Asian Americans Advancing Justice (AJSOCAL) is a civil rights organization dedicated to providing resources, education, legal support, and other crucial culturally-competent resources to AAPI communities. The group was formed in 1983, propelled into action after the racially motivated killing of Vincent Chin. 

Anti-Asian sentiment has long proliferated within the U.S. From the Chinese Massacre of 1871 in Los Angeles and the subsequent enforcement of the Chinese Exclusion Act to the internment of Japanese Americans during World War II, to the more recent 2021 Atlanta spa shootings and the rise in hate crimes targeting Asian Americans since the start of the COVID-19 pandemic — AAPI communities have faced cultural, political and systemic discrimination and violence that organizations like AJSOCAL are trying to mitigate.

The organization partners with community groups to provide multilingual legal advice and representation, bystander intervention training, citizen application workshops, and is engaged in active political advocacy to ensure that lawmakers understand the importance of codifying laws that prioritize the safety and rights of AAPI communities. 

In 2024, AJSOCAL formed its new Queer Transgender Asian Pacific Islander (QTAPI) initiative, the AAPI Queer Joy Coalition. Spearheaded by LA regional policy advocate Jeff Deguia and supported largely by Sacramento-based policy advocate Lan Le, the group is focused on working with other advocacy groups to lobby for policies that are inclusive of LGBTQ+ community members. Earlier this month, three bills they had prioritized in their efforts passed legislation and are now waiting on Governor Newsom’s signature. 

AB 1487, AB 678, and SB 418 aim to expand the state’s Transgender, Gender Nonconforming and Intersex Wellness and Equity Fund, require the state’s Interagency Council on Homelessness to improve access and services for unhoused LGBTQ+ individuals, and strengthen coverage around gender-affirming care, respectively.

The Blade had an in-depth conversation with Deguia and Le about what led them into civil rights community work, what they’re doing with the AAPI Queer Joy Coalition, and how they are paving a path forward that prioritizes the lives and freedoms of queer, trans Asian Americans. 

Could you introduce your policy background, how you first got into social justice work, and where that’s led you?

Lan Le (she/they): I’m completely new to policy advocacy, actually. What motivated me was that my family and I are refugees from Vietnam, and that meant that I often had to be the interpreter and the advocate for my parents as a child. And, you know, given that I was a child from the provincial countryside, that was really difficult. Everything was bewildering, and it’s still difficult now, even as an adult, because I wasn’t just translating words — I was trying to translate entire systems that weren’t built with families like mine in mind. And what was the most disheartening was that the services that were meant to help us often fell short because they weren’t designed to be accessible. Language access was always treated as an afterthought, and it was never a line item in these agencies’ budgets. 

Before joining AJSOCAL, I worked directly with survivors of domestic violence, human trafficking and sexual assault for another nonprofit called My Sister’s House. I’m a survivor myself, and I had hoped that my lived experience would be useful in that line of work, but I quickly found out that the outcomes were often really awful, especially for youths who’ve been trafficked, including many LGBTQ+ youths. It was really difficult for me to do that type of work, because I was reminded again of my own helplessness, and that’s why I think I pivoted to policy advocacy, even though it’s daunting and completely new to me. I felt like it’s the path towards systemic change, and I would hope that this is a way for me to make sure that accessibility and equity were non-negotiable, that it would be a line item in the state’s budget. 

Thank you for sharing. How long did you work at My Sister’s House, and when did you start at AJSOCAL?

Lan Le: So I worked for My Sister’s House for two years, and then I started AJ So Cal last year in April.

Jeff, can you share your story?

Jeff Deguia (he/him): I am the current LA regional policy advocate at AJSOCAL. I’m also new to policy, like Lan. I’ve been with the policy team, gosh, I think just over two years. I’ve been in the organization for nine years, initially on communications, doing media marketing, press stuff. And I kind of realized that I missed the partner connections and the community work. 

And then this opportunity pulled up with policy, and I was like, “I don’t know if I’m the best fit, because I don’t really have this great technical background in policy.” I’m asking Lan and the team, like, “How do bills pass in the process?” and about line items and penal codes. I’m still trying to learn the jargon and how things work. But, I think like Lan said, being able to see the correlation between system changes and working alongside communal organizing on the ground, and being able to meet them at that same level, within the government and the legislature, is so important. 

I am the first generation to be born here in the States [in my family]. My parents are Filipino immigrants. I’m from Chicago. And luckily, in the Philippines, they teach English in schools. So my parents were able to navigate to a good extent. But in Chicago, there’s not a huge population of Asian Americans, especially where I grew up in the suburbs. So without that community care and sharing of knowledge, we really wouldn’t have known how to do anything, you know? 

I think growing up in a majority white suburb of Chicago in the 90s, we were all being teased like, “Are you Chinese? Why are eyes like that?” And then pulling their eyes back. I think my parents saw me be upset, and my dad was like, “Be proud of being Filipino and correct them.” That early conversation when I was seven really set me up for this belief that I matter and that my roots are important. My culture and who I am is deserving of being in this country, and that our place in history and our community is important as well. He was a big part of why I have this prideful understanding of being Filipino and just being who I am. 

And I think as I got older, all the intersections of being queer, Filipino, a child of immigrants — I really hold that pride and that kind of feeling close to my heart. I belong here, and every part of me deserves to be happy and deserves to have freedoms. And I think that’s a big part of why I’m in this work and I stay in this work, as hard as it is all the time. Because this country is not in a good place, and hasn’t really been. I just tell myself: I deserve to be here. So does my family, and so does my community.

Lan, what was your feeling of belonging growing up? I know you’re a refugee. Where did you end up settling and how did that feel growing up? Was there a sense of community or belonging for you?

Lan Le: My family and I arrived in Sacramento, and it’s actually where I reside right now. In terms of belonging, I always struggled with feeling alienated or isolated from others, because it was not only the fact that I didn’t speak English and the fact that I was a refugee from Vietnam. It was also my queer identity. And it was very difficult to find people who understood my perspective, because often I think I was ashamed because it wasn’t the norm. It didn’t meet the standard that my parents expected, and the community around me as well. 

At some point, I was like: Okay, I’m done explaining myself. I’m done trying to justify my existence. I’m just going to accept who I am. I think actually, as a result of that acceptance, I’m more comfortable being open and vulnerable — and that was what has allowed me to be effective in my advocacy. Because when communicating these issues, I don’t just focus on the fact that these are distant theoretical political issues, right? This is very concrete and affects you personally. Do you want your family to have access to healthcare and education? Do you believe that elders should be taken care of at the end of their lives? So I think that allowed me to be more effective because they see how it directly affects them: the lack of language access, the lack of culturally competent mental health services, the downstream effects of U.S. foreign policy. These things are all a part of their story as well. So I try to focus on these issues. 

What right now is really striking to you as important in your policy work, and how does that intersect with your different identities as queer AAPI people?

Jeff Deguia: I will say that my full stepping into my LGBTQ+ identity kind of happened during COVID. I’ve long been proud of who I am, but I think embracing every part of myself, even the feminine parts and feminine interests, [came from] actually understanding art that comes from a lot of trans femmes of color. So I just think having that moment in 2020, with reflection, and then coming to this place of like: Hey, actually, how are we being inclusive of LGBTQ+ folks in our AAPI community: in policy, and access to gender affirming care that’s culturally competent? How do we support parents in terms of learning how to best support their trans or queer children?

A lot of times there’s this idea of like, if young Jeff had this type of support, I think it would have saved a lot of pain and inner turmoil of: Who am I, and do I deserve to live like this and in liberation? And I think that’s been a huge thing. It means a lot to be doing queer, trans AAPI work, and we’re doing it with a lot of partnerships with others — partners who have done this work for decades. We’re trying to impart our policy abilities and policy knowledge to really bring those folks who have been on the ground for years, serving the community, to Sacramento. We realized that for a lot of our partners, they’re doing direct services, social programming, but they’re not necessarily able to get a seat at the table in Sacramento with elected officials. 

