Pride month is a time for celebration of queer joy, art and culture. This year, however, many transgender Americans are reminded of Pride’s origins as they face hundreds of anti-trans bills being introduced nationwide. First led by Black trans women like Marsha P. Johnson and Afro-Latino transwomen like Sylvia Rivera over half a century ago, Pride serves as a reminder of the resilience of the LGBTQ+ community amidst decades of suppression, criminalization and erasure. Today, transgender people especially experience disproportionate exclusion from public life, facing harsh criminal penalties for using the bathroom, hate-fueled violence and even sudden invalidation of state identification , impacting employment, voting rights and travel. Thus, Pride is not just a celebration but also part of the ongoing fight for LGBTQ+ rights.
Whether at Pride events or in daily life, music by gender-diverse artists represents resistance. These artists share their music to make other trans folks feel less alone, even amidst hostile anti-LGBTQ+ policies and public backlash. “Being visible means holding space for the fear without letting it hold me back.” For Grace Baldridge, whose stage name is Semler , being publicly queer has never been a choice. “I know it’s harder, and I’m aware of the way that I’m treated at times, but it wouldn’t be easier if I presented differently,” Baldridge said. “I get to experience highs and lows fully as myself, not just a fractured version of who I was before.”
“It feels really difficult to be promoting music and asking people to look at your artistry when so much is happening,” shared Entifan , a genderfluid artist whose music grapples with queerness and gender identity. “Because we’ve chosen to be musicians, we’re inherently political. … There’s a lot of bravery in trying to create sanctuaries for people because you put yourself at risk of being misunderstood or targeted.”
Joy Oladokun, a nonbinary soul artist , also feels the dangers tied to visibility. “I fear for my safety sometimes,” Oladokun said. “Being visible means holding space for the fear without letting it hold me back.”
It’s not always easy for artists to be publicly trans, as visibility can expose musicians to hate comments, transphobia online and physical safety concerns on tour. Genderqueer artists may need to navigate strict bathroom bans in states like Idaho, Texas and Florida, and restrictions on drag in places like Tennessee and Montana. In fact, the current political environment makes artists like Kiff Milhous hesitant to post online. Outspokenness doesn’t come naturally to Milhous, but they recognize the importance of speaking up. “With the government being the government and doing these things, we need people who are able to speak out to speak out,” Milhous said. Soul artist Joy Oladokun says, “LGBTQ+ folks are living in a society that is violent against them whilst trying to live and love like everyone else.” (Lucy Foster) Protest songwriter Ryan Cassata says it’s currently the most difficult it’s ever been for him to be publicly trans in nearly 20 years of being out. “It feels more charged and therefore it feels more dangerous because I’m actively calling out the dysfunction of the United States government, the rise of fascism and the fall of democracy in my music,” he said.
Currently, dissent like Cassata’s can pose tangible safety risks. The Trump administration has drastically escalated restrictions on free speech , which some activists view as an effort to silence people . The federal government has even labeled certain political beliefs (including “radical gender ideology”) as domestic terror threats. Thus, Trump ’s targeting of journalists , activists and political opponents may also chill the protected speech of LGBTQ+ musicians worried for their safety. Singer-songwriter Miki Ratsula feels it would be a “disservice” not to use their platform to challenge anti-trans rhetoric as a white, transmasculine artist from a blue state. “Part of me likes ruffling feathers,” Ratsula said. “Seeing people on Facebook get upset means I’m doing something right.”
“Visibility is something that’s super powerful on all fronts,” added Sasha Allen, known for his appearance on NBC’s “The Voice ” and his 1.6 million TikTok followers . “It’s like, ‘Hey, I’m here as an artist and creating unapologetically.’ It’s kind of like a big fuck you to all of those people and the bills and the politicians and every single person who doesn’t know anything about trans people and spreads misinformation.” “We’re different from cis people not just physically, but also in a creative sense and in the way we view the world,” says musician Sasha Allen. ( Kenai ) “Listening to music that’s about being queer and putting it on display to the world just reminds me that queer people will never disappear,” added Anni Xo, lead singer of anni xo , which includes Maddie Thies, Hunter SinClair Hawthorne, Aurelio Sandoval Pogatshnik and Riley Jacobson. Dylan Holloway, whose stage name is Dylan and the Moon , grew up believing he was the only trans person in the world. To him, his visibility can make other trans people feel less alone. In songs like “ Off My Brain ,” Holloway performs duets with his past self to challenge the narrative that transgender people should hate their pre-transition selves. “Every version of me exists in that one song. … You can embrace every version of who you’ve been, and that doesn’t take away from who you are now.”
Visibility is not always so easily acquired, though. Genderqueer artists often face heightened obstacles within the already-difficult music industry. For instance, Ratsula’s ex-manager told them that writing music about queerness and transness would stifle their career opportunities. Undeterred, Ratsula produces music about their gender identity, their wife and their queerness with much success. “Seeing how special it was for people to hear queer love songs, it just inspired me,” Ratsula said. “Like, this is what I want to do for my community.” “Visibility is something that’s super powerful on all fronts.” While representation is important, folk singer-songwriter Mikah Amani aims to do more to support the trans community than just be visible. “It’s hard to balance promoting my art and also doing more to bring visibility to Black trans issues,” Amani said. “I don’t want to get so tunnel-visioned that it’s primarily about visibility for me.”
In their early lives, many LGBTQ+ musicians found music to be an outlet for grappling with their identities. For instance, Holloway saw an album cover image of David Bowie in a dress as a child, and learned he could subvert gender norms and be celebrated for his differences in music, long before coming out. Writing music also allowed Amani to express the masculine, ‘loverboy’ energy so intricately connected with his gender identity. Baldridge similarly used music to navigate their youth. “I think it’s no accident that I picked up the guitar right around when I was hitting puberty, around the time I first had awareness of my sexuality and early gender dysphoria,” Baldridge said.
