"The 'T' isn't a letter appended to the end of an acronym," Willis writes in her memoir. "It’s the fire that keeps the whole thing burning. Without us, the rainbow fades to pastel."
This created a painful paradox. Trans people were often welcomed into gay bars as patrons (a historical safe haven), but excluded from leadership roles in advocacy groups. Lesbian feminist spaces in the 1970s and 80s, such as the Michigan Womyn's Music Festival, became infamous for explicitly excluding trans women, sparking decades of boycotts and bitter debate.
Because at the end of the day, a rainbow missing any of its colors isn't a rainbow at all. It’s just a stripe.
As the movement marches forward—fighting bans, celebrating visibility, mourning those lost to violence—the lesson from Johnson and Rivera remains clear. The LGBTQ+ community is a family, and like any family, it is messy, loud, and occasionally dysfunctional. But when one member is in crisis, the others must show up.
"Solidarity has been forged in fire," says James, a cisgender gay man in his 50s who marched for AIDS relief in the 80s. "When they come for the T, they come for all of us. The homophobes don't check your birth certificate before they bash you."
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