there once existed a black queer man who used the art of mixing songs to transform a converted parking garage into an oasis for black, brown and queer folks who were committed to surviving together – on the dance floor.

the paradise garage, located on 84 king street in manhattan, opened its doors in 1978 quickly became the temple where legions of followers came to listen to larry levan move them through a ministry of sound.

born on july 20, 1954 in new york city, larry levan was an eccentric and expressive teen who dyed his hair orange decades before it was a norm in the punk community. after experiencing bullying from classmates, larry dropped out of school and found community in the black ballroom community in the late 1960’s.

larry began to make a name for himself as a dj when by playing alongside the legendary dj frankie knuckles (RIP) at the continental baths in the early 1970’s. he quickly became the breakout star of the emerging new york disco nightlife, but it would be his residency at the paradise garage that made him a legend.

larry not only mastered the mixing and reconstruction of songs but his style created an atmosphere that helped to birth the sound of new york house music and culture.

in 1987, as the AIDS epidemic tightened its grip on the community that frequented paradise garage, and impacted the health of the club’s owner, michael brody, paradise closed its doors – ending an one of the most influential eras in new york nightlife and dance music.

larry would go on to residencies at other clubs but the magic that was created at the garage could not be recreated. this left larry devastated. although larry struggled with addiction, he continued to spin at clubs throughout the world until his death on november 8, 1992. larry was just 38 years old.

those who were lucky enough to experience larry’s time at paradise garage often describe it as heaven on earth. larry created a space in the world where black, brown and queer people could be safe from homophobia, violence and AIDS – even if just for a few hours a night.

god bless the djs who saved our lives during a time when the world wanted us to die. thank you larry!

in 2007, two years after the launch of youtube, a video of the late great moi renee performing their now legendary underground house song “miss honey” was uploaded bestowing a blessing that the world desperately needed but did not and still does not deserve.

moi renee was born in jamaica before moving to new york city in the late 1970s. by the early 1990s, moi renee was studying dance at alvin ailey while also quickly becoming a fixture in the new york queer club scene. moi renee’s vibrant camp style and drag made them one of the most popular performers and personalities at the now-defunct club shelter.

in 1992 moi renee released “miss honey” which was produced by franklin fuentes. the track is now categorized as a ballroom track but during its initial release was considered a “bitch track” – an early subgenre of house music. other bitch tracks include franklin fuentes’ “tyler moore mary” (1995), ralphie rosario’s “la puta” (1995), junior vasquez’s “if madonna calls” (1996) and one of the early baltimore house jams frank ski’s “tony’s bitch track.” (1992).

“miss honey” garnered attention at the queer club level and landed moi renee a now legendary appearance on the public access gay cable network’s talk show hosted sybil bruncheon. backed by two dancers, moi renee serves the gurls perfection in a black catsuit and neon green bouffant wig with matching lipstick.

moi renee did not live long to witness the mass celebration of their performance of“miss honey.” moi renee died in 1997. “miss honey” has since been remixed numerous times with a new generation of queer party goers shouting as they dance, “i know you hear me calling you, miss honey!”

my mother worked for drug dealers. from monday – friday, regardless of how drunk or high she got the night before, she was up for work. i súplale this is where i got my work ethic and my ability to hold my liquor.

because of my mother’s line of work coupled with her very public struggle with addition, one of our neighbors called the police on us quite often. they would claim that my mother was endangering her children and kept massive amounts of drugs in the house – which was never true. she was adamant about that.

sometime late 1992, i was in my room watching music videos. it had to be sometime after 3pm because i was watching BET’s “video vibrations” and that came on 3pm. my mother was there getting dressed, i think. suddenly, we hear the front crash open and men yelling “freeze!” my young brothers were downstairs, before my mother and i could even react, cops with guns were bursting through my bedroom door. they ordered us on the floor as they pointed guns to our faces.

there we were laying face down on the floor with our hands on the back of our heads. i could hear the cops snickering. standing about me and my mother, one of them asks, “so which one is the faggot. we were told they was a faggot in here.” my mother and i, again face down on the floor, look at each other, i say, “that would be me.” i was 15 years old. the cops laughed. but you know what fuckin’ video began to play on the fuckin’ tv!? rupaul’s fuckin’ “supermodel (you better work).”

i was in awe at what i was watching from the floor. it was so gay. like, i mean, gay-gay! i asked my mother, “is that a drag queen?” my mother replies, “i think so.” i could not see what the cops were doing but i remember being able to hear them snicker. baybee, i am convinced that rupaul’s “supermodel (you better work)” music video played because my god is a faggot and they were letting me know via that video that when those cops asked about the faggot in the room, they summoned my faggot god. the cops searched and found no drugs. they left.

in the 28 years since the release of rupaul’s “supermodel,” i think of that moment i shared with my mother and my faggot god.

so yeah, FUCK THE POLICE – even the gay ones. my faggot god didn’t create gay police – white supremacy did.

happy pride!

Last year I broke up with the LGBTQ2 community–well the shallow gatekeepers that ravaged our collective understanding of what it means to hold identities at their intersections. Let me explain, I’ve always been queer, I went through so much struggle trying to understand who I am in this binary world. As a young person I’d make muslim prayer and during those moments I’d pray to Allah to undue this burden or exorcize the jinn that made me different. I had this idea of a punitive, unwavering God, who was a patriarch. Ready to condemn me to Jahannam or a hellish afterlife.

In 1999 my mother asked me an odd question, that was the first iteration of the “are you gay” question. I was sixteen at the time and my body was changing rapidly. I would wear tight fitting pants and my body wasn’t a “normal” boy’s body. I had hips that I adored and somewhat of a full chest and she had asked if I wanted to be a girl. It wasn’t in an emphatic hateful way, it was with concern and deep empathy that she asked this question. I didn’t know what to say, I’d never thought about this. I knew that I liked boys.  I said no and this question wouldn’t circle back until the summer of 2001.

