Queer.

It is astounding how connected the queer community is across the globe. The solidarity that exists amongst queer people consistently blows my mind. Last night, I attended the pride celebration in Cochabamba– the one day a year that gay, transgender, lesbian, bisexual, androgynous, queer, etc. people take the to the streets without fear or shame based on their sexual orientation or gender identity. The festival was amazing, inspiring, and empowering. I never expected to see so many people in the streets supporting the movement.

What’s more, however, is the sense of solidarity I feel with the queer people I meet in Cochabamba. This isn’t an isolated experience– anytime I have traveled and met other queer people, it’s the same feeling. Queers across the globe are one, interwoven community. No matter where you go, if there is a queer community and you are queer, you will be accepted. This is my experience, at least.

It’s hard to describe the experience of a transnational queer community to people who are not queer; because I can’t imagine anything quite the same exists. It’s this intrinsic understanding of respect when you meet people. No matter how alone I have felt at times this summer, or out of place I feel at straight, glamorous clubs (the type of place that checks my ID three times because my gender expression, age, and sex don't match), I know that if I can find that one queer bar, everything will be ok. Because people who are queer just get each other.

Every day in Cochabamba, somebody exclaims over my gender identity. “Lucas… why do you have a boys’ name?” or “You can’t be older than 14…” or “Are you male or female? I don’t understand.” Well, sir, I have a boy’s name because I chose that name. I’m 21 years old despite your disbelief. I am not really male or female and I would prefer not to educate you on the complexities of gender at this point in time.

But when you are in a queer place (a bar, a café, a street corner) nobody asks those questions. There is a sense of intrinsic respect for other human beings that goes so far beyond the consciousness of much of the non-queer community. No matter how ablaze in consternation your brain might be, it really just doesn’t matter if I am a boy or a girl and, yes, I do get asked that every day. But in the queer community there is this sentiment that it just doesn’t matter because we are human and we are all fighting for both internal and external acceptance because we are all different, and weird, and abnormal. And we all make people who are not like us just a little bit uncomfortable. And because we all experience this, we are close. Surrounded by a crowd of queer people last night –drag queens, transsexual women, young gay couples, and old gay couples, single lesbian mothers– I felt more connected to complete strangers who speak different languages, believe in different religions, and experience different realities, than I feel on a street corner in the United States surrounded by other English-speaking, white, middle-class Americans.

There’s something beautiful in our struggle. There’s something beautiful in the knowledge that no matter how despised, stupid, or wrong you feel, if you can just get to that place– that place in every city where a community of people who are different and yet all so the same gather– if you can get there, you will be OK. Somebody will understand you. Somebody won’t make a face when you introduce yourself or ask you why you are who you are or, better yet, what the hell you are.

I think one of the biggest gifts I have been given in my life is to be able to experience this sense of community from some of the people who are most marginalized in this world. Although all of our struggles are different, the queer community at its core is one accumulative struggle, rooted in solidarity.