‘Poking the Squid: What We Can Learn from Animal Sex’
By Perrin Roosevelt Ireland
c.2026, W.W. Norton
$29.99 241 pages

Birds do it.

According to Cole Porter, bees do, too, but it’s not exactly what he imagined. Wild and tame, avians, insects, and mammals all have sex – although not always as you’ve been told or for reasons you might think. Even educated fleas do it and, as in the new book, “Poking the Squid” by Perrin Roosevelt Ireland, humans can learn from them all.

If you read through scientific papers on animal reproduction, you might notice something unusual: for scientists, the word “sex” means a lot of different things.

Says Ireland, “It’s used to describe behaviors, biology, life histories, and more.”

That might be because animals are not simply binary.

Take, for instance, hyenas. It’s easy for the casual observer to mistake a male hyena for a female and vice versa because of stereotypes of anatomy. Mating, for hyenas, requires subordination for the male and a nifty trick on the part of the female’s body to get things done.

Our feathered friends are no birdbrains, either: black-browed albatrosses were once thought to be monogamous but global warming seems to have changed their nesting habits sometimes. Male flamingos have sex with one another, as a territorial thing; other birds and animals form same-sex pairs for other reasons.

The Chinese mantis eats her mate after fertilization. Female snakes, alpacas, guinea pigs, and monkeys are anatomically able to enjoy sex. Genitalia between species varies quite a bit; in fact, the vaginas of ducks “are highly complex.” Lionesses will mate up to 100 times when in heat. Female damselflies will change into a “third sex” to avoid overly aggressive mating males. Bearded dragons can change their sex, if needed, as can yellow clown goby fish. And seahorse pregnancy and birth sparked a book banning in Tennessee.

So, asks Ireland, if animals, including us, vary so much in biology and life, “… why are we using the word sex like it means something, anything, consistent?!”

Pick up “Poking the Squid,” page through it a few seconds, and you’ll see that the information here is largely told through cartoon-like drawings mixed with captions. It seems to be something on the lighter side, but don’t let that artwork fool you.

Author Perrin Roosevelt Ireland offers readers solid information that cozies up to the scholarly, with hard science, philosophy, feminism, and quotations from researchers to support it, thus furthering the narrative and hitting the points squarely. If you see the art and expect something lighthearted, comic, and small-talk-worthy, you could be disappointed.

On the other hand, if you want solid, wryly serious facts, you’re in for a treat.

There’s lots of learning to be gleaned here, and some slight nudge-wink whimsy to emphasize the absurdity of wrong-headed thinking. This can make readers feel like they’re in-the-know on the jokes, and the playfulness balances the seriousness of the information well.

So, serious, scholarly, or slightly silly, none of these are negative but you’re going to know what you want from a book like this. For the right reader, someone in the mood, “Poking the Squid” is wild.

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‘Transcendent: A Memoir’
By Laverne Cox
c.2026, Gallery Books
$30/238 pages

OK, let’s just say it: You’re tired of lies.

They come from above, behind, from either shoulder. They’re repeated, laid out in a line, told as if they’re true but they’re not. You wish people would stop lying to you. As in the new memoir “Transcendent” by Laverne Cox, you wish you could tell the truth about yourself.

Sissy.

If the bullies in the neighborhood weren’t constantly calling Laverne Cox that name, then Cox’s mother was. “Sissy,” was just one word, though; the others were worse. The boys would say those things while they beat Cox, when they could catch her. Her mother screamed at her gentle child who didn’t like “boy” activities.

Even at eight years old, says Cox, “I was a prim and proper lady.”

Despite the verbal abuse about her perceived feminine behavior and a furtive, failed attempt at conversion therapy, Cox’s mother sent her and her brother to the Alabama School of Fine Arts, where Cox learned to dance. It was a lifeline for her, and the talent gained there helped Cox get into college in Indiana.

From there, Cox expected to find fame and fortune in New York City.

And yet, the abuse she suffered as a child held Cox back, and the words “There is something wrong with me” became a daily mantra.

“I didn’t know how to say it.” Cox says. “I’m a girl.”

There were therapy sessions to get to that point, as Cox learned the language and skills needed to speak the truth. Landing a sense of style helped, as did her brother’s support, a handful of friends, and happy, scent-infused memories of her mother’s make-up table.

At each step, Cox says, “I was expressing myself, I was also allowing myself to edge closer to my girlhood.”

Let’s start here: “Transcendent” is a difficult read – not for style, but for substance.

From her earliest memory of being sexually abused as a toddler; to verbal and physical abuse from many sources; to what, judging by photo captions, seems perhaps like forgiveness, author Laverne Cox glosses over nothing. Be ready, in other words, for pages and pages of memories that, like a roller-coaster, will make you cringe and want to hide your eyes, although doing so would be a mistake.

As this book progresses, Cox’s story does, too. We see a child who knows a truth but has no words for it. The child becomes a teen with a bursting sense of self, then a young adult who craves love as she’s stretching her wings. By the time Cox advances to writing about her career and the abuse is (mostly) over, readers will breathe a well-deserved sigh of relief. Whew, you’ve winced through a harrowing tale to reach a satisfying but not complete update.

