By Luka Gotsiridze
We could already feel the heaviness of the Miami humidity when my husband and I, along with hundreds of queer community members and allies, spilled out of 1130 Washington Avenue on Miami Beach. Banners lifted, voices charged, we shouted into the early morning air: “These are our streets!”
Organized by City of Miami Beach Commissioner Alex Fernandez, the Greater Miami LGBT Chamber of Commerce, and a coalition of local organizations, the Forever Proud March rose up in response to an act of calculated cruelty: the removal of the Pulse Memorial Crosswalk in Orlando. That rainbow crosswalk, painted in 2017, had stood as a living tribute to the 49 lives stolen in the 2016 massacre. And yet, this August, a directive from Governor Ron DeSantis and the Florida Department of Transportation (FDOT) ordered it erased, hiding behind the sterile bureaucratic jargon: “non-uniform traffic control devices.”
Instead of uniting us in remembrance, the state chose division. If even a memorial is too much for them; if even the murdered cannot rest in peace without being erased, then we are not talking about safety. We are staring at the absence of humanity.
FDOT went further, calling decorative crosswalks “distractions” and “safety hazards.” As if painted asphalt were the real danger in a country where gunfire is normalized, where carrying weapons is framed as liberty, but carrying color is somehow a threat…
For some, a rainbow on the pavement might seem insignificant. Even frivolous. But for most of us, these symbols are profound. We feel it in our bodies: the way our shoulders unclench, our chests loosen, our breath finally comes easier when we are in a space that explicitly welcomes us.
It’s not abstract. It is physical.
Our bodies carry the memory of growing up in a culture where heterosexuality is the unquestioned default, and anything else is branded deviant. When I show even the smallest sign of that so-called deviation – a gesture, a tone, a symbol – I still wrestle with self-doubt, with fear, because I know what it means to be mocked, bullied, shamed. And let’s be honest: nobody likes to be shamed. That cuts across politics, across parties, across ideologies. We all live in bodies that crave safety, that long for belonging. We deserve, like anyone else, the fundamental human right to breathe freely in our own skin. And if someone doesn’t understand this, they should just step back, and feel the weight of their own humanity.
“Whose streets? Our streets! Whose state? Our state!” As we exited the LGBT Visitor Center on Washington Avenue and made our way toward Ocean Drive and 12th Street —home to one of the targeted rainbow crosswalks — we shouted, waved banners, and… yes, found some time to pose for tourists and journalists. I can’t speak for everyone, but some of us, gays? We do love a lil’ exposure. Truth be told, my husband and I were a bit miffed later that day —nobody had captured us on social media. “We were at the epicenter! How come nobody caught us? Carajo!” But just as we were sulking, friends and family started sending clips in the evening. There we were. On TV. Framed perfectly in all our glory…
As we stand up against the absurdities of power and claim our livelihoods, it’s crucial to nourish our capacity for joy. Showing up to resist can be exhausting. It wears you down. But showing up isn’t only about shouting at power or claiming space, it’s about seeing each other, feeling the pulse of community, and reminding ourselves that we are held.
That reminder came later that afternoon at a new place on Washington Avenue called Wanderlust, where we were just looking for food and air conditioning. Soon, the room filled with other wanderers from the march, strangers greeting each other, venting, laughing, and cooling off from the Miami heat. And then, like a blessing we didn’t know we needed, Maryel Epps swept in. Acclaimed singer, songwriter, performer, the diva of South Beach herself, she sang through the crowd, calling us her babies and honoring the day. “Today was magnificent. And totally needed. And totally what we have to do,” she said as the crowd erupted in applause.
Watching people sing, dance, and laugh, I realized how vital it is to nourish one another. If we only pour out, we run dry. We must replenish, we must laugh, sing, release, connect, gospel through it, or systems of power will exploit our exhaustion.
In the chaos of politics, in the absurd cruelty of attempts to silence, deny, and invisibilize, something stronger is emerging. We are amplifying ourselves. Carving spaces to heal, to remind each other of our power, to go sane together in a world that often feels insane.
The march ended, but the healing did not. It continues every time we show up, every time we create beauty in the face of brutality, every time we sing, dance, laugh, and choose love.