We had our Jade Jubilee in June — which is our annual queer trans AAPI celebration — and Lan was helping train our partners before our legislative visits with different senators and senate members. In the beginning, they were all kind of like, “I’ve only done this once, and it was virtual. I’ve never done it in person.” A couple weeks later, they were killing it in the meetings, presenting all this data and sharing from the heart and from experience. I think seeing my partners be able to build a new muscle is the most rewarding thing for me. 

Being able to see them grow has been the best, because I want to see more of us at the Capitol — queer trans AAPI folks. And to lead it is a privilege I hold really, really close to my heart. 

Lan, I’m curious about what that training process was like. What were you imparting on people who, like Jeff was saying, hadn’t developed that “muscle” quite yet. How did you communicate those skills to them? 

Lan Le: First, I acknowledge that the legislative process is challenging and complicated, and I struggle to navigate it as well. So, they’re not alone in terms of feeling intimidated. But for me, I just highlighted the fact that they are the experts of their own stories and lived experiences, and it’s important for them to communicate the story to these legislators. Because now, these legislators can see the impact of the policies.

I think some folks feel like they have to be prepared with all the statistics and the research when communicating with legislators. But the reality is, they get tons and tons of information all the time. They have staffers who constantly are updating them on the numbers. But what they don’t often hear from are the community members that they represent: their constituents. Most people aren’t able to drive to Sacramento and take a day off to wait several hours to talk to a legislative staff member or a legislator. So, they really value having that insight. 

And you know, the QTAPI community, we’re very niche. Every time we have come to advocate for our community’s needs, everyone has responded really well to that, because they feel like: “Oh, this is something that hasn’t been at the forefront when we’re developing these policies.” These folks are not at the table, and we do need to take these people into consideration, because the challenges they experience — for example, language access — is something that’s critical for them. We need to do this in order for them to get the services that they’re entitled to. That was my approach: You are the expert of your own situation, so please just approach it as a way for you to share your story. People might have different ideas about how things should be done, but they can’t contradict your life experience. 

Speaking more about the Queer Joy Coalition and how it was really first formed in 2024…Now there’s the great news of the three bills that you were prioritizing being passed, and they’re on the governor’s desk. How are you both feeling about that?

Jeff Deguia: It’s been so grim with the current presidential administration. I think it was hard to think that things could really be going well in terms of a legislative cycle. 

There are a few votes in opposition from some conservative elected officials, but to just know that, for the most part, California is still pushing for us and for our community is great. It’s a big year because it was our first-ever bill package. So for them all to be there on the desk right now is big. I want those to get signed into law right away. I don’t like waiting. We’re not the co-sponsors, but we work pretty hard to make sure that we support others. We were advocating at the lobby day. It’s such a bureaucratic process, and for it to be at this point, I’m like: Okay, thank God. We’re so close. Let’s keep pushing.

I’m so glad. How did you feel about it, Lan?

Lan Le: It was such a huge sense of relief when these bills managed to pass, because I was attending the hearings where the opponents didn’t hold back in terms of their anti-LBGTQ+ rhetoric, or their homophobia, or their casual racism. When I’m in that space and they’re making these statements — it felt hostile. There are times when I didn’t feel safe, and it reminded me that “Oh, maybe I don’t really belong,” and, once again, I feel alienated and isolated. But fortunately, considering that all three bills managed to make it to the governor’s desk, that means that there is a lot of support. There are a lot of allies, and I’m just so relieved that people are prioritizing the needs of our community.

We were speaking about how bureaucracy feels a bit intimidating and unapproachable and complex. What are your day-to-day lives like working as policy advocates? How does the day start, and how does the day end? And how do you take a breather from it all as well? 

Lan Le: So unfortunately, my day starts by reading the news, and then I’m very sad. So I take a mental health break. I go on YouTube, and I watch some cute animal videos, you know. And then I go back to work. Most of my time is spent on research and writing so that I can be more prepared when I’m talking with different stakeholders, including our legislators. And my objective is always to try to communicate the impact of these policy changes on the Asian and Pacific Islander community, especially the most marginalized individuals, which, of course, includes QTAPI folks as well. 

That means that in order to be effective, I have to collect data and then try to create a compelling story using that data. So, for example, in communicating the response to H.R.1, the “Big Ugly Bill,” which, for context, has slashed over $2 trillion in federal funding for health care and food assistance. It also allocated $170 billion for increased immigration enforcement. I would communicate that by saying that, in California, 25% of Covered California individuals are Asian and Pacific Islander. With these budget cuts, it means that for many of them, their premiums are going to rise by up to 74% next year. That’s going to price a lot of people out of coverage. 

So when we’re talking about these budget cuts, we’re talking about seniors who now have to skip their medication, children going without food, and survivors of domestic violence and human trafficking who are now avoiding courthouses and hospitals because they fear that they would be detained and deported, because they also happen to be immigrants. So throughout this entire process, I’m trying to communicate the harm, the impact. I’m also constantly working with our partner organizations like the California Immigrant Policy Center (CIPC) and the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights (CHIRLA) to try to coordinate public comments and advocacy visits to work on our talking points and see what we should focus on. And frankly, it’s the other advocates who keep me grounded and sane throughout this process, because otherwise I would just be in a blanket of despair. 

Jeff Deguia: I’ll also do some light news, typically on social media, which is probably not the best avenue. But for me, I have lost a little bit of trust in Western media, especially legacy media. So I’m following organizers on the ground. I’m trying to keep up with Israel and Palestine. I keep up with trans community leaders as well. When I’m not working, I try not to doom scroll because my Tiktok algorithm is all social justice stuff — which is great, but sometimes it just makes you really, really depressed. So I’ll do some balance with some gay comedic chaos.

But I will say that I make sure that I’m connecting with partners on the ground, much like Lan does. Say, if a partner organization that might not historically do LGBTQ+ work, if they’re starting it, [I think] how can I lean into that, collaborate more, offer some more advice? I’m being sure that local actions are being covered, whether that’s immigration rights, whether that’s LGBTQ+, pro-trans items as well. I try to make sure that I’m not behind on my support letters or efficacy efforts, or rallying my AAPI coalition members to make sure that they’re putting in letters as well. 

I’m always reminded that movement work is not short-term — it’s very long-term. Chances are, you won’t see the changes in your lifetime. But how do you work with the belief that I’m doing something productive, that I’m doing something that’s worthwhile, and there’s no promise of it ever coming together? But, you just have to put your energy in the faith and the hope that it’s gonna get better — that you’re adding to it, and that there are other advocates around you who are adding to that as well, and that you’re never really alone in this work. That people who look like you, who don’t look like you, have the same values as you, are the ones who will be ensuring that we’re giving the best effort we can to make the biggest impact we can, hopefully in a generation or two, or further down. 

It’s so hard to be living in this work with no hope, [where] you’re not really seeing any type of measurable success, per se. But I will say when bills get passed, when rallies happen, when conversations change, when culture changes happen as well — I think that’s when we see the markers of actual, immediate change happening. It’s always little, small moments of connecting with partners and strategizing around what’s the best way of doing this, and trial-and-error that really make those moments happen socially. I think what’s been tough for me to realize, is that you’re really working in this hope of, “What could it be?” And, you just have to hope for the best. 

As much as we get pounded down by the “opposition,” I just always want to believe that openness, inclusivity, and wanting to fight for everybody will always come out on top, because that’s the fight that deserves to be seen and heard. So, I just try to live in that kind of headspace. It’s hard, though, my God.

To kind of pivot back a little bit into policy work: What is on the plate right now for you both? What is the most important to you in terms of research and what you’re working on? 

Lan Le: We’re working on our legislative and budget priorities for next year, and one of our bills, AB 322, has been made into a two-year bill, and so we’re trying to get that over the finish line in 2026. So, what happened was that AB 1351 was introduced. It died. And then there was a gut and amend, and then it was reintroduced and revived as AB 322, and then it died again. Now we’re going to try to get it through the finish line in 2026 because it was made a two-year bill in Senate Appropriations. The bill deals with location data privacy, and this is a really critical issue for immigrants, survivors, and folks within the LGBTQ+ community, because location data has been weaponized to target these communities. 

