Front row (from left to right): Ita Segev, Ariel Loh, Fran Tirado, Ceyenne Doroshow, Mobéy Lola Irizarry, Nala Simonet, Junior Mintt, Willow Defebaugh, Marquise Vilsón Balenciaga, Aariana Rose Philip Back row (from left to right): Yên Sen, Arewà Basit, Kian Volk, Wes Balenciaga, Nirvana Garcia, Lío Mehiel, Amarilla Diosa, Chelsea Manning, Raquel Willis
Trans people are a marvel. I’m reminded of this every time we gather.
On an April morning in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, I was surrounded by 18 other effervescent souls on set for Atmos. In between beaming smiles, brimming excitement, and our signature sass, the production crew assembled the wooden scaffolding for the shoot. Photographer Camila Falquez had envisioned a structure of platforms and tables that would coalesce into the silhouette of a Mother Tree structure. One by one, we climbed into place. Some of us emerged from the trunk, others perched like branches.
There was none of the opulent glamour our community perfected in the drag and pageant worlds. Instead, stylist Lorena Maza dressed us in designs by Zoe Gustavia Anna Whalen. Structure met the softness of our skin: Most of us were draped in garments made from repurposed lace, linen, and nylon; others wore knit panniers and metallic armor embellishments. We served an ethereal mix of rustic and medieval, and our features were defined by the earthy tones.
Traces of our scattered collective past surfaced throughout the room. Cultural worker Mobéy Lola Irizarry told me they felt the spirit of the late activist Cecilia Gentili in the room. Movement godmother Ceyenne Doroshow’s coiffed updo conjured the appearance of her own chosen mother, Flawless Sabrina, as seen in the 1968 documentary The Queen. Actor Marquise Vilsón wore a chainmail headpiece in tribute to Joan of Arc, the 15th-century warrior who defied gender norms to lead France in battle. As Leslie Feinberg wrote of Joan in their seminal tome, Transgender Warriors: “In the context of feudal life, in which religion permeated everything, Joan asserted that God directed her mission, motivation, and mode of dress.”
And so, the message of the shoot was undeniable: Trans people have always existed. We are ancient and of the future, despite claims that we are unnatural, fabricated, something concocted out of the excesses of society, capitalism, and ego.In this space, crafted just for us to be seen in all of our glory, we suspended time, space, and the fascist misunderstanding of our existence on the world stage.
It was a necessary reprieve.
To be transgender in 2025 is to be an endangered species. This is not a new feeling, but the air is especially toxic now. In the lead-up to the last presidential election, Donald Trump had already begun a crusade to scapegoat our community for all of society’s so-called ills. Since his inauguration, President Trump has made it his mission—at the behest of a decades-long Christian evangelical faction—to “protect” cisgender women and children by eradicating not just trans and nonbinary people from public life, but also those who are intersex. One of Trump’s earliest agenda items, which was announced on the first day of his presidency in an unmistakable nod to Project 2025, was the assertion that gender and sex were of one binary category.
Other executive actions have since sought to restrict access to accurate identity documents, ban trans people under the age of 19 from obtaining gender-affirming care, oust trans people from the military, allow federal agencies to discriminate against trans workers, and strip trans history from federal websites. Such pointed domestic attacks on the trans community are carried out by the administration alongside a near-endless onslaught targeting migrants and marginalized people of all backgrounds.
Meanwhile, trans people in other corners of the world face their own wildfires. The United Kingdom’s Supreme Court ruled earlier this year that trans women can be excluded from the legal definition of “womanhood.” The rebuke, much desired by “gender-critical” hate groups and caustic figures like J.K. Rowling, has only emboldened campaigns to bar trans women from restrooms, shelters, and services. The same week, Hungary passed a new constitutional amendment declaring there to be two, immutable sexes. These attacks are taking place against a backdrop of continued high rates of discrimination, suicidality, and violence, which our community has faced for decades.
“We are ancient and of the future, despite claims that we are unnatural, fabricated, something concocted out of the excesses of society, capitalism, and ego. In this space, crafted just for us to be seen in all of our glory, we suspended time, space, and the fascist misunderstanding of our existence on the world stage.”
Raquel Willis, writer
An overwhelming exhaustion and grief cloaked nearly everyone I knew. I felt it, too. There was a level of mourning as progress for trans people seemed to hit a wall of hate. Some planned their departures from the United States, deliberating the known and unknown threats stacking up against us. How many more lives would be stolen by exterminationist policies? What histories are we repeating, and at whose cost? And how did those who came before us survive worse fires and maintain their power?
