberal arts college. The school is literally owned by 28 Southern dioceses of the Episcopal Church, and its School of Theology is an official seminary. If any university should be celebrating Pauli, it’s this one.

Pauli didn’t just break barriers, they changed the entire game! When I think about Pauli Murray, I don’t just see legacy. As a Black queer person, I see possibility. They showed us that you can be Black and brilliant, queer and deeply spiritual, razor-sharp with the law and still soft enough to write poetry. That you can hold contradictions and still be whole.

So during Pride Month, when we’re called to honor the people who paved the way, I hope we remember Pauli. Not just as a “first,” but as a foundation. A non-binary Black icon who imagined a freer world into existence. A world where someone like me, with my rhythm, my softness, and my queer Black joy could be seen as worthy. As sacred.

So to Pauli:

We thank you. Thank you for your fire. Thank you for your faith. Thank you for living the questions that some of us are just beginning to answer.

Happy Pride and resistance, Pauli. We’re dancing because of you.

Written by: Armonté Butler

[granvarones]

We remember exactly where we were the morning the news broke. We remember the shock and grief that rendered us unable to process. We remember everything, everywhere, and it’s kind of an obituary. We remember not knowing what to do with all of the love and rage sitting in our chests. We still don’t. But we still remember the faces and names.

This week, Q-Latinx, a grassroots racial, social, and gender justice organization in Orlando, held an ofrenda to honor the 49 lives taken at Pulse. With candles, marigolds, photographs, and prayer, Q-Latinx created space for collective remembrance, rooted in queer Latinx tradition and resistance.

Born in the aftermath of the tragedy, Q-Latinx emerged to fill the void left by institutions that failed to meet the needs of the queer and trans Latinx community. What began as a healing space quickly grew into a powerful organizing force, centering queer and trans voices of color in the fight for justice, safety, and joy in Central Florida.

Pulse is not just a tragedy to remember. It is a reminder that every drag show, every house party, and every Latin Night where we are free to be ourselves are ultimate acts of survival and resistance. And for all the queer young people finding their first dance floor, we pray that they experience exaltation.

Nine years later, we still mourn and dance. We follow the lead of survivors, and we speak the names of the 49.

One by one. Out loud. Again and again.

[granvarones]

gran varones and @lasombrillacuir teamed up to curate this year’s Our Pride Is A Vibe Playlist🎶 As part of our work to promote the @stophivtogether campaign during Puerto Rico LGBTQ+ Pride (June 1-30, 2025), we’re also highlighting the amazing work of La Sombrilla Cuir.

La Sombrilla Cuir is a transfeminist and queer initiative dedicated to educating & empowering trans, queer, & non-binary communities in Puerto Rico. They create educational media, host podcasts like their “Ponkcast” where community members share their voices, and facilitate workshops. They also discuss “the concept of ‘Ponk’ and the definitions surrounding it,” and “how to work from a more decolonial perspective from transfeminism.”

This collaboration will use music & stories to promote wellness and open dialogue around HIV prevention, treatment, and care. Check out the link in our bio for the playlist.

[granvarones]

To understand the power of “X,” you must know the woman at its heart: Angie Xtravaganza. A Puerto Rican trans woman raised in the Bronx, Angie ran away from home at 13 and built her own family – one rooted in love, survival, and queer kinship. She became the founding mother of the House of Xtravaganza, one of New York’s first predominantly Latino ballroom houses. By 1990, she and her house were introduced to the world through the Paris Is Burning documentary. Her name traveled far, and everyone wanted Angie to be their mother.

She earned that reverence. Angie created a home for gay and trans kids who had been cast out, and she made sure they never felt alone. When House co-founder Hector Xtravaganza died of AIDS in 1985, Angie held the family together. When her daughter Venus was murdered in 1988, it was her fierce love that kept the house from crumbling. Even after testing HIV-positive in 1991, she kept caring for her kids and showing up for her community.

By the early ’90s, Angie was a legend. A friend recalled that she dragged him out to the Sound Factory Bar just weeks before her passing to lift his spirits. Like many during those brutal years of the AIDS crisis, Angie turned pain into dancing and heartbreak into nightlife. She was both mother and healer, using music as an elixir.