For example, every time we use an app on our phone, our private location data is constantly being collected and then eventually it’s sold by data brokers to different people, including law enforcement, often without our knowledge or consent. And unfortunately, this data has been used to dox and out LGBTQ+ folks. And so that’s why we want to make sure we have effective guardrails to protect our community. 

I’m also more interested in the AI regulation space because, you know, it’s everywhere, and the potential harm that it can cause is horrifying, but it also can create a lot of good as well. And I just want to make sure that there’s a certain level of transparency in the process, and to make sure that there’s a lot of people with a clamoring conscience, a lot of ethicists and attorneys around, and people like me as well to advocate for communities that are often rendered invisible. And, you know, often this is just an issue of fairness, like, how do we allocate these resources? What do we prioritize when it comes to our funding and budget? These issues affect all of us, so that keeps me going. 

Jeff Deguia: I think as the year ends, it’s kind of a period where it’s reflective. I’m trying to do some convenings with our AAPI Queer Joy Coalition partners and some other queer, trans AAPI leaders in the LA area and OC area. As hard as this year has been adjusting to this new president, there are a lot of wins still, locally. And I want us to be able to highlight that and understand: How do we repeat it next year? How do we make sure that we can continue this work in a positive way? 

I think also, I’ve seen that there’s quite a gap between our queer, trans AAPI partners and LGBTQ+ partners as a whole. I’m trying to do some bridge-building, because there are a lot of people like TLC, REACH LA, the Center, Equality California, who are really based in LA and OC. So, when they do have bills or collaboration or projects, they can say, “Oh, actually, let’s make sure that the AAPI [community] was included.” So I just want to make sure that, as the year closes, we’re making connections so that people can build on their own and build together. 

Because the LGBTQ+ coalition at AJSOCAL is fairly new, what’s it like to be leading this force of change? Is it difficult to navigate this advocacy space as queer AAPI people? 

Lan Le: Well, first off, Jeff is the mastermind behind AAPI Queer Joy, and he’s doing a great job leading. I’m so happy to be working with him. Honestly, it’s like a mental health break for me every time I communicate with him, because it feels like: Okay, there’s someone that I can share this experience with — who understands how difficult it can be in terms of being the pioneers. It’s daunting. I do feel like, sometimes, I overthink things, and I’m reluctant to speak up. But, I need to speak up because this is the only time our voices are heard. So, there’s that great sense of responsibility. I feel like, whatever small ways that I can push the needle in a good direction, I’m grateful for. Honestly, sometimes a win is just not a significant loss. I’m just grateful for that. I’m relieved. 

Jeff Deguia: I guess it’s a little difficult for me, because I want to make sure that I am properly paying respects to the folks who were there before me, because there’s organizations that have legacy since the AIDS epidemic, and leaders who have been in this work since then. So, I want to make sure I’m taking into account their perspectives and their thoughts, their opinions, so that I can better inform my strategy and my movement forward. It’s something I don’t take lightly. I consider it a really, really big privilege for me to be in this space where I’m representing every part of my identity in this work. Ideally, in the next couple of years, we’re co-authoring or co-sponsoring a bill.

I just want to be taken seriously by assembly members and senators and our partners, and that when the AAPI community thinks of us, they think of their LGBTQ+ siblings. I hope that when the LGBTQ+ community thinks of the community, that they remember that queer, trans AAPIs exist. I don’t want to be an afterthought anymore. I want us to be a person in the beginning of planning purposes, [and that people say]: “Hey, we gotta make sure we have some AAPI people on this call or on this initiative.” I think I’m just trying to lead with ferocity, but also with the knowledge that I’m standing on people’s shoulders who came before me, and I need to pay respect to them as well.

For more information, check out Asian Americans Advancing Justice SoCal.

Fresh from the UC Berkeley California Local News Fellowship, Kristie Song has officially found a new home at the Los Angeles Blade, and she’s ready to serve up some top-tier journalism that serves the community.

A queer Asian American journalist with a passion for zines, intergenerational dialogue, and community-rooted storytelling, Song is already making space for voices that are often sidelined and suppressed. Song is here to celebrate joy, resistance, and everything in between. We chatted with Song on what brought her to the Blade, why local journalism is important, and the power of asking the right questions.

What first drew you to the Local News Fellowship, and how did that lead you to the Los Angeles Blade?

Before moving back to Los Angeles for the Local News Fellowship, I’d spent a number of years freelancing and interning at different newsrooms and outlets in the Bay Area. It was a really joyous few years — I learned to carve a niche and develop my voice while traversing this really rich landscape, scoping out stories and voices I wanted to share with readers and listeners. 

I spent a morning with a group of Chinese and Latine women in San Francisco’s Mission District, watching as they practiced their march for the yearly Lunar New Year Parade, lifting up flags that represented their migration stories. I spent time with queer zine artists as they organized festivals and workshops to preserve and share accessible artmaking mediums to their communities, expanding a continually evolving tapestry of Black, brown, queer, disabled people finding their footing through art. 

I hope to continue doing work like this at the Los Angeles Blade, to uplift community voices and shine light on the challenges local LGBTQ+ individuals face politically and socially — as well as the ways they lean on each other for resistance and solidarity. 

How does your identity and experiences impact the stories you’re most enthusiastic to share?

As a queer Asian American journalist, I am most excited to tap into queer diasporic communities and communities of color. What are their histories, and how have they rooted and branched out over time here in Los Angeles? Growing up, I was not exposed to a ton of queer media, education and journalism, especially when it comes to BIPOC narratives. As a young teen, I learned to internalize my questions and confusion around my identity, a habit that planted a seed of shame deep within me. 

When I began to find queer community as an adult, so much of this shame was dispelled. I found comfort and avenues for unity, expression, and education by engaging with people who understand and uplift me, and I hope to meaningfully document and report on LGBTQ+ stories that similarly support and inform our local queer spaces and community members.

What is your perspective on the queer community of LA and what role do you feel news and media play in influencing and shaping it?

Right now, I am so excited to explore the dynamic landscapes of LA’s queer communities. Since I’m quite new to living right in the heart of the city, I am trying to soak up as much as I can! Wherever I go, queer spaces and communities have always been instrumental in shaping the local land. I want to tell these stories. For many everyday readers, what they see in the media and news is often identified as what “should” be relevant – even if these news pieces sometimes overlook their voices. I hope to be part of community-oriented journalism that highlights just how instrumental these everyday voices are.

What is one issue or topic that you’re particularly looking forward to exploring as a journalist for the Los Angeles Blade?

I am really interested in exploring the connections between queer elders and youth, particularly in communities of color. How has the queer landscape changed amongst our most marginalized community members? I am interested in exploring the lives and challenges of queer disabled people, the elderly in general, unhoused individuals, and other people who deserve more ample coverage in the media. I am also interested in exploring what issues impact our communities most, especially as it relates to healthcare, politics, violence, and representation. 

Local journalism plays an important role advocating for and sharing the stories of underrepresented and marginalized communities. What would you say is the biggest opportunity for positive change in local LGBTQ+ reporting today?

I think with local reporting, there is so much potential to make meaningful connections and tell the stories of the people we are directly in community with. What are the grassroots efforts being led by our neighbors? Where are the places we feel seen as queer people? I think there is so much support abound – but not everybody is aware of where to go to find that. That’s where I hope to come in. I hope to strengthen our community’s access to civic engagement, art, opportunities, resources and more especially as LGBTQ+ rights and lives continue to be attacked.

In what ways do you build trust and rapport within the communities that you cover? What does ethical, community-centered journalism look like to you?

Whenever I report on a community, especially one I am not very familiar with, I usually start by doing deep research. I really try to avoid making people do extra labor in having to explain the parts of themselves, their communities, or their histories that are already readily accessible. Of course, this is unavoidable sometimes — but I want to communicate through my interviewing and reporting that I come with a sense of care. I also try to lead with curiosity and a deep inclination to understand – my job is to step back and create a safe, introspective space where people can express the specificities of who they are and what they have experienced.