Fans of Cox’s work will want “Transcendent,” as will anyone who’s transitioned, is thinking about it, or loves someone who has. It’s a rough read, but a necessary one, then, and that’s no lie.

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Books for Pride by various authors
c.2026, various publishers
$18.95 – $29.00

How many times have you marched so far this month? Seems like there’s always a reason to gather and walk during Pride, but save some time for yourself, too. You’ll want to reflect, rest, and read these great books about living your best Pride month. 

No doubt, you’ve thought once or twice about stepping away from society as it is, and moving somewhere more accepting. So read “Qtopia: A Memoir of Love, Land, and Liberation” by Juda Bennett (University of Wisconsin Press, $18.95), the story of doing exactly that, and how it turned out.

Back in the ‘70s, Bennett fled the suburbs and all it represented, and went “back to the land,” to a commune named Lavender Hill. Some of the places he’d lived before then had promised way more than they delivered, but Lavender Hill was different – more rural, more open, more queer, much better. But you know all good things must end, and that includes “queer utopia.” The only thing left was to re-enter the mainstream, a journey unto itself, and one worth reading.

Speaking of memoirs, in “Gay Mormon Dad” by Chad Anderson, art by Remy Burke (Graphic Mundi, $21.99), you’ll read about Anderson’s life as a husband (to a woman), a father, and a man who seemingly had it all but it wasn’t right, and he wasn’t happy. He was gay, but acknowledging it, telling his family and his church family, could mean the loss of everything he loved. It’s a story that may be familiar to you, in some way, and it’s a quick read.

For most of his life, Joseph Osmundson dreamed about getting pregnant and having a family. The former didn’t happen and, as for the latter, as he writes in his memoir, “Spawning Season: An Experiment in Queer Parenthood” (Bloomsbury, $27.99) the journey for a gay man to become a father can have plenty of roadblocks.

When two women approach Osmundson to be a sperm donor, it appears that his ultimate dreams are about to come true. Things go swimmingly – until race enters the conversation. Are the words “donor” and “dad” the same? Read this powerful book, and think about it.

And finally, if parenthood as a gay person is something that’s a case of maybe-later, then “Good Morning Moon: A Snapshot of an American Family” by Brad Gooch (Harper, $29) is a book to find. It’s the story of late-life love, surrogacy, and identity as Gooch learns about himself as he learns to be a good Dad. This is a great book for older fathers, and anyone who’s on the parental fence, later in life.

If these great books aren’t enough for you, or if you’re looking for something different for Pride, then head to your favorite bookstore or library and ask the staff there to help you find your next best read. They’ve got a lot of books to put in your hands, a lot of sunny afternoons full of relaxing and promise, so march on out, get a new book, and happy Pride!

‘Devout: Losing My Faith to Find Myself’
By David Archuleta
c.2026, Gallery Books
$29/290 pages

So just make up your mind already.

The decision is very much in your control – or, at least that’s how it’s supposed to be. It’ll be your future, your path, and seizing it may not just be necessary, but mandatory. It’s your life, and no one can live it for you. As in the new memoir “Devout” by David Archuleta, that goes for career and for love, too.

Born to parents who both had musical careers before they wed, David Archuleta remembers an early childhood growing up in a Hispanic Mormon community in Florida, where kin was always nearby. He was six when his parents moved the immediate family to Utah; the first thing he remembers about that is the snow, and how it was so cold, it burned.

Because music was in his blood, Archuleta grew up singing and dancing, often with his mother whom he calls “my rock.” It was his father, however, who encouraged him to perform; first, with a gentle push, then a shove toward a career Archuleta didn’t really want.

But he did want to make his father happy, so he went along with the contests, embarrassing meet-and-greets with stars, and uncomfortable introductions. Slowly, though, performing became more fun, and Archuleta made friends.

Meanwhile, back home, everything was breaking apart. A “family friend” whom Archuleta refuses to name accused his father of abuse. He was exonerated, but it affected the family’s closeness and they stopped being affectionate.

That was a painful backdrop to Archuleta’s soaring career, his appearances on Star Search, friendships with other rising stars, his runner-up spot on “American Idol,” tours, and recording contracts. His father kept pushing him.

But there was one thing missing.

Since he was a boy, Archuleta had known that he was attracted to men, but his Mormon faith taught him that that was unacceptable. Kissing, his abuelita said, was wrong. He tried hard to date girls, in the most chaste way. Anything past that was against God – and anything at all with a man was unthinkable.

Though it absolutely favors his personal life and dwells on it a bit too much, “Devout” strikes an otherwise nice balance between that, author David Archuleta’s career, his sexuality, and his faith. The latter two are loaded with controversy.

You don’t need to be Mormon to fully understand the faith part; Archuleta offers non-Mormons a brief education, so readers can see the importance of the Church’s teachings in his life and why he felt the need to abandon it as his understanding of his bisexuality grew. It’s emotionally raw and honest, but also so respectful that it almost bears re-reading. Such candor and the heart-on-his-sleeve tone you’ll sense are features in the entire book, alongside Archuleta’s family’s struggles and his learning to strike out alone.