When Angie died of AIDS-related complications on March 31, 1993 at just 28 years old – it shook the Ballroom community and beyond. The New York Times ran her photo with the headline “Paris Has Burned.” As the community mourned deeply and they found room on the dance floor to grieve. And that is how the pulsating anthem “X” was born.

Junior Vasquez, a queer icon in his own right, working with legends such as Madonna, Cher Donna Summer, Beyoncè and Janet Jackson. Vasquez ruled Sound Factory’s dance floor in the 90s. His Saturday night sets at that massive Chelsea club became legendary and defined an era. By the time Angie passed, Ballroom culture had already hit the mainstream – Madonna’s “Vogue” and Paris Is Burning ensured that – and Junior embraced it fully.

Junior loved the energy the Ballroom kids brought and often crafted tracks just for them, like “Gotta Be a Drag” and “Get Your Hands Off My Man.” Sound Factory became a second home for the House of Xtravaganza.

It was that energy that moved Junior to create “X” in 1994. The title was no secret – it stood for Xtravaganza, and the label on the vinyl even read “In memory of Angie Xtravaganza.” Junior was close to the house and wanted to honor Angie in the way he knew best: through music. House member Karl Xtravaganza later confirmed it that “X” was made for Angie.

“X” runs like a 10-minute house epic: tribal beats, soaring drama, and Ballroom energy. And the inescapable “X! X! X! Xtrava-GANZA!” refrain is both a mantra and shouted chant that not only whispers Angie’s name but conjures up her spirit. “X” was a love letter for a legend still guiding the gworls from the blaring speakers.

Three decades later, “X” still gets played – and it’s still magic when it does. It’s one of the defining underground house tracks of the 90s and remains a touch stone of Ballroom culture. Angie Xtravaganza lives on in every joyous scream of “Werk!” at a Ball, in every young queer person who finds family in a house, and in every DJ who understands that the right beat can heal a heartbreak.

Junior Vasquez, still one of the most influential DJ/producers, encapsulated a time when music helped us process the unprocessable. “X” was part of a soundtrack for mourning and a spark for living. “X” is sonic proof that Angie’s spirit reverberates– still performing, loving, and surviving through the music.

[granvarones]

His name was Rob.

We met in the bronxm4m AOL chat room in 2005 — when that was still a thing. His screen name was br0nxprynce. We clicked instantly. He was funny as hell. For a week, we chatted all day while I was at work, then all night once I got home.

Mariah’s The Emancipation of Mimi was just a week away from being released. I remember trying to convince him to buy it — I did that with all my friends. I even had a Mariah album release party. But I digress.

Our first in-person meeting took place outside of the famed Beacon Theater in New York on April 11, 2005. I was there to attend the live taping of Mariah’s segment of The Music: A Concert To Benefit The VH1 Save The Music Foundation. Rob drove up to say "Hi" and introduced himself as I waited in line. He was even more handsome in person. Our chemistry was immediate but the moment proved fleeting as the line began to move. We hugged and made plans to see each other for a proper date a few days later.

The Thursday after the album dropped, I called out of work and caught the train to New York. Rob picked me up from the train station. He blasted Sweet Sensation’s Hooked on You as we drove to pick up lunch. We headed to his apartment and we hung out all day — talking about life, dreams, and how he really needed to buy Mariah’s album. We kissed. And I remember thinking, Wow. Latino dudes do like me. I still had some internal shit to work through, but at that moment, I felt wanted. I felt “enough.”

During our make out session, Rob took off his shirt and said, “I know, I’m skinny. Don’t worry, I’ve always been that way.” I thought it was a weird thing to say, but I didn’t question it. I had my own body issues too. I was afraid to take off my shirt because I was NOT skinny. But, we moved past the awkward moment and kissed some more. It was all like the romantic shit I saw in movies but it could not last. I had to head back to the life that was waiting for me in Philly.