Ethical and community-centered journalism provides deeply layered, contextualized, and accurate reporting on important issues and narratives while also minimizing harm to sources and people willing to lend their voices. What do people need to know now, and how do we deliver this information to them accessibly? I also come from a multimedia background, so I hope to provide different mediums for people to engage with their community and local news.

What challenges, if any, do you anticipate in local reporting and how do you plan to navigate these potential obstacles?

I worry, because of the ripe queer networks and communities that exist all around Los Angeles, that I may be leaving something important behind as I try to balance various stories. I plan to navigate these obstacles by forming strong relationships with mentors and community members. I think I need to learn, and remind myself, that I can never do important and meaningful work completely alone.

If you could have a coffee date with any journalist or reporter, past or present, who would you choose and what would you be sure to ask them?

So many! The first person who comes to mind is Emanuel Hahn, who has done a lot of beautiful photojournalism work around different Asian communities across the country. He’s since branched off into narrative film work, which is so cool to me. His book, Koreatown Dreaming, is a project I frequently think of and reference as an ongoing inspiration of mine. In this work, he documents several businesses in Koreatown Los Angeles with lush film photography and tender interviews and profile pieces on the people behind them. I think he wandered into many of these shops asking owners if he could take their photo, which would lead to compelling conversations around their identities, their immigration stories, and the concept of belonging.

I am moved by the stories of everyday people, and this intimate kind of documentation lingers in the back of my mind, always. I think I would ask Emanuel: what is your approach in framing, both visually and emotionally, your source? How do you make people feel comfortable when you photograph them, and how do you make them feel comfortable as strangers to share their most personal moments?

In these particularly trying times, more and more people are opting to tune out the news entirely. What would you say to those who rarely, if ever, follow current events?

I would say, while compassion fatigue is very real, we can’t afford to tune out completely. I think it’s important to take breaks and connect to the people and activities that enrich us whenever we can. However, as our communities continue to be targeted politically and culturally, it is important that we also stay informed and connected. I think it’s also worth pointing out how powerful local and community-led journalism can be. I’m thinking of DIY newspapers, flyers shared between neighbors, zines, and art that provide important resources and perspectives. I understand how traditional journalism and media can feel inaccessible. 

Growing up, my immigrant parents were not particularly interested in civic engagement. They were not shown, through broader institutions and media outlets, that their voices mattered. Instead, they relied on their local radio station and community-organized events to learn more about their neighborhoods. With this in mind, I think it is important for journalists to think about the gaps in who they are serving with their reportage. Who is left out from their reporting, and how can we ensure that their stories are heard — and that they are even able to access these works? 

What should our readers be looking forward to most regarding your future work with the Los Angeles Blade?

I hope readers can look forward to seeing themselves and their communities reflected in my local reporting. I am hoping to explore queer subcultures across Los Angeles, and dig deeply into how various queer communities have continued to survive and plant deep roots throughout the city. In a personal project I was beginning to explore while I still lived in the Bay Area, I learned about the existence of a support group for queer Mandarin speaking people that was really active in the 1990s. I found an archived flyer for one of their meetings, and discovered that they published a letter book with coming-out letters written by members for their family members. Their relatives wrote back, creating a bilingual back-and-forth preserved forever in these pages. Reading about this was monumental and affirming for me as a young, queer Chinese American person. There are pieces left behind by our ancestors, and we connect to them and each other through this connective tissue. I am interested in these remnants, and what they mean for us today. 

Song comes to the Blade courtesy of the California Local News Fellowship

In a city known for its lipo-sculpted abs, $30 Erewhon smoothies, and bleached holes, Bears LA has always offered something on the more authentic end of the man-on-man spectrum. It offers up a space where bellies are celebrated, body hair is currency, and confidence replaces conformity as the sexiest look in the room. 

This fur-friendly cornerstone of LA’s queer community has brought together bears, cubs, otters, pups, and the rest of the heavy-petting zoo for parties and pageantry with rainbow-tinted celebration. At the center of it all now stands Gabriel Green, a community leader whose warmth, wisdom, and well-deserved leather cred have helped the organization evolve while simultaneously remaining true to its roots. We got to talk with him about identity, kink, community, and why everyone deserves a seat at the table.

What does Bears LA mean to you personally, and how has it evolved under your leadership?

Bears LA has been around since 1993. It was formed to bring bears together through camaraderie and community events, things like pool parties, picnics, dinners, and of course, our contests.

We currently host two: the Bear LA Contest, formerly Mr. Bear LA, now open to everyone as Mr., Ms., or Mx., and the Mr. LA Leather Bear Contest. One’s more general bear culture, and the other blends in the leather scene.

For me, Bears LA is close to my heart. When I first got involved in the leather and bear communities, I was just beginning to explore beyond what I knew. Growing up in Newport, Rhode Island, and moving to LA in 2001, my entry point to gay culture was West Hollywood, like it is for many of us. I thought, This is gay Mecca! I can hold my boyfriend’s hand in public! But I quickly realized the standards of beauty there didn’t always include people who looked like me, folks who weren’t white, muscled, or twinks.

The bear and leather spaces offered something radically different. I have a belly, and for once, I felt not just accepted, but celebrated. Entering the Mr. LA Leather Bear contest was a whim, honestly, but it ended up being transformative. In bear culture, your body isn’t something to hide or apologize for. It’s sexy, it’s worthy, and you can embrace that fully.

Over the past decade since holding my title, I’ve watched the culture evolve. Bears are more visible, more diverse, and honestly, more beautiful than ever. But at its core, bear culture is still about body positivity, confidence, and joy. You don’t need anyone’s approval to feel sexy—you just need your own.

The title isn’t just a crown, it’s a platform. What kind of bear do you hope takes the throne this year, and what should they bring to the community beyond the sash?

Beyond the sash, the most important quality is unity. We’re living in tense, uncertain times, and unfortunately, that stress trickles down into our community. Especially within LGBTQ+, leather, and kink spaces, conflict can quickly fracture us. Online discourse often becomes a gladiator arena, where people throw flags up in protest instead of sitting down at the table to talk.

Sometimes those grievances are valid. People should speak up when they’re hurt, but canceling each other without dialogue weakens us. We already face enough adversity from the outside. Internally, we should be aiming for understanding, not division.

A titleholder represents more than an event or organization. They become a leader, whether they want to or not. People look to them. And what we need right now is leadership that’s rooted in compassion, empathy, and the ability to hold multiple perspectives.

The best titleholders are ambassadors of love. They make people feel welcome, especially those who feel like they don’t belong. You can be a bear and welcome a twink. Be a pup and support someone in uniform. We’re all different, but we’re stronger when we stand together.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Gabriel Green (@instagabe77)

Los Angeles is massive and can be messy, but the leather and bear communities here seem tightly knit. What’s the secret to that strength, especially post-pandemic?

Oh, don’t be fooled! There’s definitely some mess in our community, too! But seriously, I think one of our greatest strengths is diversity. The leather, kink, and bear scenes are full of subcultures, niches, and identities. There’s truly something for everyone, and there’s no “right” way to do it.

There’s acceptance here, whether you’re into hardcore leather protocols or playful pup dynamics. There’s room for husky bears, muscle bears, otters, and every kind of furball. You want to wear gear just for fun? Great. You want it to be deeply sexual or spiritual? That’s valid too.

At its best, this community thrives on open-mindedness. Even when disagreements happen, the unifying factor is that we celebrate freedom of expression, identity, and kink.

As a gay, Black man, how do your cultural identities intersect with your kink and leather identities?

That’s a layered one. I come from a multicultural background: my mother is Black and Cherokee, and my father’s side includes Black, Mexican, Filipino, and Irish heritage. Growing up, I often felt like I didn’t “fit” anywhere- too Black for the white kids, not Black enough for the Black kids.

Eventually, I realized: this is my version of Blackness. All these cultural strands make me who I am. I don’t have to conform to one box.

That outlook shaped how I navigate kink too. Early on, I was drawn to older partners—I wanted mentors, guidance, someone to help me grow. Now that I’m older, I’ve stepped into the Daddy role, and it’s a dynamic I enjoy. That said, even in my current relationship, where I’m “Sir” and he’s “boy,” there’s give and take. He jokes that he’s a “power bottom,” and sometimes he leads, and that’s okay.

