Join Queer Kentucky for their latest print edition featuring original stories, gorgeous photography, and exclusive interviews with Zack Wickham of Bravo’s The Valley, award-winning singer S.G. Goodman, and Chappell Roan’s makeup artist Andrew Dahling.

Dear Reader,

When I was a kid, I dedicated an entire summer to playing the narrator in the musical Beauty and the Beast. Yes, the character that you actually never see in the Disney cartoon movie version. The one that delivers lines for the first 45 seconds of the film and is never heard from again—that was me. I also shuffled around the stage as a knife alongside a posse of utensils to the number, “Be Our Guest.” Needless to say, I wasn’t the prime pick for any leading roles.

But that was fine with me. Who doesn’t love a supporting role? Some of the most powerful performances come from those who set the stage for others. Viola Davis won an Oscar for Doubt with just one monologue—one monologue filled with raw emotion (and a lot of snot).

As for the leading role of the Beast, my childhood bestie was cast. Was I jealous of his newly acquired stardom? Not really, I didn’t necessarily want to be there. His mom had pushed my mom to push me into this summer camp, so there I was supporting Miss Thang in her furry beast costume, while she fought off the evil Gaston and won Belle’s heart.

And support I did! I donned that elementary school stage in my best 18th-Century French attire, brown from head to toe. My costume consisted of itchy, cotton tights; cunty leather boots; and a very blousey top, complete with a “provincial” vest.

Once upon a time, in a faraway land, a young Prince lived in a shining castle. Although he had everything his heart desired, the Prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind…

I slayed that prologue. I set the stage for one of the most famous love stories of all time. And now, years later, I find myself doing the same thing—but this time, the story is ours.

As your Editor-in-Chief of Queer Kentucky, I live in this constant supporting role of sharing our stories with readers all over the world. I get the privilege of reading, writing and editing so many Queer stories of joy. I uplift your business milestones, your inspiring advocacy wins, and beautiful works of art with digital heart taps and freshly printed paper. And the process is beautiful, even the hot-off-the-press odor of this magazine is beautiful.

But just as Beauty and the Beast begins with a curse before love breaks the spell, our stories of joy exist alongside struggle. Queer Kentucky’s origin story is rooted in joy, but joy is impossible to fully appreciate without first knowing sorrow. That means I also have the heavy responsibility of sharing stories of hate, political violence, destruction, and even death. I don’t enjoy writing about transgender trauma, “drag bans,” or guns being pulled on Queer kids at an Appalachian Pride event. But these are our stories. This is part of our history—a history they are trying to erase.

And truthfully, I regret to inform you that I don’t know what happens next. I wish, dear reader, that this letter would bring you joy and not root you in a reality of worry for our Queer future. But that doesn’t mean we can’t find joy. I look for it everywhere. And I find it. Through tight embraces with my chosen family, I find it. When they read me for filth to the point of me blushing in embarrassment, I find it. The joy I feel when I am surrounded by other Queer people living relentlessly and authentically in the face of erasure and political violence is incomparable.

The world can take a lot of things away from Queer people—our rights, our mainstream spaces, our healthcare, and who knows what else. But we are in charge of our joy. As long as we allow ourselves to find that joy in our little community corners of the world, they will never win, and our show will go on.