a living record of black queer drift, held in fragments, traces, and quiet refusals across cities, surfaces, and days.
they want our names on brochures, on panels, in dei reports and photo ops.
but when we ask for a living wage— suddenly, there’s no budget.
we are not the brand. we’re the labour.
the wind caught the flag just right. not dramatic, just visible. like it was saying we’re still here. we’re not backing down.
nothing about this was symbolic. it was material. and we were many.
not a burden. not a task. just the feel of small arms around your shoulders and the weight of someone who trusts you without question.
we walked like this for a while. no rush. no reason to explain it.
sometimes care is this simple— a body held steady, a sidewalk warming in the sun, and the quiet joy of being leaned on without breaking.
no sirens. no slogans. just fabric, thread, and a sentence that refuses.
it didn’t need to shout. it just held its place. between shadow and sunlight, between the kids and the street.
not everything needs to escalate. sometimes you hang the banner and let it breathe.
first birthday in lockdown. three candles, a wooden tray, a cake too beautiful to eat fast.
no party. no gathering. just this— a soft pause at the end of a year that didn’t make sense.
i didn’t wish for anything big. just to stay close to whatever still felt like care.
the crowd was gone. the chants had faded. but the sign was still in my hands.
i sat down for a moment while i waited for the métro.
travailleur de la santé contre le racisme systémique not a slogan. just a fact i live with and sometimes fight through.
justice pour joyce because grief doesn't end when the protest does.
me and pépère. his hand behind my head, making ears. mine holding a notepad like i already knew i’d need one.
we didn’t match. not in skin. not in story. but for a moment, we belonged to the same living room.
transracial adoption doesn’t leave space for moments like this. too tender. too confusing. too real.
but this was family. not the kind they put in pamphlets— the kind you survive through.
summer 2020. a balcony, a clothesline, and the masks we wore like breath.
orange. black. floral. each one a gesture, a compromise, a signal.
there was nothing romantic about it— but still, they dried in the sun like any other laundry.
a new kind of intimacy: fabric, filtered air, what we held between us and what we didn’t.