It’s harmonious in more ways than one, and fans will be happy.

So, too, will anyone who wants a unique memoir with a dose of faith, or someone who’s an “American Idol”watcher. Find “Devout” and be sure to share. You won’t mind.

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‘Mighty Real: A History of LGBTQ Music, 1969-2000’
By Barry Walters
c.2026, Viking
$35/496 pages

Step, step, tap, back step.

Shimmy in a circle, left hand waving over your head, shake your tail feathers, repeat to the beat. Once there was a time when you could do any dance in your sleep, but it’s been a while. So read “Mighty Real” by Barry Walters, and see if your toes don’t tap.

Fifty-seven years after Stonewall, and here we are: LGBTQ musicians still face scrutiny for their sexuality because, says Walters, music isn’t created for gay listeners. No problem: LGBTQ artists and writers have often penned lyrics carefully in order to say what can’t be said, “coding” songs for gay audiences that straight (and ignorant) listeners can dance to and enjoy with apparent obliviousness.

Walters offers “just a few” examples.

Lou Reed sang about trans people in the late ‘60s and offered a rallying song for the Gay Liberation Front in 1972, the latter of which felt like a message to a then-11-year-old Walters. Janis Joplin claimed she was straight, but she had several girlfriends. Motown singers often offered sometimes-ambiguous lyrics.

John Lennon’s hand placement on the back cover of Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band made Walters begin to understand that he was different from other boys.

David Bowie is on his list, of course, as is Bette Midler, Elton John, Donna Summer, and Queen. You’ll find Judas Priest here, Green Day, and punk music. The Village People are included in this book, also Grace Jones, Duran Duran, and Cher, Whitney, Melissa, Latifah, and the lyrics from several blockbuster movies.

Two of Prince’s band members were lesbians, and they heavily influenced his albums. Diana Ross’s “I’m Coming Out” cemented her position in LGBTQ culture, and Michael Jackson’s inclusion here takes much careful consideration.

Read about Olivia Newton-John and the B52s. And then there’s Sylvester, for whom Walters has a soft spot in his heart. Sylvester’s death still makes Walters cry.

In his preface, author and music writer Barry Walters points out that music is what you make it and that it’s interpreted differently by each individual. To that end, this book naturally consists of preferential history and personal opinions about singers, bands, albums, and songs.

Agree or disagree. That’s where much of the appeal lies in “Mighty Real.”

Here, Walters wraps his memories around his choices, giving readers room for their own views, memories, and list making. Music-loving readers might also be surprised to note who’s not on Walters’ list – there aren’t many country performers here, for example, and the overall list focuses entirely on music from roughly 1968 to the year 2000, mostly on the kinds of songs you’ll want at the club or party. Again, discuss, and curate your own playlist.

This is a hefty book, but the chapters are browse-able and generally short enough to read in under five minutes. It’s nostalgic, yet also serious in the history it presents. This is the kind of book you want to leave near your album collection, or wherever you get your tunes. But finding “Mighty Real” is your first step.

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You’re all geared up.

You’ve got your best parade-walking shoes, your coolest tee, your most-comfortable shorts, and a rainbow flag to carry. You’re set for Pride, but before you go, try one of these great new books about LGBTQ life and history.

After the parade, where will you end up? A place to talk your experience over, to re-hash things for the next parade? Then you may need “The Lesbian Bar Chronicles: The Living History and Hopeful Future of America’s Dyke Dives and Sapphic Spaces” by Rachel Karp (Beacon Press, $29.95).

Lesbian bars, says Karp, are more than just places to drink. They’re also places to find community, and to organize. For many, she says, they are “sanctuaries,” as they have been for at least a century, and this book introduces you to some of the people who run the establishments, the things they do to support their patrons, and the 100-year-plus bravery that it took to own, run, and enter a lesbian bar.

If you had to name a gay icon, there are probably quite a few who come to mind. So read “Without Prejudice: My Life as a Gay Judge” by Harvey Brownstone (ECW Press, $21.95) and add another name to your list.

This memoir, written by Canada’s first openly gay judge, takes readers from Brownstone’s childhood to his life as a lawyer, then to his work within the justice system in Ontario, and beyond, to his current career. This is a surprising, informative book that gives you an idea what gay life is like, north of our uppermost borders, then and now.

Pride is a celebration, an event, but it also demands a peek backwards, and in “The LGBTQ Almanac: 500 Years of Queer Culture in American History” by Deborah G. Felder (Visible Ink Press, $39.95), you’ll get a wide look at the pioneers, allies, policy, and gay life over the course of the last five centuries. Want to know more about religion in the gay community? It’s in here, along with celebrities, presidents, science, business, and more. This is the kind of book that settles bets. It’s one you want to have in any room of your home because it’s comprehensive and perfectly browse-able for all of its 600-plus pages.