It’s all about trust, consent, and mutual respect. You can play with power and still honor each other’s full humanity.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Brian (@midasheart)

The Los Angeles Leather Coalition recently reaffirmed its solidarity with marginalized and undocumented community members. Why was that statement important?

Because it’s not enough to throw a party and raise money—we have to be of service. The LA Leather Coalition organizes LA Leather Pride, which is a major event, but at its core, it’s about community. That means standing up for the most vulnerable among us.

Immigrants, especially undocumented folks, are often the backbone of our nightlife scene – working food stands, staffing events, and showing up for us. People like Rosie, who’s served food outside the Eagle, the Bullet, and Faultline, she’s a community icon. When she doesn’t feel safe, when people like her are targeted, we have a duty to step up.

That’s why we made the statement, and that’s why we continue to partner with groups like the TransLatina Coalition and Trans Wellness Center. It’s about action, not just optics.

Can you talk about the LALC Community Assistance Resource Service (LALC CAReS) program?

Absolutely. CAReS was born during the pandemic. We couldn’t host LA Leather Pride, so we asked, “How can we still help?” Michael Lara, who owns The Bullet, started a pantry and from there, we expanded into a lifeline hotline and the Helping Hand micro-grant program. We offered $250 to individuals and $500 to small businesses.

Eventually, we renamed it to remove the “COVID” label because we knew the need would continue. And it has. CAReS remains a way we support folks facing hardship with food, money, connection, or just someone to talk to.

What would you say to someone who still feels like they don’t belong in kink spaces, whether it’s leather bars, pup play events, or anything else?

First off, you do belong. If anyone makes you feel otherwise, that’s on them, not you.

Curiosity is your right. Exploration is your right. And your kink, your body, your vibe, it all deserves space. No one else gets to decide that for you.

Yes, some people are insecure and gatekeep-y, especially in gay spaces. But you don’t have to buy into that. Challenge yourself to step into the unknown. That’s how you grow and find what truly speaks to you.

You host Lost Puppy at the Eagle, a party centered on pup play. Why do you think pup play has become so popular, and what’s the psychology behind it?

When I first saw it, I was like, Why would someone want to be a dog? But then I saw it up close, a pup came over and nuzzled me, and I got it. There’s affection, vulnerability, presence.

Pup play is a way to disconnect from stress, from overthinking, from everyday roles. It’s playful. It’s fun. And it’s often a gentler entry point into dom/sub dynamics. It doesn’t have to be hardcore. You can just play, and that’s beautiful.

It creates space for people to be in the moment, something we all need more of.

Can you share a kink or fantasy you haven’t explored yet, but are curious about?

Hmm… I haven’t really explored rope play yet. I’m typically in control. I’m a nurturer, a protector, but the idea of completely surrendering to someone else is still new to me. I’d have to really trust them, but I think there’s power in letting go, too.

Where do you hope to see Bears LA going in the near future?

We’ve already taken big steps toward inclusivity, like opening the contest to all genders and identities. I think the future of Bears LA is even more diversity, even more beauty, and even more radical acceptance.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Brian (@midasheart)

Like most evenings at Precinct DTLA, the energy is tangible. 

Located in the heart of Downtown Los Angeles, the second-story LGBTQ+ venue has been a mainstay of the area for the past decade. From its world renowned parties to its weekly trivia nights, your average patron will always experience the bar’s trademark sense of grungy solidarity the moment they step into the space. And Saturday, August 2nd, is no different.

It is packed to the brim with queer locals of all identities, with people stocking up on drinks at the main bar, jumping along to music on the dancefloor, and lounging at the breezy patio as they prepare for the 2000s-themed drag show at midnight. But underlying all of this easy excitement is something nobody likes in a gay club: worry. 

People didn’t come together just to dance along to classic bops — they’re trying to support their favorite bar, which recently announced it was only a few slow weekends away from closing its doors. 

In a message posted last Friday on Precinct’s social media accounts, the venue made the shocking announcement that it was in financial crisis. The statement read, “Like many small businesses, we’ve taken hit after hit — from COVID shutdowns and ICE raids to citywide curfews and the ongoing decline of nightlife. But what we’re facing now is even more devastating.” This post described how the space was contending not only with the issues listed, but also with a lawsuit by a former employee alleging that she was discriminated against due to her status as a White woman. It’s been a taxing legal battle, emotionally and physically, for the bar’s staff; the plaintiff’s attorney has an alleged track record of discriminatory behavior. Each employee is worried not only about their job, but also about losing what has become a true haven for DTLA’s queer community.

“Nightlife has shifted significantly in recent years,” said Precinct’s general manager, Jeremy Lucido, when he took a moment to speak with the LA Blade in the back of the club between boxes of seltzers and rushing employees. “For queer spaces in particular, the decline has been ongoing. Since the rise of smartphones, hookup apps, and social media, the need for in-person gathering spaces has steadily diminished — and with it, the number of queer bars.” It’s a disheartening truth that has been a recurring feature in recent news cycles; Californians were shocked only a few weeks ago when San Francisco’s historic Oasis nightclub announced it would be shutting down due to financial troubles. 

When asked about how the increase in ICE Raids and rising anti-LGBTQ+ rhetoric may have affected Precinct, Lucido expressed, “These attacks, especially the ones aimed at our trans siblings, are deeply disheartening…there’s a clear effort to erase us, and that makes safe spaces more vital than ever. At Precinct, we’re committed to being a haven for the entire queer community. We need to ‘protect the dolls’ at all costs.” ICE Raids have continued to disproportionately target community centers in DTLA, leading not only to a decrease in patrons, but businesses closing up and vacating the historic area. 

These issues and more have greatly affected Precinct, with the ongoing lawsuit only exacerbating them. Lucido was unable to discuss the issue further due to legal liability. But queer Los Angeles remains vocal that Precinct is vital to the community.

“Precinct is one of the more welcoming LGBT places in LA,” said Wilson C., a patron who excitedly detailed how much the bar means to him after moving to California only two years ago. “It attracts a different, more diverse crowd than what I’ve seen in [West Hollywood], and it’s been easy for me to go out on a random night and have a good time.”

Along with attendees, the workers themselves spoke about how Precinct is more than just a job for them. The Blade had the pleasure of chatting with the bubbly Ms. Nicky Jackson, who has spent the past decade managing the door (and everything else necessary) at the venue’s many parties. “Precinct is different because they’re all encompassing and accepting of everyone,” she said, taking a break between warmly greeting and stamping the inner wrists of guests. “It doesn’t matter who or what you are, they’re very, very welcoming [and take] everybody in… a lot of people feel like they have never been accepted before they’ve been here.”

While there has been a resounding worry from Precinct’s thousands of supporters across Los Angeles, there’s also been a shocking amount of hope not only through the many people coming out to fill the space, but in the local celebrities like RuPaul’s Drag Race: All Stars winner Alaska Thunderf*ck who are dedicating their time to help fundraise and keep Precinct afloat. It’s been a heartwarming moment of community, but Lucido reminds potential patrons that even with all of this, the bar is still not safe from shutting down. 

When asked what Precinct’s concerned supporters can do to assist, Lucido ended the interview saying, “This isn’t just about Precinct. This is about your local gay bar, your favorite queer venue — whatever space makes you feel seen. Show up. Support. Buy a drink. Tip a drag queen or a go-go dancer. We’re more than just a bar — we’re a queer family, and we exist to create space for connection, expression, and joy. So come by, and keep coming.”

Last Saturday, what began as a routine trip to a local liquor store in Orange County quickly turned into a terrifying encounter with Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) officers, one that left Arri’s entire family rattled.

“We spotted them when we walked out of the store,” Arri recalled. “We all kind of just stopped in our tracks as we were walking.”

The officers arrived in unmarked white SUVs, wearing tactical vests and gear. “They weren’t masked up. You could see their faces.” That’s when things escalated. “They started slowly moving forward as we were leaving… they started following us. And this entire time I could see in the rearview mirror and in the side mirror that they were laughing.”