I had stumbled upon Philadelphia’s Gayborhood, I was in center city just killing time before going back home. I was seventeen and I saw Black transwomen and gay Black men who were just hanging in droves on 13th and Walnut Street. My eyes were playing tricks, I thought, have I found my people? Yup, sure ‘nough these were my folks. I wandered down to 12th street and walked down to Cheap Art cafe, this was located between Locust and Spruce streets. I went in to order a cheesesteak that cost about three dollars. I was overjoyed. This cafe was filled with all my people. I met someone who I’ll just use an initial for. G. was a tall statuesque young man, my age, who had a beautifully sculpted face, high cheekbones and beautiful smile. I immediately loved him and we instantly clicked. In walks Michael, who remains my dear friend to this day. Michael eyeing G. came over and sat down. We laughed, got to know each other, exchanged phone numbers and planned to see a movie soon.

“I got to see up close the pockets of privileged white LGBTQ2 people talk about how we were all in this together. That HIV and homophobia and transphobia made us all equal in struggle.”

Months later my mother confronted me again with a new iteration of the are you different question. I was feeling myself, as the youngin’s say now. I was working at TGIF’s and had a cell phone, I’ll never forget it, it was a startech flip phone LOL. I had stayed with G. at his boyfriend’s house for the weekend and had ignored my mother’s calls. When I got home she wanted to know where I was. She then asked if I was gay and I told her that I didn’t know, maybe I’m bisexual, I said. She had a fearful response, had someone coerced me to be gay. My mom prodded more, has someone touched you as a child? Are you being influenced by people. At that very moment Michael called my phone, which she had in her possession. Answering the phone, she interrogated Michael and told him not to call again. I was placed on punishment, meaning I couldn’t leave the house. Years later, before she passed away, we talked about that night and she explained that she always knew I was gay, but that she was afraid of what the world would do to me and she was also afraid of me succumbing to HIV, because so many she loved had died.

I fully emerged as a gay Black man after this, sharing my fully realized new identity will all who wanted to know. I went to Woody’s for underage night, which was Wednesday back then. I noticed the racial divide, blacks on one side of the dancefloor and whites on the other. When I became able to drink, I noticed how the bartenders would wait on us last, my friends and I would talk about this endlessly. At the end of 2008, I tested HIV positive and felt defeated. I went to Mazzoni Center for care and volunteered there before working at the organization. I got to see up close the pockets of privileged white LGBTQ2 people talk about how we were all in this together. That HIV and homophobia and transphobia made us all equal in struggle. That never sat well with me, but I trudged along because my newfound mission was to end an epidemic.

Later I would organize against racist gay bar owners and during this time I was labeled divisive, because I was calling out racialized oppression in the Gayborhood. I was dividing a community, with others, but the likes of Darryl DePiano had enacted ad hoc dress code policies at the now shuddered ICandy and had called a worker and patrons the n-word repeatedly on video. They were truly divisive. This escalated, a hearing on racism in LGBTQ communities took place, then the ousting of then Director of LGBT Affairs Nellie “Helen” Fitzpatrick. Nonprofits like Mazzoni had a reckoning, leading to resignations and the unionization of frontline staff.

After all of this dust began to settle, so to speak, there I was a campaign manager for Sherrie Cohen’s third bid for a City Council At-Large seat. I had conflict with  a prominent transgender activist and this all became news when I stated she was white at a flagraising event. I was not only ostracised, called transphobic and a birther by many white people in the community. I had been made to feel wrong for speaking about something largely known in Black and brown community pockets.

So, during Pride in covidian times I proclaim that my community are Black transgender women who I take guidance from, Black non-binary and gender variant folx inspire me.

Depressed, I thought about the tension of what is community, here I was being berated again by people who claim we stand together, the people who called us the n-word, the people who pathologize Black transgender women for surviving by doing sex work. The same people who were part of a power structure that kept working black and brown LGBTQ2 people in lackey and tokenized positions. It’s when I realized that I am not part of the LGBTQ2 community. I figured out that community is deeper than a label, it encompasses shared culture, language and often racial politics that hold us in community. Community extends to how we touch and embrace each other, and our lives.  It’s in our shared vision of liberation.

So, during Pride in covidian times I proclaim that my community are Black transgender women who I take guidance from, Black non-binary and gender variant folx inspire me.  I look to elders for their perspectives and Black & brown poz (HIV positive) and disabled people have my heart. These are my safe® spaces, as my friend Louie would say, in them I find home.

Abdul-Aliy A. Muhammad (They/Them) is a Black queer HIV positive organizer and writer from Philadelphia.

Pour into Abdul’s work:  Cash App: $Dulle  Venmo: Abdul-Aliy

Photo by: Juan Franco Murillo

alejandra monocuco, we speak your name.

on may 29, 2020, alejandra monocuco, a black trans woman who lived in the santa fe neighborhood of bogotá, colombia, died after being denied necessary treatment from paramedics after they learned that she was HIV positive.

on the morning of may 29, alejandra’s roommate called paramedics after alejandra began experiencing trouble breathing. according to a spokesperson from the trans community network, alejandra’s roommate noticed the demeanor of the attending paramedics change after they learned that alejandra was HIV positive. alejandra died 40 minutes later. it would take another 15 hours before ambulances returned.

the bogotá secretary of health announced an investigation into the allegations will be conducted.

community members are demanding justice for alejandra and immediate action to address the increasing anti-trans violence trans women experienced during the country’s lockdown.

alejandra monocuco died because anti-blackness, transphobia and aidsphobia continue to be global pandemics.

we are raging and demand justice.

we speak her name, alejandra monocuco.