Standing behind him, in spirit if not on stage, were his warped “faith advisers”—Evangelical extremists who treat the Book of Revelation like a war manual.

This patch of land—between water and chapel, between movement and stillness—is where I find alignment again.

That is not Christianity. That is oppression dressed up in religious language.

As the Declaration of Faith reminds us, “We do not know when or how the final redemption of creation will be achieved. But we know that God will win.”

It is a political stunt meant to erase LGBTQ people from public life—starting with our most vulnerable: those in crisis, those on the edge, those who just need someone to tell them their life matters.

What the hell kind of country does that?

In 1946, “El Pendón Estrellado” became the official Spanish version of the U.S. national anthem.

Isn’t it heavy? Carrying that much rage around all day?

Our founding fathers insisted on displays of civilian rule rather than the pomp of kings and their soldiers.

They blame immigrants and LGBTQ for loss of individual and family wealth, and the failure of small businesses.

We haven’t seen the same unfold in Chicago because of the power of already deep-rooted grassroots networks that mobilized.

When the people rise up, when they “Storm the Bastille,” it’s because they’ve been pushed to the wall with no more choices left.

In 2017, Father Greg came out publicly as a gay man. It was a moment that reverberated far beyond his parish walls.

It means your data, your life, could be filtered through an opaque algorithm, then passed to law enforcement without you ever knowing why.

It was a deeply personal—and deeply political—decision rooted in the lived reality that people like me are facing in this moment in America.

We’ve entered a nightmare realm—one where U.S. citizens of color have already been detained by Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE), stripped of their rights, denied due process, and held without cause.

Being born and raised in Hawaii, I couldn’t escape the fact that I was born in the waning shadows of a very American brand of apartheid.

I was the disruption. I was the resistance. I was a quiet revolution walking into a world too accustomed to its own noise.

Hakeem Jeffries is more interested in decorum than democracy, more preoccupied with optics than with offense.