That Saturday, Rob and I spoke over the phone. The energy was different. So I asked, “What’s going on?” He paused and then briefly mentioned his best friend had betrayed him. I asked how, and he said, “I don’t want to talk about it, but he said something he shouldn’t have said.” I didn’t press. He said he’d call me later that night.

He didn’t.

I didn’t see him online.

I was mad.

I told myself he ghosted me because I was ugly. Fat. Not enough. I believed every awful thing I told myself. Then I reminded myself, no man is worth this spiraling. So I tried to forget him.

Weeks later, he messaged me:

How are you?”

I replied, “Fine. You?”

He said he wasn’t feeling well — maybe a cold.

I remember thinking, good — that’s what you get for playing me. He tried to chat, but I kept my guard up. I didn’t want to be charmed again. I needed to NOT forget that I wanted to forget him.

We had a mutual friend from the chat room who lived in New York. As we were chatting, I told him about Rob and I told him how hurt I was that he ghosted me. The friend was surprised and said “But Rob is such a sweet guy.” But he added, “You know how dudes are. Fuck him.” I am sure he was providing the kind of support he thought I needed. And admittedly, it helped.

As the summer of 2005 came to an end, Mariah’s The Emancipation of Mimi was one of the year’s biggest selling albums. And as a huge Mariah fan, I was in full celebratory mode. That was until I got a call from our mutual friend. It was late August, I was watching Family Guy when the phone rang. Yes, I still had a landline. We talked about our summer, and what other escapades we had experienced.

Then he asked, “Did you ever talk to Rob again?”

I said, “Not really. Our last convo was short.”

Then there was silence. “I’m sorry to tell you this, but he passed,” the friend said.

My heart dropped. My body went hot. I rose from the couch and with baited breath, I asked how — scared of the answer.

“Complications from HIV," he replied.

Rob was 26 years old.

I hung up and ran to my computer and Messaged Rob via his AOL screen name br0nxprynce:

“Hey! Please respond to this ASAP!”

I waited.

No response.

I couldn’t make sense of it. If he was gone, why was his AOL account still active? Why were my messages still being delivered? I couldn’t process it. Rob’s virtual existence was still present.

I replayed every conversation in my head. Every word.

Why didn’t he tell me?

I work in HIV, God dammit!

Why didn’t I ask?

Why didn’t I say “this?”

Why didn’t I do “that?”

Why did I assume the worst — that his silence had something to do with me?

Then it hit me: he could’ve made up stories about me, just like I made up stories about him. I convinced myself he disappeared because I wasn’t enough. I never once considered it had ABSOLUTELY nothing to do with me. The loss felt so heavy.

That’s the pain of missed chances. Of grief wrapped in what-ifs.

I think of Rob often.

Whenever I start making up stories about people.

Whenever I catch myself assuming shit.

Every time someone shares their story with gran varones.

And every time I play The Emancipation of Mimi.

That album turns 20 on April 12th.

So does the memory of losing Rob.

On days like this, I miss him.

[granvarones]

Growing up as a Puerto Rican teenager in North Philadelphia in 1990 meant three things:

1. you could duck underneath a car in 1.5 seconds whenever you heard a gunshot

2. you danced to Latin-Freestyle music at damn near every party

3. And whenever someone mentioned HIV, you would immediately respond by singing, “¡Oye! Listen! AIDS is a killer!”

That last one? A 90s’s North Philadelphia cultural reflex. That hook was from an inescapable local AIDS Public Service Announcement that hit Philly airwaves in 1990. It used hip-hop—and more importantly, voices of young people—to get the message across.

By that time, the AIDS crisis was hammering Black and Latino communities across the city. More than half of the Philly’s reported AIDS cases were among Black and Latino young people under 25. This meant that young people like me— who were surviving poverty, gun violence and the war on drugs— were also navigating the risks of HIV.

Traditional AIDS Awareness Campaigns of the time didn’t reach me or my friends the way that music and culture did. And campaigns that targeted Latinos were either hard to find, corny as hell or straight up didn’t didn’t feature young people. So, when the regional “¡Oye! Listen!”PSA began airing on TV during after school hours, the response from young people was immediate!