Trans people have always existed, in every era of government abandonment and restriction, including enslavement, Nazi Germany, the McCarthyism offshoot of the Lavender Scare, and the onset of the HIV/AIDS crisis. Still, some larger-than-life figures in our root system charted unique courses. Even before actress Christine Jorgensen made a splash in 1950s newspapers for becoming the first American widely known for undergoing gender-affirming surgery, certain figures—like Frances Thompson, a formerly enslaved Black trans woman who testified before Congress about experiencing white supremacist sexual violence during the Memphis Massacre of 1866; and Lili Elbe, a Danish painter who moved to Germany in the late 1920s to undergo pioneering medical procedures related to her transition—demanded respect for their gender experiences. Meanwhile, trans men often carved out space to be themselves under the public’s radar, such as the British Merchant Naval doctor Michael Dillon, who was outed in the late 1950s, and gospel singer Willmer “Little Axe” Broadnax, who got his start as a teenager in the 1930s, performing to churchgoing crowds for nearly five decades until his death.
The dolls are no strangers to the stage, either. Sir Lady Java toured as a mesmerizing showgirl throughout the 1960s and 1970s despite being routinely targeted by Los Angeles’ anti-crossdressing laws in the streets and in the courtroom. Meanwhile, Jackie Shane, an American singer from Tennessee who became famous in Canada, recorded soul music in the 1960s that was only discovered in the new millennium, proving that some seeds may take longer to sprout. And when anti-Black racism permeated the budding pageant system, Crystal Labeija founded the first ballroom house in 1968. From that scene emerged a new cultural lexicon—“shade,” “realness,” “it’s giving”—that the whole world now repeats.
Then, there were the street mothers of revolt. Stonewall-era veterans Marsha P. Johnson and Sylvia Rivera marched, protested, and insisted on an ethic of mutual aid that cared for disowned street youth. Though their organization, STAR House, was forced to close in 1973, its efforts continue to reverberate throughout time. Other icons from that era, like Miss Major, are still organizing around a commitment to creating safe havens and shared space for trans folks. Miss Major remains a living ring of the Mother Tree’s trunk, while the legacies of others who have passed serve as nourishment: Lorena Borjas, Cecilia Gentili, Monica Roberts, The Lady Chablis, Lou Reed, Holly Woodlawn, Candy Darling, Juan Evans, and countless others.
Today, answering the call of our transcestors has allowed many of us to feel their defiant spirits course through our bodies as we face a new wave of attacks. Thousands have taken to the streets globally in the name of trans justice and liberation over the last several months. Young activists in the U.K. staged a die-in to protest an expanded puberty blocker ban. Countless rallies have been organized in New York, Los Angeles, Washington, D.C., and beyond in the face of Trump’s hateful re-ascension. Protestors sprayed “Trans Lives Matter” on the walls of Mexico’s National Palace in honor of activist and politician Samantha Gómez Fonseca, who was brutally murdered last year. Movement lawyer Chase Strangio became the first openly trans person to argue a case at the Supreme Court last December in what is being described as a generation-defining ruling on access to gender-affirming care. And many have embraced a “do not comply” attitude, using every struggle and tragedy as fertilizer to carry on.
I had already joined my fair share of grassroots efforts since this new era emerged. Gender Liberation Movement, a new organizing collective centering bodily autonomy, self-determination, and the pursuit of fulfillment for all, had quickly become a cornerstone of my life. The demand for a space that linked the fight for reproductive justice and the fight for gender-affirming care had only grown since our launch. From a national march last fall that brought our fight to the Supreme Court steps and into the Heritage Foundation headquarters, to a bathroom sit-in on Capitol Hill in response to proposed bathroom bans led by Representative Nancy Mace, being surrounded by beloved community on set temporarily whisked me out of fight mode.
“Each generation of trans people has faced some kind of persecution. And each time, we refuse the scarcity myths handed to us, leaving the soil richer for the next ones.”
Raquel Willis, writer
This cover story would serve as another antidote to the sociopolitical moment: a love letter to the trans community. In concocting this editorial, Atmos editor-in-chief Willow Defebaugh and photographer Camila Falquez set out to create a visually spectacular ode to the tenderness of our movement’s warriors. Throughout our day on set, I interviewed my fellow participants about what they thought about the seeds they were planting and the duty to bear fruit in this world.
“I really want queer and trans people to understand and see themselves as part of nature, especially since nature is so often weaponized against our community,” Defebaugh told me, expanding on the premise of the shoot. “And the reality of the natural world is that it is so vibrant and beautiful and biodiverse across every arena, from sexuality to gender.”
This queer ecological mindset is right on time. No one has accepted defeat; in fact, some have found stores of energy to continue the fight for themselves and future generations. “I feel more motivated than anything,” said Them editor-in-chief Fran Tirado. “I think that our community can make the mistake of being resolved or feeling an indisputable sense of doom. I try to figure out how I can prove everybody wrong and remind them that we’re not just a fucking charity. We are actually arbiters of culture; we are beacons of freedom; we have something that everybody else wants.”