“Middle school as a trans person, and a lot of people will agree, can be really brutal,” echoed Allen. “Around that time, I started writing music to express my queer identity — be it gender or sexuality — and I started saying things I really couldn’t say out loud.” Musician Grace Baldridge, lead singer of Semler, views music — especially in live performances — as “the great unifier.” (Madeline Walczak) Beyond the personal significance of music, many genderqueer artists view their work as political. Baldridge finds it imperative for artists to honestly describe the conditions of the world in their music, and feels unable to write about queerness without acknowledging the current political landscape. “There’s a pressure on queer artists that cis artists might not experience,” Baldridge said. “We exist at a pressure point within systems of oppression. … We need to comment on rage, but we would also be doing a disservice to listeners not to bring joy.”
For Baldridge, much of that joy comes from live performances, which they describe as “the most fun thing you’ve ever experienced, in my very biased opinion.” Baldridge views music as “the great unifier,” elaborating that one can almost feel the healing and catharsis at their shows. “If you write a song with enough rhythm, a beat and good melodies to it, you can get people bobbing along to songs about religious trauma without even necessarily realizing [it],” Baldridge said.
“When we played two shows with Semler in the past month or two, that was so amazing,” said Anni Xo. “Hearing [Semler’s] music on those nights felt so spiritual but also so queer. … Those specific nights were the most queer joy I’ve ever experienced at a show.”
“Queerness overall means acceptance,” echoed Entifan, who is committed to creating safe spaces for LGBTQ+ people when they don’t otherwise exist. “When I perform, I view the space as a safe container.” Ryan Cassata says, “Music is such an incredible tool for resistance and fighting for equality, but is also something that can help people feel more connected to who they are.” ( eevees_photos ) It touches Cassata’s heart to know that a song he wrote in his room can impact someone else. “Music is such an incredible tool for resistance and fighting for equality, but is also something that can help people feel more connected to who they are,” Cassata said.
Oladokun also views her music as part of the queer struggle. “Most of my music is designed to be a needle drop in the life of the listener,” she said. “LGBTQ+ folks are living in a society that is violent against them whilst trying to live and love like everyone else. Being myself and singing these songs … is the way I join the fight for visibility and survival.”
Still, visibility can come with unspoken pressures. Last year, Milhous posted part of “ the shirt song ” online when they were “at a breaking point with dysphoria,” expecting the video to reach only their existing followers. Half a million people saw the video within days, which Milhous found “terrifying.” Suddenly, Milhous had to navigate both the pressures of expectant new fans and internet transphobia. “I still feel pressure to be the person that was there in that song,” Milhous said. “Some of it feels right still on some days, and on some days it doesn’t, but the important part for me is to learn that … you don’t have to be something , you can just be .”
Many artists view music as a driver of acceptance and belonging for trans folks. Allen’s “ When I Forgive You ,” for example, reflects on the fact that his Catholic grandmother accepted Allen all his life. Allen said, “If my grandma can grow up in a Catholic church and go to Mass every day, anyone else can wrap their head around it.” As a Black, transgender artist, Mikah Amani says he fears being targeted by powerful, hate-fueled actors, but the positive messages he receives online outweigh those fears. (Les Gomez Gonzalez) “I think that [music] can be the start to more acceptance but also genuine love and understanding of Black trans people,” echoed Amani. As a Black, transgender artist, Amani fears being targeted by powerful, hate-fueled actors, but the positive messages he receives online outweigh those fears. “I’ve noticed that me being a Black trans person and starting to acquire visibility has changed people’s minds and even taught them. It’s made them think about what any Black trans person might be going through.”
Oladokun, whose music reached new heights in 2017 after the NFL quarterback Russell Wilson and his wife Ciara used Oladokun’s song to announce the birth of their child, feels similarly. She said, “Music unifies. I feel like my role is to help identify what is right or wrong in our day so we can unify against the forces trying to destroy us.” “It’s so worth it to keep going because trans people can go on to live the most incredible lives.” The unique authenticity within music by gender-diverse artists often resonates beyond an LGBTQ+ audience. For instance, Ratsula’s song “ second ,” which addresses fears about gender-affirming care, has been well-received by cisgender, heterosexual men who struggle with insecurities about their bodies. Ratsula said, “My music can be universal, even if it’s trans or queer-focused. It is such a universal thing to want to be loved and love yourself.”
By celebrating queerness and transness through music, gender-diverse artists communicate that trans people are worthy of love, joy and acceptance. Their music extends beyond entertainment into political resistance, blurring the line between advocacy and art. As Baldridge explains, “Hope is queer culture. We need to create change for the world to get better, and we can’t take the drug of nihilism.” Although the news is flooded with anti-transgender policies, violence and reasons for fear, many trans artists still have hope. Despite almost always wanting to die as a kid, Allen says he’s grateful he kept fighting. “It’s so worth it to keep going because trans people can go on to live the most incredible lives,” Allen said. “We’re different from cis people not just physically but also in a creative sense and in the way we view the world. We are unique and deserve to … make a mark on the world.” Content note: This article contains mention of suicidal thoughts and anti-trans messaging and policies. If you are in crisis and/or having thoughts of suicide, please contact your local crisis hotline at 988. The Trevor Project also offers 24/7 suicide text, chat and phone lines for LGBTQ+ youth in crisis. The post Loud and Proud appeared first on Truthdig .