Produced by the Ascoiación de Músicos Latino Americanos (ALMA) and funded by the AIDS Education Project, “!Oye! Listen!” brought together young Latinos from the neighborhood to spit bars about about condom use, HIV testing and challenging myths. And baybee, it worked! The result was a probably not purposeful campy but effective PSA that still lives in my head rent-free.

These days, campaigns like “¡Oye! Listen!” would be called “culturally tailored messaging.” But back in 1990, it was revolutionary. That hook—“AIDS is a killer”—might sound severe today, but at that moment, it wasn’t an exaggeration. There was no effective treatment yet. Just fear. Just funerals. Just stigma. The urgency was real, and the message had to be direct. It cut through the silence and helped start conversations about safer sex—something that was still taboo in a lot of our homes, neighborhoods and schools.

Today, Black and Latine and LGBTQ+ young people are still leading the fight to end HIV. They continue to use art, music, and culture to educate, mobilize, and raise awareness. They do what that little PSA did in 1990: speak truth, break silence, and demand we listen.

So on this National Youth HIV/AIDS Awareness Day (NYHAAD), we honor that energy. We celebrate the power of young people who, for decades, have made sure that prevention, treatment, and care aren’t just buzzwords—but real, reachable things for all of us.

Because sometimes all it takes is a hook, a beat, and a voice from the neighborhood to change everything.

[granvarones]

My late mother once had a friend named “Gary.” I remember him vividly because he LOVED himself some Stephanie Mills. Not in a casual, “Oh, she’s nice” kind of way, but in a full-blown, church testimony, hand-on-his-chest kind of way. Anytime one of her songs played on the radio—he’d shout in declaration, “I love Stephanie Mills!”

My love for the one and only Stephanie began in 1985 when she released the very poppy “Bit by Bit.” Chyle, that song had me dancing and lip-syncing in the tiny bedroom my mother rented. The space was so small that it barely fit two full-size beds. I slept on one with my mother, while my three brothers shared the other. But it was home. And I don’t remember it feeling like anything less.

In early 1989, we moved into a house—a whole house. For the first time in fave years, my three brothers and I now had a “proper” home. We had our own bathroom that we didn’t have to share with strangers. We had heat. And my gawd, I had my own room—a space to play to blast my music and imagine a life bigger than the one we had.

To understand Home, you have to go back to The Wiz. The Tony Award winning 1975 Broadway musical reimagined The Wizard of Oz through a Black lens. It blended gospel, soul, R&B, and funk into something uniquely historic. It was a moment that was both commercially and culturally ground-breaking. And at the heart of it all was a seventeen year old Stephanie Mills singing the hell out of Home.

When Stephanie recorded Home again as a tribute to her Broadway roots for her 1989 album of the same title, she wasn’t a teenager anymore. She was an R&B star, an artist who had lived, loved, and felt the weight of the years between then and now. The new version had more depth and more ache. It wasn’t about longing for home anymore—it was about knowing where you belonged. And that’s why it hit so differently.

By the time Home arrived at radio in late 1989, the concept of a home meant different things to me. It meant a physical space of fleeting stability and adults who personified safety. At the same time, the world around me had changed. The AIDS crisis was tearing through Black, Latine and LGBTQ+ communities like wildfire, and the government was still pretending not to see the smoke.

In those harrowing years, music became more than just entertainment. It was healing. It was survival. And songs like Home took on a new meaning.

“When I think of home

I think of a resting place

A place where there's peace,

quiet, and serenity

And that's where some

of my friends have gone.”

Those opening lines alone could make you cry, especially if you had lost someone. And in those years, everyone was losing someone.

Home became an anthem of remembrance. it was about the people who made us feel at home. The family, the friends, the ones who saw us and held us when the world didn’t. And when they were gone, we held onto songs like this because they reminded us that love never really disappears.

Now, as an adult, I cry when I listen to Home. Sometimes it’s because I miss the house we lived in back then. Sometimes it’s because I miss the people who made it feel like home—my mother, my brother, the family and friends I lost along the way.