And finally, here’s a book to read and think about: “No Fats No Fems: A Guide to Queer Empathy and Unpacking Prejudice” by Max Hovey (HarperOne, $19.99). How do you eliminate hateful, hurtful words, aimed at gay people – by gay people? What kind of stereotypes do we carry, unintentionally? This book takes those things out into the daylight by talking honestly and thoughtfully about them, as well as other issues. It’s a book to have when doubts creep in, when you need a new way of thinking or a different direction, or when you just want something different to read.

And if these great books aren’t enough, head to your favorite bookstore or library and ask for books that you can read before Pride or after. And happy Pride!

As our beloved Pride Month draws near, discussions on queer identity and resistance feel especially appropriate, particularly for the time that we are all currently in. With his forthcoming book Shameless: The Making of Black Gay Identities in LA, sociologist Terrell J. A. Winder explores how Black gay men in Los Angeles navigate stigma while building lives that are deeply rooted in self-worth, community, and queer Black joy. Drawing from years of research and personal reflection, Winder challenges many longstanding academic ideas about shame and “spoiled” identities, instead centering the resilience and creativity of Black queer communities.

Set against the cultural backdrop of our City of Angels, his book examines how Black gay men cultivate chosen families, affirming spaces, and authentic forms of self-acceptance in a society that consistently marginalizes us. From the legacy of Jewel’s Catch One to the everyday acts of vulnerability and care that sustain community, Winder reframes stigma as something that can be resisted, transformed, and ultimately rejected. In our conversation, Winder discusses shamelessness, “unspoiling,” and what an affirming future for Black queer people could look like.

The title Shameless resonates hard. What does “shamelessness” mean in the context of Black gay identity formation? 

For many Black gay and queer individuals, shame and the process of learning that their identities are shameful is a common part of growing up in the US. We might hear negative things from family members, classmates, teachers, the media, etc. All of these messages create the need for shamelessness. The title is a call to all Black gay and queer people to shamelessly accept all of themselves, no matter the negativity; it is an invitation to reject stigma. 

You introduce to your readers the concept of “unspoiling.” Can you walk us through what that process looks like? 

For many sociologists and researchers who study stigma, or in other words, negatively marked identities, the researcher Erving Goffman’s idea that these socially unacceptable or contentious identities were “spoiled” resonates still. Many people who experience a stigma might try to “pass,” where they hide their socially negative attribute, or to “cover,” where they downplay the significance of an unaccepted identity. 

Instead, I show how several young men in the book push back on the idea that they should try to make other people comfortable around them. In effect, these young men decide to prioritize their own comfort over the comfort of people who have an issue with their Blackness or queerness. In the book, I show how community organizations, media representations, and chosen gay family networks can be places where young men learn not to just simply accept negative things about their identities but instead can develop tools to reject stigma in everyday life. 

You describe how Black gay men more often than not navigate competing pressures around masculinity. How do these types of internal negotiations gradually yet surely sculpt one’s identity over time? 

Across the life course, these competing pressures and messages about masculinity can solidify in different ways related to a number of factors. For example, do you have a supportive social network like a “gay family” that might model different forms of masculinity? Do you have a father or father figure who tells you it’s okay to show emotion? Did you grow up hearing that your single mother couldn’t raise a “real man?” These are the types of internal struggles that many of the young men whom I studied encountered. Their varying expressions of masculinity are shaped by those experiences close to them with family and friends, but also through external factors like media representation. 

Sometimes having positive reinforcement to embody masculinity in the way you’d like can result in a sculpted identity that is more expressive and free to experiment. However, being surrounded by a majority of negative messaging and sanctioning of your masculinity expression often leads to one of two choices: 1) you push back against the negativity or 2) you fall in line. While these identities do become more solidified over time, I hope that the book serves as a reminder that we are all able to continually rework our relationship with masculinity and femininity throughout our lives. 

That question “Should I act more masculine to pass?” is pretty loaded. What did your research reveal about how men resolve or live with this very specific tension? 

I think anyone who has ever felt less masculine around other men has considered this question. In the study, the stakes of this question often shaped the response to that tension. For example, some young men discuss feeling that their physical safety was threatened, and thus they elect to express a more masculine persona to avoid physical harm. However, not all of the young men felt that the potential for this physical danger was an acceptable reason to “pass” and instead advocated for facing these threats head-on, no matter the potential consequences. 

That is where the “unspoiling” emerges. It became clear that for some of the young men that I studied, it was more important that they were true to themselves and their own expressions of masculinity and femininity than to accommodate other people who put pressure on them, whether physically or verbally, to be more masculine. 

Your work shines a spotlight on how stigma operates on multiple levels (race, sexuality, gender expression). How do these layers interact with each other in everyday life? 

We often think of stigmas as individual or not layered, or even forget that people are navigating multiple stigmas simultaneously. However, the young men in this study are considering the boundaries of their racial, gender, and sexual expressions daily. The men in this study discussed hearing both positive and negative messages about their Black identities growing up, but very rarely did someone hear anything positive about their non-heterosexual sexuality. 

