I'm so grateful that I get to be a Queer Elder for a bunch of folks right now. It's seriously wonderful. And it's a pretty specific thing within the community - one I realized folks who aren't queer might not even know about. So. Thread. CW: violence, suicide, queerphobia (1/16)

One of the weirdest things about the identities under our umbrella is that most of us are born into families that don't share them. We don't grow up with our own history or models for how to be who we are. We might see hints, but most of us aren't raised in the culture. (2/16)

So a really common experience is figuring some shit out by yourself pretty early in adolescence, then a few years of trying to decide what it means, who to tell... Then a coming out process - often pretty painful. We lose our families of origin, often, for a while. (3/16)

The timing varies, but this all gets mixed up in adulthood transition. Ages 16-22 or so, especially. So we're trying to figure out how to be independent adults, and what it means to be queer, and how to be ourselves. Without a damn map. Usually without family support. (4/16)

So there's an expectation - a strong one - that those of us who have created some stability for ourselves will support the young ones, or the not-so-youngs who are new to their identities. We remember the people who helped us out, and we hand it on. (5/16)

I say Queer Elder but it actually starts pretty damn young - when I was 20 I had a homeless teenager sleeping on my couch. I had been a homeless teenager the year before. We're family to each other. But it's not just that stuff - keeping each other off the streets - (6/16)

-we model how to be who we are. We share cultural history; we tell the stories & jokes of our people. We connect kids to community. This part of coming out is really coming IN - finding this huge rich history and community, not always perfect, but YOURS. It's so cool. (7/16)

And if we do it right, newer folks know where they came from; they know why we struggle; they know that we, as a family, as a community, can be inclusive and invitational and tight-knit and fierce and diverse and beautiful and PROUD.

We don't always do it right. I try. (8/16)

Now that I'm over 40, it's even better - because I can give people the approval of a parental figure. I can tell them they're perfect as they are, and I can see something in them healing.

Too many of us are rejected, still, by our families of origin. That wound is deep. (9/16)

This week was awful for me in some ways. But I got to play Queer Elder to a stranger - to a kid in an unsafe situation, who at least has one outlet now, who is going to be okay. I got to spend my stimulus money on binders, playing Trans Binder Fairy. I got to... (10/16)

...tell kind of a lot of young people that they're worthy, and loved, and that I'm not a saint, I'm just a person who was loved like this too. It's a ridiculous joy and honor to be able to help, and to earn their trust, and to be able to give something of myself. (11/16)

Wow, I can really go on. Thing is, there's more to this story. I mentioned I was a homeless queer youth, right? Let me tell you something about some of the people who helped. Specifically, a pair of gay men who just - out of nowhere - paid my rent for a couple of months. (12/16)

It would be a lovely story, except it was the late 1990s, and they were gay men. They're gone now. All the men who were like fathers to me in our community died. They were beautiful and loving and AIDS took them away. They're part of why I'm everyone's dad, now. (13/16)

So now you're like, okay, but why bring that up? And it's because those are the stories we learn when we come into community. Our grief - not just that one, but the many griefs we all carry. All our murdered queers of color. All our homeless children. (14/16)

All the ones we lose to despair, because they don't have Family and can't see a future. Almost me.

So when I say it's an honor and a joy to be a Queer Elder, I mean: every damn one of you is my sibling or my child, if you want to be, and I will walk through fire for you. (15/16)

I will share your grief and your joy. I will buy you a damn binder, if I have money. If I have a place to live, so do you. If I can eat, so can you. Every tiny way I can connect means I'm alive, and here, and so are you. And nothing, nothing, means more to me than that. (fin)