I often wonder if my mother and “Gary” ever heard Home the way I do now as an adult. I hope they both got to hear the song in any moment when they needed it most.

My current home is sometimes lonely. It is because my son is not here and won’t be here with me anytime soon. But Home, for me, has never just been a place. It’s the people, the memories, the love that never fades—even in long absences. That’s why the song Home still matters. That’s why Stephanie Mills’ voice still reaches somewhere deep inside.

And that’s why, if “Gary” were here, I know exactly what he’d say.

“I LOVE STEPHANIE MILLS!”

[granvarones]

i interviewed and photographed peter on january 1, 2016. we spent the day together laughing, eating cheesesteaks and reminiscing of gay life in the early 1990s. his spirit was big and he was a keeper of a million stories of gay and philadelphia ballroom history. i am so filled with gratitude to have shared time and space with him. peter will be greatly missed.

RIP peter.

[granvarones]

The title, inspired by a lyric from Beyoncé’s transcendent track “II HANDS II HEAVEN”, encapsulates this moment and where we’re headed. It’s a sonic journey of our favorite songs of 2024—a mix of beats, vibes, and lyrics that define our year and kept us moving forward. Step into the rhythm, and we hope these songs guide you toward the next moment of joy, love and community.

[granvarones]

In 1996, Frank Mendez was one of the most visible people living with HIV in the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas along the US-Mexico border. At a time when the drag community had been impacted heavily by losses to AIDS, Frank was out about his HIV status both in and out of drag and used his platform as Jacqui Fabiane to advocate for safer sex, testing, and education. After testing positive in 1992, Frank became a leading voice in the fight against HIV/AIDS in the Valley and worked as a community health educator for the Valley AIDS Council.

In 1995, several clients protested against the Valley AIDS Council – feeling ignored and taken for granted by the organization's leadership. After launching a hunger strike to incite changes in the agency, Frank left and started his own grassroots group- The McAllen AIDS Coalition.

Needing money to fund his efforts, Frank turned to drag. Since the onset of the AIDS crisis, drag shows had been used to raise money to pay for medical and burial costs for those impacted by AIDS, as well as a forum to educate others about HIV and AIDS. Frank called on four of his fellow drag queens from the local community. The choice was obvious in the Winter of 1996, and they put together a Spice Girls-themed benefit show.

British girl group The Spice Girls burst onto the scene with their breakout single "Wannabe" in July 1996. It became a global pop sensation seemingly overnight with their brash lyrics and take on "Girl Power" feminism.

The quintet- consisting of Geri Halliwell (Ginger Spice), Melanie Brown (Scary Spice), Emma Bunton (Baby Spice), Melanie Chisolm (Sporty Spice), and Victoria Adams (later Victoria Beckham- Posh Spice)- seemed tailor-made to have a huge queer following- whether it was the larger-than-life camp-inspired outfits donned by Ginger and Scary, Sporty's tomboy aesthetic, or Posh's high-fashion and iconic pout.

Their lyrics celebrating authenticity and expression resonated with many young queer people. For Halloween of 1997, it was common to see groups of five queer friends dressed as the girls. They were also a popular act for drag queens to emulate.

While the group has always embraced its queer following, it was their third single, "2 Become 1," that cemented their status as gay icons- with a lyric change intentionally made to be more inclusive of the community.

“2 Become 1" is a sensual R&B flavored ballad celebrating intimacy. The original version included on their debut album “Spice” featured a lyric sung by Ginger, "Any deal that we endeavor, boys and girls go good together."

While Ginger quickly became the most popular member of the group, she was the only one who did not have any singing or dancing training. When the group decided to release the song as their next single, she confessed that she had trouble singing her portion and was worried about having to sing it live.

Realizing the original lyric could potentially alienate their growing queer fan base, the girls decided to re-record that portion of the song with new lyrics sung by Posh. The new lyrics, "Once again, if we endeavor, love will bring us back together," - made “2 Become 1” a song that anyone who wanted to "get it on" could relate to.