Segev’s declaration about culture was a sentiment shared by others. The call sheet was full of creatives building new worlds through their work. Vilsón, Yên Sen, and Arewa Basit mentioned using film to expand trans narratives. Meanwhile, producer, mixer, and composer Ariel Loh was inspired by the promise of sound. They recently founded Trans Music Archive, a nonprofit preserving the work of trans musicians throughout time.
“The goal is to help trans musicians print small-batch, vinyl records [in order] to create more physical media in trans spaces and [facilitate] record-keeping of trans culture and legacy,” Loh said. “That’s as well as collecting and archiving as many trans vinyl records as we can find that exist currently. “I hope we’ll produce a lot of vinyl records, and that [these records] will outlive us all.”
Drag preacher and cosmetics entrepreneur Junior Mint has been leaving their mark by donating their product line, Mintty Makeup, to schools and theater departments. “I get to be one of the few people who walk into a space, and a young Black trans kid gets to see somebody who looks like them,” they said. “I’m getting to see students show up, getting to be their full selves, getting to be the most beautiful version of themselves.”
At 60 years old, Ceyenne Doroshow has the most detailed idea of the legacy she wants to leave behind. For her, the heightened attacks on the community have made growing a diversified trans leadership ecosystem beyond the arts crucial. With a frank acceptance of mortality, she issued a directive rooted in educating the youth about the opportunities they now have thanks to the bravery and courage of their ancestors. “There are some things that touch home where we need to infuse ourselves,” she said. “We need lawyers that look like us, doctors that look like us. We need a judge who looks like us. I want to see a reflection of all these kids. For every commander-in-chief in the world, there should be a trans representative in a high position doing the powerful work.”
The ultimate moment of our day on set was crafted around an original poem I wrote for the project, “We Do Bear Fruit.” Before Falquez led us through multiple video takes, she directed the cast and crew into a large circle for an impromptu ritual. Irizarry, with performance artist flair, breathed unimaginable life into the fable and prophecy of the words. It became spiritual. I was reminded of our superpowers: crafting new selves out of the broken fragments of society, and transforming every space we inhabit.
As I looked around, I saw a canopy of trans power. Later, when the interview questions were turned back on me, I’d describe it as all those little transgressive personal moments building into a collective one. “It’s the ballroom kid bursting out into a duck walk on the subway. It’s the little queer kid discovering the creative potential of makeup. It’s the lesbian falling in love with a woman for the first time. It’s the person who just admitted to themselves that their experience is more expansive than two genders can describe.”
With every word, we carried the weight of past struggles, and the power of the world’s diasporas came together. There was the brilliance of the descendants of West Africans, the Chickasaw Nation, Puerto Rican revolutionaries, Europeans, Asians, Jews, and beyond. We became a fabulous David in the face of Goliath. Fascism and environmental degradation became no match for us.
Basit’s honeyed runs soared through the final lines of the paean, pulling us into a chorus of liberation as we repeated “and we’ll do it again, and again, and again,” promising to reshape a world stolen from us to reflect our will. Each generation of trans people has faced some kind of persecution. And each time, we refuse the scarcity myths handed to us, leaving the soil richer for the next ones. So I ask you, Oh, trans people of now, what fruit will you bear?
Set design Damien von Shippee Set design assistants Tom Batuello, Erik Brambila Zavalza, Tyler Herson casting GÜERXS, Maria Osado cinematography Fran Rios managing agent Lindsay Thompson wardrobe partner Zoe Gustavia Anna Whalen Light design Paula Andrea Agudelo Second assistant Sean Manuel wardrobe assistants Olympia Arcot, Jeylan Ulusan, Julian Chams, Daniela Amin Production coordinator Analia Aizersztein Production assistants Dante, Ginta Jasaite Hair Marin Mullen Hair assistants Gabby Cisneros, Vanessa Li, Kelly-Ann McAnuff, Deja Celestin, Rebecca Velez, Liam Mullen Makeup Kento Utsubo Makeup assistants Flora Kamimoto, Sarah Hart, Erika Geraldine Guzman, Konoha Okamoto Second makeup artist Kaiya Karlin Talent Marquise Vilsón Balenciaga, Wes Balenciaga, Arewà Basit, Willow Defebaugh, Amarilla Diosa, Ceyenne Doroshow, Nirvana Garcia, Ariel Loh, Chelsea Manning, Lío Mehiel, Bobbi Salvör Menuez, Junior Mintt, Mobéy Lola Irizarry, Jinkx Monsoon, Aariana Rose Philip, Ita Segev, Nala Simonet, Yên Sen, Quori Theodor, Fran Tirado, Kian Volk, Raquel Willis
Biome
Join our membership community. Support our work, receive a complimentary subscription to Atmos Magazine, and more.