Also, as Black gay men, we are often tasked with navigating intersectional stigmas like the burden of HIV stigma. Every day, each individual must choose how to respond to stigma on their own terms; the young men in this study often do a mix of things depending on the specific situation. I think what’s most important is that we learn how to reject the internalization of stigma–the book offers a few ways to get there. 

You also highlight how undoing stigma is the responsibility of the stigmatizer. What does accountability look like in this context? 

Yes, I argue that we spend too much time teaching people how to cope with stigma instead of focusing on the stigmatizer and their role in creating it. As someone trained as an elementary school teacher, I think of stigma like bullying in a classroom: while we want children to protect and advocate for themselves, we ultimately recognize that the bully is the problem, not the bullied person. Accountability means refusing to ignore moments when others are being denigrated for who they are and asking ourselves when we are bystanders, stigmatizers, or capable of intervening. What people dismiss as “jokes” or “boys will be boys” can have lasting consequences. It is also important to recognize that someone experiencing stigma may still perpetuate it toward others, which is why everyone must reflect on how they contribute to either reinforcing or reducing stigma in the lives of those around them.

At the same time, you show how many folks develop internal strategies to survive and thrive. What are some of the most powerful forms of resilience you observed in your many years of research? 

Some of the most memorable examples of resisting stigma came from men who had endured profound hardship. One young man shared that despite being beaten and stabbed for being Black and gay, he still proudly embraces those identities everywhere he goes. I do not take lightly the courage it takes for someone to remain true to themselves while knowing they may face harm for it. Throughout my research, I was also deeply moved by the vulnerability and resilience shown when Black queer men shared their fears and experiences within community organizations and chosen families. Simply seeking out and building these affirming spaces felt like a powerful act of resilience and self-preservation.

How do you reconcile the gap between aspirational representation and lived reality, especially in a city like Los Angeles? 

I think it’s important for everyone to aspire to something, especially for people whose lived realities are filled with challenges. In Los Angeles, specifically, we have a city full of promise but also a city filled with disappointments. Every day, Angelenos must make the choice to move the needle towards a better city and a better community. 

You explore Black queer history in LA, including the creation of alternative spaces. What about Jewel’s Catch One is so unmistakably essential? 

Jewel’s Catch One, or “The Catch,” remains an iconic space in Black queer history in Los Angeles and beyond. Created by and for Black queer people at a time when many were excluded from predominantly White queer spaces, it provided a vital place for community, celebration, and belonging. Even as queer gathering spaces continue to close across the country, places like The Catch remain essential for navigating stigma and fostering resilience. In 2025, it was officially recognized as a Historical Cultural Monument by the city of Los Angeles, cementing its cultural and historical significance.

Figures like Jewel Thais-Williams helped build community in the face of exclusion. What lessons can these stories provide younger folks today? 

Jewel Thais-Williams is a great example of someone who resisted the stigmas associated with being Black and queer and created a space for others like her to come behind. I start the book off by discussing some of the ways that, over time, younger generations forgot, or even undervalued, how important it was to have a space like Catch One–they let the stigmas associated with the neighborhood override the importance that it served as a cultural institution. 

I hope that we, instead, can remember just how critical spaces created by Black queer people in the face of stigma are to our collective well-being as a community. Jewel Thais-Williams’s legacy should be a lesson and a model for how we can intentionally carve out space in a world that often relegates our lives to the margins. 

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How do younger generations of Black queer men today compare to those you studied in your research? 

I suspect that younger generations are still experiencing negative messages and navigating stigma in similar ways to how the men in my book did. However, one major change is that the proliferation of social media examples of Black gay men has diversified significantly, with social media content created by young people on platforms like TikTok and Instagram. One great example of this is the many queer prom-posals that we get to witness on social media; the generation of men that I studied mostly attended proms with their “girlfriends.” 

Additionally, we are in a moment where people are trying to censor the reality that people of different sexualities or races even exist in our society. Changes in community organization funding, access to sexual healthcare, and diverse media representations all threaten to curb the gains Black gay men (and other queer communities) have made in the effort to combat stigma. Yet, I still believe that the younger generation is boldly freer because they have online connections and access to feel less isolated–that is a powerful tool. 

What do you hope readers outside queer Black communities take away from Shameless? 

I hope the book can help anyone navigating stigma think differently about their relationship to their own identities and recognize that they do not have to carry that burden alone. While I wrote it to challenge scholarly narratives about stigma, it was equally important that it offer practical value by encouraging people to seek supportive communities, affirming representations, and expanded definitions of family and care. I also hope the book encourages people to reflect on the ways they may contribute to stigma in the lives of others, even while navigating stigmatized identities themselves. Ultimately, the book is both a call for self-reconciliation and an invitation to ask how we can lessen the burden of stigma for those around us.

What does a really-truly-deeply “unspoiled” future look like to you, for Black queer men, and for society as a whole? 