Although her father has a green card, fear took hold. He refused to drive home and reveal their address. “ICE made the exact same U-turn… my dad started getting scared, so he sped off and went onto the main street… luckily, we eventually lost them.”

But the emotional damage was already done.

“My dad was paranoid the entire time on our way home… he didn’t even want to leave the house after that. He unbuckled his seatbelt immediately, ran inside the house, locked himself in, and was completely shaken.”

Arri’s grandmother, who is undocumented and lives with the family, has a different kind of courage. “My grandma’s very fearless,” Arri said. “She’s strong because of everything that she’s been through in her life… She still goes out every day, takes the bus to work, and faces these risks head-on.”

What struck Arri most was the blatant racial profiling. “Obviously no one has a sticker on their forehead that says ‘we’re illegal,’ but they basically just racially profiled us because we are all darker-skinned. Like we obviously look Mexican.”

Even more disturbing was what Arri learned later. “I checked that Ice Block app later that day. They were taking people off buses just two streets down from where we were.”

Though Arri is a U.S. citizen, she has witnessed this violence firsthand before. “My mother was deported when I was in high school, around Trump’s first term.” That trauma continues to shape her life. “During transitioning, I felt like I needed my mother… to guide me through stuff like womanhood… I still need my mother to this day.”

Now, Arri channels her pain into advocacy. “This isn’t my first time protesting about this matter… I will always stand for my community… I fuel myself with just being fearless. I’m a U.S. citizen. I was born here. I’m able to speak out for immigrants who are scared to speak up out of fear of being deported.”

Her words carry not only personal weight but a fierce demand for justice. “Children have died in ICE custody. Women. Men… treating these people like they’re animals, even when they have no criminal backgrounds.”

Her story is not just about fear, it is about refusing to let fear win. She calls on those with privilege to show up. “We are the voice for those people who are not able to speak for themselves… This should make you want to stand up… Who can look at an innocent child, an innocent family being ripped apart, and not have a heart?”

“An attack on the immigrant community is an attack on all of us. If they get away with this, who are they going to go after next?” Arri warns. She believes the threat extends far beyond immigrant families. “They don’t want to make America great. They want to make America white.”

As attacks on immigrant communities, trans people, and people of color escalate nationwide, stories like Arri’s are a clear warning: these are not isolated incidents. They are symptoms of a coordinated assault on vulnerable communities, and a wake-up call for the rest of us.

Arri’s Call to Action: Organize. Vote. Show up. If you are undocumented or need support, organizations like CHIRLA, RAICES, Trans Latin@ Coalition, and local mutual aid networks provide legal help, housing, food, and resources. If you are a citizen, use your privilege to demand justice, share stories like Arri’s, and protect your neighbors.

Because, as Arri reminds us:
“You’re not alone. Don’t lose hope. Things will get better. There will always be people who will continue to fight for you.”

While most teenagers are busy playing video games, Triston Ezidore was busy making history. 

From high school student to school board member for the Board of Education in Culver City, Ezidore talks with the LA Blade about his unconventional entry into politics with influence from George Floyd’s death and the COVID-19 pandemic, and how he made history twice while he was still a teenager. 

In 2021, most of us were still at home and many people unemployed, out of school, caring for loved ones or just merely surviving the pandemic shutdowns and peak infections caused by COVID-19. During this time, many high school students lost valuable time in the classroom, being cut off from celebrating and socializing with their peers. Young Ezidore, rose above that—and more—achieving new milestones within his family and within the entire board of education in Culver City, bringing representation to queer, trans and communities of color. 

Shortly after graduation, Ezidore headed to Syracuse University and from afar, he continued to tune into the Culver City school board meetings to track the progress he had made during his time as student body president in high school. 

“I was still kind of watching, tuning into everything that was going on in Culver City and we knew that in order to get [the progress] right, we had to have a spotlight over the implementation,” said Ezidore. 

It was during this time, that he noticed that all the progress he tried to implement during his time there, was not being implemented correctly, so he felt like it was his responsibility to track the movements a little more closely. 

This is when he made the decision to return home and enroll at University of Southern California’s Dornsife College of Letters, Arts and Sciences—where he simultaneously launched his campaign for a seat on the Culver City Unified School District Board of Education. 

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by School Board President Triston Ezidore (@tristonezidoreccusd)

In 2022—just one year after graduating high school—he won one of three open seats, becoming the youngest elected official in Los Angeles County at 19 years old. Then in 2023, he was elected to serve as School Board Vice President—making history as the first Black, gay man in that position as a teenager. 

Though his journey into politics is “unconventional” as he puts it, Ezidore says he was radicalized to go into politics because of George Floyd’s death and the inequities made incredibly obvious by the COVID-19 pandemic. 

Ezidore says that being the child of immigrants also inspired him to ultimately look into politics to gain a better understanding of how his perspective can be helpful towards other people’s experiences and educational goals. 

His mother was born in Vietnam and moved to the United States after the fall of Saigon, which was the end of the Vietnam war that lasted from 1955 to 1975. Ezidore’s father is from Jamaica, so that gives Ezidore a unique perspective into the challenges and unique obstacles that many students face during their K-12 education. 

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by School Board President Triston Ezidore (@tristonezidoreccusd)

Ezidore also identifies as gay and has been out since he was 18 years old. 

“I find myself identifying as a gay, Black man, and I know that under this administration specifically, there has been an obsession with LGBTQ people and trans people in education,” said Ezidore. “I think historically our [education] system has not supported Black boys in education as a whole, so I find myself often pulling or tapping into those aspects of my identity.”

As a proud, gay, Black man, he felt that it was necessary to implement actual structures to support the most neglected demographic of the education system. 

“We instituted the Black Student Achievement Plan that called for specific action goals to implement or to increase achievement,” said Ezidore. 

This plan created mentorship and internship opportunities, a Black student council, a Black affinity group graduation and uplifted students in achieving their goals. During that time, former  governor Jerry Brown stated that school districts should implement a Local Control and Accountability Plan (LACP). The plan serves as a tool to improve student outcomes with a roadmap that tracks and sets goals and plan actions, and leverages resources to guide students who were foster youth, low-income and English-learners. 

“I don’t know that [Trump] is going to withhold the funding, but to me, I don’t know if I could sleep at night if I let him dictate these [educational] outcomes for the students in Culver City,” he said. 

The latest update from the Supreme Court is that Trump is allowed to continue dismantling the U.S. Department of Education, worrying scholars throughout the country, with many saying that without an injunction, much of the damage can be irreversible. The Department of Education has already experienced the slashing of over 1,400 jobs and will continue to see more funding cuts due to the Reduction in Force (RIF) plan, implementing Trump’s Executive Order, which he claims will improve education and families by returning education authority to individual states. 

When TS Madison cut the ribbon on her Starter House in Atlanta this past Transgender Day of Visibility, she wasn’t just opening a home, she was building a legacy.

Launched on March 31, 2025, the TS Madison Starter House is a re-entry home for formerly incarcerated Black, trans women. The Atlanta-based initiative provides safe, affirming housing for up to five residents at a time who participate in a 90-day program offering job assistance, healthcare, economic opportunities, and holistic support.

Madison shared that the idea grew out of a desire to do more than speak out online. “While getting ready to film The TS Madison Experience season 2, I was talking with my team about what more I could do for my community. I used to feel like everyone else was out marching and being so active, and I was just online talking. But then I started noticing how every time I’d speak out, blogs and media outlets would pick it up… and I realized, wow—I don’t necessarily have to be out in the streets to make change happen. Still, I wanted to do more than just talk.”

That commitment to action led her to turn a personal real estate purchase into a lifeline for her community. “I said, ‘I’m buying a new house… I have this house, can I give the girls housing?’ Because the girls need housing. I remember moving to Atlanta broke and being homeless. I’ve been a house mother—my gay kids have lived with me and thrived. So why not keep doing that? Why not make that intentional?”

