54 years ago, a gay bar in Lower Manhattan was raided by the police. Tempers flared. Handcuffs were pulled out. People were beaten. It wasn’t the first time this had happened, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, but what happened when the police wagons were late was unique. Bystanders intervened and fought back. Police were trapped in the bar, afraid of exiting due to the rage that stormed outside. A fire broke out. The Stonewall Inn uprising had begun, and its impact would reverberate through the following decades. 

To this day, we still celebrate and recognize the courage of the Stonewall uprising. What started as an annual protest on the anniversary of the raid has evolved into a yearly celebration as greater strides toward queer equality and acceptance are gained. Now, in cities all over the world, parades march through the streets, and Pride events are attended by thousands every June, a testament to how far the community has come since the days when the mafia ran the gay bars and the laws against same-sex relations hovered over everyday lives.

It’s difficult for those of us too young to remember AIDS, too young to remember the arguments over same-sex marriage, to imagine. At least in my experience, Pride Month has nearly always felt like a party, a celebration of love and community. This year, though, a tinge of darkness looms. Implemented book bans are erasing queer history and representation off of school shelves. Laws are being passed against drag performances. Already tenuous healthcare is being snatched away from trans folks in red states. Instead of excitement and celebration, this Pride month feels closer to its defiant roots.

Sometimes the best way to navigate an uncertain future is to look to the past. And what better way to stick it to those who want to erase the long history of queer folk in America than to read about it? That’s why, when I saw someone recommend Stone Butch Blues for the reading list this year, I moved it off my To Be Read pile. I already knew the book from reputation– it’s lauded in queer circles as an absolute classic, so much so that there are memes about young questioning or queer folk reading it for the first time– so I didn’t even bother researching it before adding it to the list. I’m glad I didn’t.

Leslie Feinberg’s Stone Butch Blues follows the fictional life of Jess, a young butch lesbian growing up during the McCarthy era in a blue-collar town. Constantly chafing under society’s expectations and laws, Jess struggles against prejudice, violence, and brutality as she navigates her life in search of community, love, and acceptance. The book is at once a nuanced take on inter-community struggles and a manifesto for collective action. It’s a poetic and instructive look into the struggles of navigating a world that’s hostile to your very existence. 

The way those struggles are navigated is very intentional. It’s no surprise that Feinberg, whose last words were reportedly, “Remember me as a revolutionary communist,” took great care to create Jess and position her throughout the story without a strong political background. Instead, Feinberg focuses on the experiences– the brutality of the police, the sexualization of femmes in her life, the intercommunity fights about race and attraction– and lets Jess’s feelings do the talking. It’s not objective. No book written from personal experience can be. But it does position the reader to approach complex topics not from the overarching political talking points but from a place of empathy. 

It’s an incredibly effective way to write about difficult topics. Even as Jess resists the political change happening inside and outside her community, she struggles with highly politicized subjects, many of which are still relevant today: Jess loses a lover to radical feminists in the college scene. She loses a job when she’s outed at work. She is dismissed and shamed when she gathers the courage to get healthcare. It’s not until the end of the book does Jess begin to educate herself on the history and her place in the world, but even then her internal thought processes are left ambiguous to the reader. What’s important is Jess’s journey to self-recognition, to self-acceptance, and to self-advocacy. Crucially, the book ends when she finally speaks up for herself.

When she does, her request is simple: “Couldn’t the we be bigger? Isn’t there a way we could help fight each other’s battles so that we’re not always alone?” I have to admit, this is my favorite line in the book, one that I keep coming back to in the days I’ve been writing this reflection. It encapsulates so much of Jess’s experience, one that, even today with our myriad of hyper-specific identity labels and categories, struggles to fit any kind of definition. And I don’t think Jess needs a label. Or, if she does, that it’s the one she’s always given herself: butch. The book consistently argues that Jess’s identity is less important than her humanity, her ability to exist free from persecution and fear. Labels may give words to a feeling or an experience, but Jess doesn’t need that– she just wants to live. And to do that, she needs help from the other people who are getting beaten and barred entry from everyday life for their sex or attraction. Much like a union, fighting for equal rights and safety can only be accomplished when the queer community sticks together, a lesson I think many online (and real-world) folks could do with remembering.

The constant mention of unions and the overarching metaphor is essential to understanding Stone Butch Blues. Feinberg wrote the book more as a manifesto than as a novel, hoping to provoke understanding and change in the queer and allied communities. It’s why the book is rooted in scenes rather than plot and why the dialogue is more dramatic than realistic. It’s not meant to be “high-art”, it’s meant to prove a point, and it does so tremendously. That said, I won’t deny that some sections leave a bit to be desired in terms of craft. I found typos in my copy, and some of the dialogue and metaphors are so cliche it hurts. But it never completely turned me off because behind the rough execution was the description of a unique experience I’d never seen put into words before. This empathy, this understanding of people who journey through life in ways we’ve never heard of before, is crucial to creating a fair and equitable world. A few typos and some cheesy dialogue can’t destroy the epiphanies between the pages. 

And still, because they’ve never read it and refuse to understand, people want books like Stone Butch Blues off our library shelves. They cut healthcare options, make threats based on what clothing someone wears, and try to inspect children’s genitals before playing a pee-wee soccer game. So, to queer folk and allies alike, can’t we take Leslie Feinberg’s words to heart? Can’t we make the we bigger and protect our LGBTQ+ friends and family? As you take part in this year’s Pride celebrations, don’t forget that the battle hasn’t been won. Queer folk are dying. Queer folk are suffering. But, if we act collectively, maybe we can enact change. “Try imagining a world worth living in, and then ask if that isn’t worth fighting for.”

Happy Pride, everyone, and see you next month.