To me, an unspoiled future means recognizing that everyone has the right to exist fully as they are without fear of harm or exclusion. For Black queer people, this would mean embracing both identities without facing physical, emotional, or psychological harm and finding joy, belonging, and community in that intersection. A truly unspoiled future also requires people to recognize the humanity in others, even when they live or love differently from themselves. Ultimately, it calls on all of us to reflect on whether we are helping lessen stigma or contributing to its continuation.

Books about Fashion and Style
By various authors
c.2026, various publishers
$19.95 – $29.95

Don’t look now, but your legs are showing.

It’s OK, it’s almost summertime and you want to show both skin and style. So how about a few hints for looking your best? Check out these great books and get stylin’.

Who says there are rules about fashion? Wearing white before Memorial Day is OK; socks with sandals not so much? Fine, but in “Bending the Rules: Fashion Beyond the Binary” by Camille Benda with Gwyn Conaway (Princeton Architectural Press, $29.95), you’ll see that any guidelines that hint about gendering clothing are oh-so-last century.
Along with lively, fun narrative, there are lots of photos in this book, ads for how clothing used to be worn along male-female lines, and short biographies of some of today’s best designers. Here, you can check out prom dresses from the 1950s and new haute couture gowns practically right off the runway – and see how one parallels with the other. The timeline reaches back centuries, so you get a nice idea of where certain kinds of clothing originated and how it’s relevant today – making what’s inside here perfect for browsing.

Pick up this book, in fact, and you might also pick up some ideas for filling your closet and creating your very own style.

The fashion you wear on your body isn’t all you’ll find in “Pretend to Be Fancy: A Field Guide to Style and Sophistication” by Whitney Marston Pierce (Chronicle Books, $19.95). You’ll also read about other nice things you can have.

So you’re not a pinky-in-the-air kind of person, whatever. You can easily hang with those who are, once you read and absorb this book.

Tongue-tied at fancy soirees? Not anymore, there are tips for talking here. What do you know about canapes, hors d’oeuvres, and the kind of foods you don’t get at the corner c-store? How do you make a charcuterie that everyone will Ooooooh over? And how do you give a gift for the person whose taste seems scads better than yours? That’s all in here, along with what to drink, how to dress, and how to make every corner of your home look like something right out of a high-end magazine.

Will this book make you chic? Possibly, yes. Will it help you get invited to all the best parties? Maybe, but for sure, it’ll make you laugh, it’ll make you feel fabulous, look fabulous, and live your best life with the surroundings you deserve. Out May 5, so put it on your list.

But let’s say you need more ideas. You have questions or thorny issues with fashion that you really need answering. That’s when you ask for a talented fashionista at your local bookstore or library, that knowledgeable someone knows books and knows how to get what you need to be your most dazzling, best-dressed, finest-appointed self in a home you can be proud of, with comfortable furniture that will be the envy of everyone who sees it.

In the meantime, grab the above titles, because these books got legs.

Few editors have reimagined contemporary queer Arab storytelling quite like Elias Jahshan. From the sweeping success of This Arab is Queer to his latest anthology This Queer Arab Family, Jahshan has created the much-needed space for stories that are as politically urgent as they are deeply personal while holding nuance, joy, and community in narratives so often disregarded and disenfranchised by mainstream discourse. Drawing on his background in journalism and his own lived experience across Sydney and London, his work challenges stereotypes while amplifying the voices that are far too often left unheard.

As he celebrates the release of This Queer Arab Family, Jahshan will appear at a special book launch event in WeHo tomorrow, the 15th, at the West Hollywood City Council Chamber, bringing these conversations directly to readers and community members. In this interview, he reflects on identity, home, representation, and the evolving politics of queer Arab life, all while offering insight into both his creative process and the urgent realities shaping his work today.

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Elias, your work beautifully blends your Arab and queer identities. When did the idea of expressing these together through storytelling and sharing them with the world first come to you?

In 2019 and the lead-up to the UK’s first lockdown in 2020, I immersed myself in anthologies and contributed to one, Arab, Australian, Other. That experience, combined with my background in journalism, made me wonder if I could publish my own.

I began reflecting on how queer Arabs are represented in the media. Coverage often focused on sensational stories: ISIS atrocities, state crackdowns, or misjudged displays of Western solidarity while overlooking context, local activism, and nuance. Too often, queer Arabs were reduced to stereotypes: victims or “model migrants.”

These reflections led to my first anthology, This Arab is Queer, published in 2022. The response was overwhelming, and I was frequently asked if I’d edit another. I knew it couldn’t be a sequel; it needed a new focus.

Through the connections I built, and my own experiences of isolation during sudden deafness in 2023, I began thinking about how queer Arabs find family and community.

This Queer Arab Family explores those bonds, centering stories of kinship, resilience, and joy. It reclaims the idea of family in Arab cultures and asserts our existence in spaces that often try to erase us; we are family, too.

How has your understanding of “home” evolved across your life and how is this reflected in your work?

On a surface level, home for me is split between Sydney and London. Sydney is where I was born, raised, and began my career, where my family and lifelong friends are, and where much of my coming out took place. London is where I built a new life, where my career grew, my identity as a queer, deaf Arab fully took shape, and where I found community, friendship, and love.