“2 become 1” became the group’s first Christmas #1 single in the UK in December 1996 and reached #4 in the US the following summer. The song also has an essential nod to the importance of safer sex. Towards the end, Baby sings the final bridge “Be a little bit wiser baby, put it on, put it on…because tonight is the night when 2 Become 1."- a nod to condoms and to navigating sexual safety at a time when AIDS was still ravaging the queer community.

The Spice Girls' connection to queerness went beyond being vocal allies and supporters. In various interviews, Mel B. came out as bisexual- revealing that she had been dating women since her Spice Girl's days. In 2019, she also confirmed long-standing rumors that she and Geri had hooked up during their time in the band.

For Halloween of 1997, the Spice Girls were so ubiquitous that it was common to see groups of five queer friends dressed as the girls. They were also a popular act for drag queens, especially performers who wanted to share the stage with members of their drag families.

For the fundraiser, Frank- the group's leader- was Ginger. Frank's drag mother Takisha More took on the role of Baby- donning her signature pigtails. Takisha was a transgender woman who grew up in San Juan and Edinburg and performed in drag since the 1970s. In 1993, Takisha became the first trans woman to come out publicly on the local news. She was known for her signature high-energy dance moves.

Frank's drag daughter Kanela del Karibe served Sporty Spice with a ponytail and track pants. Kanela was originally from Puerto Rico and moved to the Valley in 1994 with the original plan of moving to San Antonio. She found a community and a voice in drag and decided to stay- remaining in the Valley to this day. She was known for making all of her outfits by hand.

Arden Van York played Scary Spice. Arden was a trans woman from Mission, Texas, of Native Hawai'ian and Mexican descent. She was known for her acrobatic dances- jumping up in the air, doing a flip, and landing in a split at her shows Arden passed away from cancer in 2019.

Rounding out the group was Ty Paris as Posh Spice. Just a few years before, Ty was a young gay teen who found family and community at McAllen, Texas gay bar 10th Ave after becoming the first drag daughter of Valerie Paris - a trans woman from Roma, Texas whose drag house eventually became one of the most prolific in South Texas.

Some of these pictures were taken by Frank’s goddaughter Crystal- who was raised by her mother in a large chosen family that included several drag performers. Crystal would go on to co-found the first GSA in the Valley in 2000.

Instead of hosting the benefit show at a gay bar- which was most common at the time- this group of queens organized their Spice Girls - themed show at a community center in Mercedes, Texas- bringing drag, queer and trans visibility to this small town smack dab in the center of the Valley.

Frank Mendez and his Spice Girls-inspired benefit show in 1997 exemplified the power of community, creativity, and resilience in the fight against HIV/AIDS. By combining activism with entertainment, Frank and his chosen family of drag performers used their platform to raise funds, educate the public, and foster visibility in a region where such efforts were desperately needed.

Written by: Gabriel Sanchez (they/she/he)

Gabriel Sanchez (they/she/he) is a queer and nonbinary native of the Rio Grande Valley of South Texas.

Gabriel is a community historian who has spent the past several years researching, documenting, and sharing the history of the LGBTQIA2S+ community of the Rio Grande Valley and the rich stories of resistance, visibility, and creativity from within this community.

Gabriel curates a pop-up exhibit highlighting this history and a digital archive on Instagram called Pansy Pachanga where they share picture and stories from this community. They are also currently co-directing a documentary of the same name. Gabriel is also a part of various organizations that work to support and celebrate the Rio Grande Valley's LGBTQ+ community including @southtexasequalityproject, @rgvtranscloset, and Casa Kimberly.

This post is in partnership with Pansy Pachanga. Pansy Pachanga is an upcoming documentary about the history of the Rio Grande Valley's LGBTQIA+ community. Follow us for updates and RGV LGBTQIA + history.

[granvarones]

Wham!’s "Last Christmas" arrived In December 1984 as a shimmering holiday treat, blending George Michael's lush vocals with a heartbreak-laden melody against an irresistibly festive synth-pop backdrop. 40 years later, it remains a snapshot of a transformative moment in music, culture, and queerness and one of pop music’s enduring Christmas songs.