The Starter House is powered in part by a partnership with wellness brand Pure for Men and longtime advocacy organization NAESM. As part of its Pride initiatives, Pure for Men donated a portion of June sales to support the house and sponsored attendance for participants at NAESM’s National Leadership Conference on Health Disparities and Social Justice, which took place in Los Angeles from June 25–29.

“We’ve chosen to support the TS Madison Starter House and NAESM because they’re making a real difference in people’s lives,” said Lawrence Johnson, co-founder and CEO of Pure for Men. “With Black trans lives and rights under attack, these organizations are stepping up to amplify their voices, fund essential care and give them the tools to succeed.”

For Madison, the collaboration is rooted in genuine connection. “NAESM is a godsend. It’s a 35-year-old organization with a solid reputation. No scandals. They’re trusted,” she said. “Then there’s Lawrence, the President and CEO of Pure for Men. I had already been using their products before we ever met! We met at a party, just vibing, and it turns out we were already interconnected. We started talking and they shared how they’d been watching me grow and loving my show Phag Talk. And the partnership just blossomed from there.”

The initiative arrives amid rising anti-trans and anti-Black violence, but TS Madison views the Starter House as a political act rooted in love and care. “As a Black,, trans person, I’ve always felt left out by my own Black community. It’s like, once you’re gay or trans, they see you as ‘other.’ Suddenly your Blackness doesn’t count anymore. But I can’t separate the two—I’m Black and trans. I’m both, all the time.”

She added: “When you throw your Black trans child or sibling out, that’s anti-Blackness to me. Because you’re dehumanizing them. My humanity shouldn’t vanish just because I’m trans.”

This work feels both necessary and deeply personal. “I stand on the shoulders of girls who laid down or lost their lives,” Madison said. “And I’m honored to lend my back and shoulders for others to stand on. That’s how we climb—by lifting each other.”

Madison’s message to her younger self is one of strength and perseverance: “I’d tell her: Stay the course. It’s rocky. It’s going to get even more rocky. But stay the course. You are so important, more important than you could ever imagine. Be strong. Don’t be blinded by today. Tomorrow is another day.”

Looking ahead, Madison envisions the Starter House as a model for wider change. “I want it to be the mold for how to give back. Not just one house in Atlanta, but the start of countless starter homes across the nation,” she said. “I want other girls, especially those with privilege or surplus, to see that when you’ve been given so much, it costs nothing to give back. Let this be the example.”

She’s clear on her mission: “This is what I’m supposed to do. And when you’re doing what you’re meant to do, even if there’s opposition, doors will open.”

Watch the full interview:

Koaty and Sumner Blayne are not exactly the definition of a conventional relationship. How many couples can say they met during a threesome? It isn’t as lurid as it sounds and it is a sweet story. The couple has been together for six years, got engaged and started planning for a big wedding next year. Whereas most couples clock into work outside of the home, Koaty and Sumner clock in at home, in front of a camera for OnlyFans and social media.

Their lives got national attention as they made their reality TV debut on Tubi’s House of Heat last year, joining other queer and straight OnlyFans content creators in a Hollywood mansion for weeks of filming. The show of course covered the drama of a content creator’s life, including relationship ups and downs, but it also captured the realities of what it takes to be a successful OnlyFans personality. Koaty and Sumner shared the intimate details of their relationship, the exhaustion that comes with the pressure to present the perfect couple day after day and the jealousies that can come with two careers in the adult industry. While Koaty filmed his first adult studio work this year, Sumner has spent a few years working for studio names like Sean Cody, Falcon and Men.com, among others.

Somehow, the two make it work.

The two have become a very popular brand both on OnlyFans and on mainstream social media. It doesn’t hurt that they are constantly coming up with new kinds of content and the fact that they aren’t hard on the eyes at all. This year, they were awarded Best Podcast at the International Content Creator Awards for their debut pod, In Bed with Koaty & Sumner, where they cover all aspects of their lives in the adult industry—the good, the bad, and the challenging.

In this Los Angeles Blade exclusive, we talked to the couple about finding love in the adult industry while keeping the spark alive.

What are some of the biggest misconceptions people have about couples in the adult industry?

People assume we’re either constantly hooking up with others or emotionally detached robots who don’t feel jealousy or connection. In reality, we have boundaries, deep communication and a whole lot of love. We just also happen to have sex on camera. Being in the adult industry doesn’t make us less committed, our job just involves lube.

How do you maintain a healthy relationship—and manage jealousy—in an open relationship?

We’ve had to learn how to have the tough conversations, especially after the honeymoon phase wore off. It’s about recognizing how we each love differently and asking for what we need. Trust and transparency are non-negotiable. We check in constantly—before shoots, after, during dinner—nothing is off limits. We’ve even learned to turn jealousy into compersion. Usually, it just takes a little reassurance… and maybe a snack.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Koaty & Sumner Blayne (@koatysum)

How do you balance your relationship with the pressure of constant content creation?

Sometimes we don’t—and that’s okay. There are days we’re exhausted and need to just be husbands, not performers. We schedule breaks, unplug often, and make time to be us. It’s not always fifty-fifty—sometimes one of us is struggling and the other steps up. We check in, readjust, and give each other grace.

How do you keep the spark alive through the years?

We stay intentional. Too many couples stop talking about sex after the honeymoon phase, expecting it to fix itself. As gay men, we’re often raised without proper sex education and with a lot of shame. We’ve had to unlearn that, be curious and have honest conversations about our needs surrounding sex. The spark stays alive when we keep showing up—and make sex intentional

What have you learned most from each other?

Sumner: Koaty’s taught me patience and how to slow down and feel safe.
Koaty: Sumner’s taught me how to communicate and love without fear.

What do you love most about the other?

Sumner: His loyalty. He shows up for me in ways that make me feel protected and seen—even when I’m chaotic.
Koaty: His vulnerability. He shares his heart so openly. It’s impossible not to fall for him again and again.

How have your families reacted to your careers?

They’ve been super supportive and just want to see us happy—traveling, building a life and doing what we love.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by In Bed with Koaty & Sumner (@inbedwithkoatysum)

What did you learn about yourselves filming House of Heat?

Reality TV brings out everything—the good, the bad and the unhinged. But it reminded us how grounded we are in each other. Cameras or chaos, what we have is real.

What are some of the biggest challenges you face as a couple in the adult industry?

The constant pressure to perform—on camera, on social media, and emotionally. People project a lot onto us. It’s easy to forget who we are off camera, but we remind ourselves that our relationship comes first—before algorithms, followers, or collabs.

Any sneak peeks for your wedding next year?

We’ve booked the venue! The guest list is coming together… and let’s just say some of our hosts might be from RuPaul’s Drag Race Season 12.

Any advice for other couples in the adult world?

Communicate constantly, keep your ego in check, and treat your relationship like the most valuable thing you have—because it is. The camera should capture your connection, not replace it. Filming can be fun, but it’s still work. Your partnership—the trust, the intimacy, the real love—is what truly matters.

You can follow Koaty and Sumner on Instagram

Check out their podcast, In Bed with Koaty and Sumner

National audiences got to know Salina EsTitties during her run on season 15 of RuPaul’s Drag Race, but Angelenos have been witnesses to the star and activist power that is EsTitties for a decade. She’s not just a fierce entertainer, she’s also a leading voice in the queer, Latinx, drag, and sober communities.

This year, she was announced as the winner of L.A. Blade’s Best Drag Performer at our Best of L.A. Awards. She’s appeared in campaigns for Sephora, Pure for Men, Calvin Klein and more, partnering with numerous non-profit organizations that benefit the queer community and beyond. And yet somehow, she still has time to focus on her lucrative drag and music career.

Even with her continually rising star, she remains humble, down-to-earth and makes time to support events and movements that affect her communities.

This Thursday, she will join the Los Angeles Blade, Latino Media Collaborative and CALÓ News for Diálogo – Pride, Power & Progress, an intimate in-person gathering that brings together powerful voices at the intersection of journalism, identity and social impact.

EsTitties is a fierce believer in the power of the queer Latinx community in Los Angeles and knows firsthand the work that is being done.