On a deeper level, “home” is more complicated. Australia is shaped by unceded Aboriginal land, while my ancestral homes, Lebanon and Palestine, remain largely out of reach due to legal and political barriers. Visiting them brought a profound, bittersweet sense of belonging.

Living in London, as the child of immigrants, turned immigrant myself, I’m always aware of its colonial history. Yet its diversity and openness have made it feel like home.

These experiences shape my work. They’ve deepened my empathy for other queer immigrants of color and reinforced that we are more than labels, that our histories, identities, and communities all intersect in meaningful ways.

What is one of the more surprising things you’ve learned from one of your contributors when compiling and editing anthologies like This Arab is Queer?

Each of the contributors taught me so many things, I wouldn’t know where to start with this question. The fact that they entrusted me to read and edit their stories – stories which were often deeply personal and vulnerable, mind you – is something I do not take for granted. It made me conscious of ensuring the editing process was done sensitively, to ensure their stories were told on their own terms, yet still legible for a wider audience.

With my more recent book, This Queer Arab Family, I was constantly reminded of how queer Arab joy could be played out through family, kinship, comradeship, or community. It reminded me that despite the hardships many of us face on multiple fronts as queer Arabs, we are still resilient and powerful. No one can ever take that away from us.

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How do you navigate or balance the expectations that come along with being a visible queer Arab voice in today’s political climate?

I don’t. LOL. As in, I don’t actively try to “navigate” or “balance” these expectations. I just am. I don’t actively hide anything about myself because I have nothing to be ashamed of whatsoever. 

With regards to my visibility, though, this is something that evolved organically. It started when I was thrust into the national media spotlight in Australia as editor of Star Observer. From there, it grew via my social media platforms, the articles I wrote for various publications, and then the two books I now have under my belt that have been put in the hands of readers around the world. 

However, I’m very aware that my visibility is only possible because of my privilege. Not just because of the fact I’m a cisgender male who’s had access to university-level education and freedom of movement – and lifestyle – that comes with having an Australian passport, but also because of the love and support I have from my family. 

Many queer Arabs do not have the same level of unconditional family support I have, so it’s not something I take for granted, even if it wasn’t an easy path to get to that point for me. But this support and love I am privileged to enjoy – it’s like a superpower. It makes all the racists, homophobes, and online trolls who try to come after me look like utter fools. Let them keep frothing at the mouth with all their useless hate and anger. I have something they don’t have: empathy and love.

Can you share with us one assumption that people have had of you that you’d like to take this moment to correct?

Some people might think I’m being combative or divisive through my choice of words when I critique Western queer communities. But I’m genuinely not. If anything, I care about the community so much that I want it to improve and better itself – and we can only do that if we have an honest conversation about some of the pitfalls that still plague our community. And it’s not just racism, there’s also transphobia, and a complacency from many that we’ve achieved equal rights now that we have same-sex marriage. We might be “equal” on paper, but that doesn’t mean we’re equal in reality. Not to mention our queer brethren in countries where regimes or laws brutally suppress them. The fight is far from over, and we all have to look beyond our borders, or even beyond our bubbles in the cities.

As someone who finds themself at the intersection of queer and Arab identities, how do you view the current global state of human rights, and what is still painfully overlooked?

I don’t think there’s a single answer to this. It makes more sense to look at queer issues through a local lens; what the community faces in Lebanon is vastly different from Saudi Arabia, just as Beirut differs from rural areas, or from diasporic communities in places like Sydney or Dearborn. Social, political, and geographic contexts matter.

Take Palestine, for example. Queer Palestinians are often met with the cliché that Israel is a “safe haven” for LGBTQ+ people. While this may reflect legal differences, it’s reductive. Queer Palestinians are still primarily targeted for being Palestinian, living under occupation and systemic discrimination. For many, liberation from that reality takes precedence.

In contrast, queer communities in places like Egypt may be more focused on immediate safety, minimizing visibility to avoid state surveillance and crackdowns.

These examples only scratch the surface, but they point to a broader need for a decolonial perspective: holding Western powers accountable for colonial laws and ongoing interventions, while also challenging patriarchal norms and homophobia within our own communities.

At the same time, queer activists across the region are already doing vital work. They understand their contexts best and don’t need Western “saviors” imposing solutions. Queer liberation in SWANA cannot simply mirror Western models; assuming so is both naïve and, ultimately, another form of imperialism.

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From your perspective, what role can storytelling and literature play in the progress of human rights, particularly for those whose voices are often overlooked?

Storytelling and literature can show readers that we have our own agencies, that we can tell our stories on our own terms. In addition, Arab writers and artists have played a huge role and facilitated change. They help ensure progressive perspectives are heard in an increasingly conservative context, and I don’t just mean religion; one can still be “secular” or non-religious and still be conservative, ergo a bigot. It’s through their work, alongside the work of so many tireless activists and organizers, that we have been able to become more visible, to have our voices and experiences documented and heard. It’s a long process, but these wins should always be celebrated, given the circumstances we are up against.