George Michael, one of the MTV era’s first and most successful artists, captivated the world with his voice and soft, gentle aesthetic as one-half of the monstrously successful 80s bubblegum-pop duo Wham!. Composed of George and Andrew Ridgeley, the duo radiated a vibrant, youthful energy that helped define the glossy pop sound that dominated the decade.

Wham! exploded onto U.S. radio in 1984 with their 60s doo-wop-inspired hit “Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go,” which topped the Billboard Hot 100 just as their holiday classic “Last Christmas” was released in the UK on December 3, 1984. Written and produced by George, "Last Christmas" spent five weeks at No. 2 on the UK chart, unable to surpass the charity juggernaut "Do They Know It's Christmas?" by Band Aid.

In the U.S., the song initially garnered only minor spins at pop radio. Decades before Billboard allowed Christmas songs to chart on the Hot 100, "Last Christmas" remained absent until January 2017. However, the song gained in popularity every holiday season and In December 2024, "Last Christmas" reached a peak of #3 on the Hot 100.

Wham!’s meteoric rise occurred when queerness was beginning to emerge in mainstream pop. Michael, whose songwriting and performance dominated the duo, had to straddle dualities. He was marketed as the breakout star/sex symbol just as music was becoming more visual, yet his essence carried subtextual hints of queerness that resonated with LGBTQ audiences long before he publicly came out.

When "Last Christmas" debuted, much of the world was grappling with the devastating impact of the AIDS crisis. For the LGBTQ community, 1984 was a year marked by fear, mourning, and stigma and the re-election of President Reagan. Pop culture, including music, became a site of both escapism and activism.

Though "Last Christmas" doesn't explicitly reference the crisis, its themes of vulnerability and loss resonate differently when viewed through the lens of that era. Michael himself would later become a fierce advocate for AIDS awareness, treatment and LGBTQ rights.

George Michael died on December 25, 2016, at 53. His death, poignantly occurring on Christmas Day, brought new layers of meaning to "Last Christmas." For many, the song now serves as a bittersweet reminder of an artist whose work shaped pop music and soundtrack holiday celebrations around the world.

in 2023, “Last Christmas” finally achieved the once illusive accolade of the UK Christmas #1. It would repeat the feat in 2024 becoming the first song to do so.

Four decades after its release, "Last Christmas" is a testament of whimsical magic that was Wham! and the genius of George Michael. It is now more than a holiday classic—in part to remaining member Andrew Ridgeley who has been committed to both the duo’s and George’s legacy. “Last Christmas” is a fabric of queer resilience, pop revolution, and a melancholy anthem for every December.

[granvarones]

“There are people living with HIV/AIDS everywhere in the world. EVERYWHERE.”

THIS is a reminder.

THIS is a call to action.

THIS is a fact!

On this World AIDS Day may we all remember to remember that AIDS activism is rooted in the belief that EVERYONE deserves access to safety, food, treatment, housing and humanity.

WE FIGHT ON.

[granvarones]

✨ Throwing it back to ’92! New York dance group Deee-Lite rocked more than the dance floor with their “Rock The Vote” PSA, fusing their funky style with a powerful message on the importance of voting. This iconic moment brought a burst of creativity and activism to the MTV generation, encouraging young people to let their voices be heard. 🗳️🎶

[granvarones]

house music all night long!” declared new york hip-hop group jungle brothers on their seminal 1988 hip-house track “i’ll house you.” it was one of the first non-chicago based house song to become a club hit. by the release of “i’ll house you,” house music had been soundtracking Black, Latine and queer clubs in chicago for almost a decade.

emerging in chicago clubs at the start of 1980s, pioneering DJ and producer, the late greats frankie knuckles, helped to create a sound that combined the use of drum machines, synthesizers with the soul and essence of disco. house music born and out of that an entire world that served as a lifetime for LGBTQ communities.

this is the world that honey dijon was born into. the chicago born and raised icon, honey dijon has become one of the most influential DJs and house music historians of a generation. and today (and everyday beyond), we celebrate honey dijon!