“There are leaders in the community that people don’t even realize are out there, going to work for the community, for us as a whole and not just Latinos, but for queer people in general, like trans and trans youth,” she said in an interview with L.A. Blade. “When you go to any function that is a Latino function, there are people who are actually in the streets doing the work.”

EsTitties is all too familiar with the struggles that the organizations she supports are going through, especially as the current administration continues to restrict resources.

“There are people losing jobs who are doing this good work. The leaders of the Latin community are the ones out there in the streets who are actually helping the community,” she continued. “They’re my heroes at the end of the day because it’s those kinds of people who helped me when I was 19, 20 years old, running the streets, homeless, on drugs. They were there for me at those times and their resources provided me with a life that I have today beyond my wildest dreams. I get to twirl around in a wig, you know, but they’re the ones who are out there saving the world.”

EsTitties is also changing the Latinx culture from within. Her presence as a drag queen and a queer (as she puts it) cholo, challenges the machismo norms that are expected of men, changing the narrative of through representation. Her work is a direct result of her early experience.

“It was such a struggle for me in the beginning, especially when I started drag when I was 23. I was so insecure and so hyper-fixated on the masculinity of it all. So I cut my hair off and I quit drag,” said EsTitties, adding that she then landed a job at In-N-Out. “The machismo of it all is something that I grew up with, especially growing up in the hood. I had to acclimate — oversized white tee, baggy blue jeans and Air Force [shoes]. That was the vibe — no color, no queerness, no nothing. I had to present as much as I could to not stand out so I wouldn’t get picked on. Internalized homophobia is very real and toxic masculinity is very real inside of me.”

Eventually, EsTitties did return to drag and it gave her confidence and the voice she now uses to fight for her communities. Over the years, drag taught her how to combine both her masculine and feminine traits in a way that was real for her, embracing her full identity. From her vantage point, she views machismo differently now.

“I’m attracted to masculinity. I don’t think it’s something we have to demonize or villainize, it’s about not making it greater than. I think we’re all equal, I think everyone has all shades of the rainbow, right? I can be feminine, I can be masculine, I can present feminine and still be butch as fuck. It’s all sexy at the end of the day, but I think confidence is where you use it for good as opposed to evil.”

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Salina EsTitties (@estitties)

The queer voice in the Latinx community grows stronger every day. Younger generations are gaining the courage to be themselves, not worried about the pressures of conforming. EsTitties says that queer people have always been visible in the community and gives credit to the women of the family — the tias, the mothers, the grandmothers — for showing unconditional love and fostering a vibrant queer community.

As EsTitties prepares to join an impressive panel for Diálogo for a conversation that explores the evolving landscape of Latinx journalism and its vital role in advancing equity, representation and social change, she believes that talk of immigration and the current U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) raids be at the forefront of any queer, Latinx talk.

“The reality is that I’m sure you know someone, who knows someone who’s undocumented, but there’s a big stigma around that. We’ve heard it from our President that [undocumented immigrants] are rapists, drug dealers. That’s not the truth,” said EsTitties. “My mom came here, undocumented, got her citizenship, then did everything that she needed to do after the fact. And if it wasn’t for my mom doing those things, I wouldn’t be here for it. I am still learning how to navigate it all. This is a conversation that’s very taboo and people just like to pretend it doesn’t exist. But it’s a very real thing that we’re watching in real time.”

EsTitties stressed the importance of the queer community being involved in these conversations because they are issues that affect communities that intersect with other marginalized communities that are particularly vulnerable right now, such as the undocumented immigrant community.

“At the end of the day, we’re human beings. No one should be treated the way that they’re treating human beings right now. Seeing what’s going on right now with ICE is so scary. I know people who are afraid to leave their homes. I have friends who are dyeing their hair a different color every day, so they seem less brown. I have friends who are covering up their tattoos because they think they’re looking for them. People are paranoid and scared right now.”

EsTitties knows that stigma and racism exist even within our own community. That is a reason she works so hard at being visible and active.

“[We need to have a] conversation of just knowing that we Latinos and queer Latinos are not less than our white counterparts. We see white gays running the world, baby. I just hope that I can be one of those people who is like: ‘I’m going to do it regardless of whether you think I can or not, whether you’re rooting for me or not.'”

EsTitties says that in her experience, the queer, Latinx community is often “the butt of the joke a lot of the time.” She says that her communities often have to work ten times harder to get places.

“We’re having to fight a lot of stigma, fight a lot of prejudice, but the thing with Latinos is that we don’t let that weakness show. That confidence and strength, and our passion and our fire, that’s what continues to keep us here and moving. So I think we lean in and continue to be unapologetic, and I think just be a little louder, especially right now.”

Join EsTitties and the Los Angeles Blade for Diálogo, Thursday, June 26^th at 6 pm at The Abbey. The event is free; RSVP here.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Los Angeles Blade (@losangelesblade)

Richard Zaldivar, a prominent community leader and founder of The Wall Las Memorias, was pumped and proudly walking hand in hand with his husband Joselito Laudencia, waving to cheering bystanders as The Wall Las Memorias contingent marched down Hollywood Boulevard in the June 8 LA Pride Parade. However, Zaldivar says he noticed that many marchers who signed up, didn’t show. He believes they were terrified that uninhibited militarized masked U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) agents might sweep them up and disappear them in an unannounced raid just because they are from the Latin American community being targeted by ICE raids.

According to Zaldivar, the terror is real and warranted.

The same day of LGBTQ jubilation, anti-ICE demonstrators swarmed several streets outside the federal detention center in downtown L.A. where ICE held their loved ones. In fact, many of those unidentified detainees arrested Friday and Saturday were surreptitiously hustled into ICE buses, driven to a private charter airline hangar at the Hollywood Burbank Airport, “immediately loaded onto Saab 2000 planes owned by Freight Runners Express / ACE, a cargo and passenger charter airline,” and flown to San Antonio, Texas, according to the Burbank Leader. 

Disappearances have become normal in America despite many detainees having legal status or having lived and worked in a community for years, paying taxes, with no criminal record. The usurpation of the constitution right to due process was apparently ordered by White House Deputy Chief of Staff Stephen Miller, who told ICE officials to detain 3,000 migrants a day or be fired.

On Saturday, Donald Trump figuratively poured gallons of fuel on the small protest fire by federalizing 2,000 California National Guard troops, defiantly ignoring the protocol of first being asked for federal help by Gov. Gavin Newsom, LA Mayor Karen Bass or Los Angeles Police Department Chief Jim McDonald, who said the move was made totally unnecessary by activating L.A.’s mutual law enforcement aid agreement with 88 other cities in L.A. County.

By pretending the demonstrations are riots, Trump called up 2,000 additional National Guard troops and 700 Marines, a ruse to invoke the Insurrection Act and gain unchecked power.  

I asked Richard Zaldivar to explain what’s happening and offer advice to LGBTQ activists.

“Originally, Mr. Trump had said he was going after the hardcore criminals who were here with no documentation,” said Richard. “We know it’s not happening because innocent people who may be documented and some people who are citizens have been apprehended by ICE and taken into custody.

“I think that is a problem that has been a catalyst for a lot of the protest,” he said. “This cannot happen in the United States of America. This is very scary. It is scary to me and my husband and to the staff and my community…”

“Be focused in on our freedom to be able to protest and share our disgust and anger with those folks [who] deserve that anger. Call that out. But don’t get involved with the anarchists and provocateurs — and they’re here. They’ve been around for many years. They go from city to city and from issue to issue, trying to disrupt the system, the institutions,” said Richard.

“We know that under this administration, everyone is affected,” said Richard. “It’s important to know what our rights are and what ICE can do legally and illegally and when we go places — because we can’t just stay shut in. That’s what this administration wants us to do. They wanna shut us down. Go with friends. Go outside. Take a walk. Walk the dog. Go to the park. Let’s breathe some fresh air and rejuvenate.”

If that’s our intention on a daily basis, we will get through this. If we act collectively, we will get through this as a coalition.

Please go to the LGBTQ+ Freedom Fighters Substack for more reporting and the full 15-minute video conversation with Richard Zaldivar.