We also have a growing number of straight Arab allies coming forward to speak for our community, to stand in solidarity with us through their platforms in the media or their artistry and writing. Often it’s subtle, for safety reasons, but we see them and love them for it.

What does it mean to share your work in a city like West Hollywood, with its own deep-rooted queer cultural history and landscape?

It truly is an honor. I am a major history nerd, and to know that my work will be contributing to West Hollywood’s deep-rooted cultural history and landscape in a small way is something that blows my mind. I am so well aware of West Hollywood’s role not just in the USA’s queer liberation movement and history, but also in a global context. It can’t be underestimated, and the younger version of myself growing up in the working-class suburbs of Sydney could never have imagined making it this far.

Do you foresee this event as more of a celebration, a conversation, a call to action, D: all of the above, or something else entirely?

All the above! I am not there to simply preach to the choir; I am also there to start a meaningful, engaging conversation, even if it means some audience members may be confronted with uncomfortable questions or perspectives. As I said earlier, change is never meant to be easy. But this also doesn’t mean we can’t celebrate. We can, and should!

Why do spaces like this upcoming event matter right now, particularly for queer Arab voices as well as other marginalized communities? 

To have this platform at West Hollywood cannot be understated. It’s an incredibly unique and powerful way to shed light on and uplift voices from marginalized communities – and to do it in a way that’s engaging and accessible to anyone and everyone. I really hope this moment of cultural and ideas exchange will be a stepping stone that leads to more nuanced discussions and understandings of all marginalized communities – not just queer Arabs.

Looking into the near future, what stories and whose voices do you hope will become more culturally mainstream?

We’re already seeing a shift in that queer people of color are taking center stage in the mainstream – not just in queer circles but also the wider, mainstream society and media. I really do welcome this, and I know it will only keep getting better.

I just hope that as this trend continues, we also don’t lose sight of what’s important – complete and genuine liberation for everyone. Not just equality, but also justice and equity too. And crucially, not just for one group of people at the expense of another. We’re all in this together, and applying basic critical thinking, along with a strong desire to hold elected officials and media outlets accountable, will be key in achieving this. This is essentially a long-winded way of saying sure, representation is great – but it’s not what will save us. Liberation requires complete reforms, or a complete dismantling of the status quo in many aspects of society.

Join us tomorrow to celebrate the launch of This Queer Arab Family with Elias Jahshan and the Los Angeles Blade

‘La Lucci’
By Susan Lucci with Laura Morton
c.2026, Blackstone Publishing
$29.99/196 pages

They’re among the world’s greatest love stories.

You know them well: Marc Antony and Cleopatra. Abelard and Heloise. Phoebe and Langley. Cliff and Nina. Jesse and Angie, Opal and Palmer, Palmer and Daisy, Tad and Dixie. Now read “La Lucci” by Susan Lucci, with Laura Morton, and you might also think of Susan and Helmut.

When she was a very small girl, Susan Lucci loved to perform. Also when she was young, she learned that words have power. She vowed to use them for good for the rest of her life.

Her parents, she says, were supportive and her family, loving. Because of her Italian heritage, she was “ethnic looking” but Lucci’s mother was careful to point out dark-haired beauties on TV and elsewhere, giving Lucci a foundation of confidence.

That’s just one of the things for which Lucci says she’s grateful. In fact, she says, “Prayers of gratitude are how I begin and end each day.”

She is particularly grateful for becoming a mother to her two adult children, and to the doctors who saved her son’s life when he was a newborn.

Lucci writes about gratitude for her long career. She was a keystone character on TV’s “All My Children,” and she learned a lot from older actors on the show, and from Agnes Nixon, the creator of it. She says she still keeps in touch with many of her former costars.

She is thankful for her mother’s caretakers, who stepped in when dementia struck. Grateful for more doctors, who did heart-saving work when Lucci had a clogged artery. Grateful for friends, opportunities, life, grandchildren, and a career that continues.

And she’s grateful for the love she shared with her husband, Helmut Huber, who died nearly four years ago. Grateful for the chance to grieve, to heal, and to continue.

And yet, she says of her husband: “He was never timid, but I know he was afraid at the end, and that kills me down to my soul.”

“It’s been 15 years since Erica Kane and I parted ways,” says author Susan Lucci (with Laura Morton), and she says that people still approach her to confirm or deny rumors of the show’s resurrection. There’s still no answer to that here (sorry, fans), but what you’ll find inside “La Lucci” is still exceptionally generous.

If this book were just filled with stories, you’d like it just fine. If it was only about Lucci’s faith and her gratitude – words that happen to appear very frequently here – you’d still like reading it. But Lucci tells her stories of family, children and “All My Children,” while also offering help to couples who’ve endured miscarriage, women who’ve had heart problems, and widow(ers) who are spinning and need the kindness of someone who’s lived loss, too.

These are the other things you’ll find in “La Lucci,” in a voice you’ll hear in your head, if you spent your lunch hours glued to the TV back in the day. It’s a comfortable, fun read for fans. It’s a story you’ll love.

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