Honey Dijon’s rise to global acclaim as a DJ and producer is a testament to the power of House music and Black Girl Magic. Honey Dijon’s journey as a Black trans woman in the music industry is a continuation of the lineage of House music, the significance of Black and Latine LGBTQ club culture and resistance – especially trans resistance.

Born and raised in Chicago, just as House music was burgeoning, Honey Dijon grew up surrounded by the sounds and mixes by legendary Frankie Knuckles and Ron Hardy, two pioneers who helped shaped the genre’s sound and culture. Inspired as young person by the refuge and freedom of expression House music provided, Honey Dijon dived into her passion for DJing.

By the late 1990s, Honey Dijon became a fixture in both the Chicago and New York club scene. She then began to craft and produce her own music which led to a string of notable releases including “The Best of Both Worlds” (2017) and “Black Girl Magic” (2022).

Honey Dijon further cemented her iconic status when she co-produced both “Cozy” and “Alien Superstar” on Beyoncé’s 2022 album, “Renaissance,” which garnered Honey a Grammy Award when the album won Best Dance/Electronic Album.

Honey Dijon has performed and DJed all over the world while sharing the history of a genre that was born out of the struggles and triumphs of marginalized communities. Honey Dijon carries that legacy forward, using her platform to resist erasure and oppression. By performing on some of the world’s biggest stages, she forces mainstream culture to reckon with the unapologetic presence and contributions of Black trans and queer people.

As attacks on transgender rights increase, particularly in the United States, Honey Dijon continues to represent the radical joy and freedom that House music was built on. Her DJ sets are not just performances—they are a call to action, an offering to community, and that Black Girl Magic creates space for the marginalized to be celebrated on and off the dance floor!

LEARNING MORE:

Listen to Honey Dijon’s “Black Girl Magic” on music streaming platforms

Watch “Pump Up The Volume: History of House Music”

Read “Do You Remember House: Chicago’s Queer of Color Underground” by Micah Salkind

[granvarones]

armonté MUTHAF*CKIN’ butler! 🎉🎊 we could be any prouder of our very own monté! the success of gran varones over the past five years could not have been possible without his support! and now he has been named a health hero of the year by HIV plus wellness magazine!

read the his words wonderful interview and how “mean girls” inspired his journey into advocacy.

[granvarones]

When you hear an instrument speaking to you, listen closely. I visited Puerto Rico earlier this year to inhale and exhale but spent most of my time listening and learning the Black rhythms of the island. I attended live performances, two nights in a row, that included Black Puerto Rican dancers. The drums begged me, and I believe everyone else, for a dance.

In September, Black Puerto Rican reggaeton artist Rauw Alejandro graced the Video Music Awards for the first time. While performing a few hits from his past and upcoming albums, he ensured that his Black Puerto Rican roots were center stage. Throughout the performance, two large Puerto Rican flags embraced the crowd with warmth and welcome.

One segment of his performance included Bomba dancers and musicians. Bomba is a musical genre, instrument, and dance style that originated in Puerto Rico over 400 years ago. It was developed by enslaved Africans and their descendants on cane sugar plantations. They used Bomba to express sadness, anger, and resistance through drums played in dance gatherings called Bailes de Bomba (Bomba Dances). Bomba was also used to celebrate baptisms and marriages, communicate with each other, and plan rebellions.

Bomba is a significant expression of Puerto Rican culture and is still one of the island’s most famous folk music genres. Bomba can be upbeat and enthusiastic or sad and spiritual.

By highlighting Bomba on a show with 4 million viewers, Rauw reminded the world that Black Puerto Rican history, culture, and visibility are vital. We uplift constant reminders of Black Latino resistance and joy today and beyond Hispanic Heritage Month.

Further Learning:

Read: Bomba Reveals a History of Slavery Leah Andelsmith

Watch: Resistimos Film by Diana Quiñones Rivera

Check Out: From Bomba to Hip-Hop by Juan Flores

Armonté Butler (He/Him) is a Black Latinx writer and activist based in Washington, D.C. He is passionate about adolescent sexual health and supports LGBTO youth of color and youth living with HIV to become activists and leaders in their communities, on their campuses, and at the institutional, state, and federal levels.