The Forgotten Histories of Gender Fluidity: How MAGA-Bros Reject Their Own Ancestral Myths in Their War on "Wokeness"
The far-right’s war on “wokeness” is a war against history itself. Their imagined past of rigid gender roles never existed—Loki, the Doctor, and European folklore prove that transformation and fluidity are the true traditions.
Introduction
The modern right-wing panic over gender fluidity and nonbinary identities is, at its core, a reactionary backlash rooted in historical amnesia. The loudest voices in this so-called “war on wokeness” posture as defenders of tradition, claiming to stand for the unshakeable pillars of masculinity, femininity, and the nuclear family. But their understanding of “tradition” is laughably shallow, severed from the actual histories of the cultures they claim to honour. Nowhere is this more apparent than in the far-right's feverish obsession with Norse, Celtic, and Germanic heritage—histories that, when examined properly, stand in direct contradiction to the rigid gender binaries they so desperately seek to enforce.
This is something I recognised in my own deep dive into my ancestors’ myths, first as an autistic child experiencing the world in gestalt, then later after gaining literacy, when I could finally process and explore those narratives in full. As a mix of Gael and Dane, my ancestral histories are filled with tales of transformation, liminality, and gender-fluid figures—Loki, the Morrígan, shape-shifting warriors, and the many stories where identity was mutable, power lay in adaptability, and the gods themselves defied categorisation. There was no panic over gender variance in these myths, no demand for rigid conformity. Transformation was power, and those who could cross boundaries—between worlds, between states of being—were revered, not reviled.
To witness the absolute buffoonery of the modern far-right, then, is both hilarious and infuriating. They drape themselves in runes, howl about “Viking blood,” and act as though masculinity was a monolith forged in battle, as though the past was some immutable hierarchy where everyone knew their place. They see a female Doctor Who, a Black or female Loki, or trans people simply existing, and they crumble under the weight of their own ignorance. In their desperate attempt to enforce the binaries of a post-Victorian, Christianised, and commodified version of history, they betray the very cultures they claim to protect. Their panic over gender fluidity is not a defence of tradition—it is the fear of a truth older than their fragile ideologies: that identity is not fixed, that transformation is inevitable, and that history does not belong to them.
The Myth of a “Traditional” Binary Gender System
The idea that gender has always been a rigid binary, fixed and unchanging across history, is a fantasy—a modern invention dressed up as ancient truth. In reality, pre-modern European cultures, particularly those of my own ancestors, the Gaels and the Danes, understood gender as fluid, situational, and defined by role rather than biology. The ability to shift, adapt, and embody different states of being was seen as a marker of power, not deviation. Warriors could be shapeshifters, gods could be neither male nor female, and identity was often tied to circumstance rather than some immutable essence. To move between categories—whether as a druid communing with the unseen, a god taking the form of a beast, or a warrior stepping into roles traditionally reserved for others—was not scandalous; it was expected.
The hardening of gender into a strict binary was not the natural order of things but an imposed structure, a tool of control. Christianity’s arrival in the north brought with it not just new gods but a whole new social order, one that sought to replace fluidity with hierarchy and enforce conformity where before there had been ambiguity. The Gaels and the Danes understood this at the time—warnings were given to kings and chieftains that the Christian missionaries were not visitors under the sacred laws of hospitality but the vanguard of conquest. They did not come seeking exchange or mutual understanding; they came to dismantle, to reshape the world in their own image. And with them came the framework of patriarchy, not as an emergent reality of human nature, but as a means of subjugation, enforcing rigid gender roles as a way of controlling the people they sought to convert.
This rigidification of gender did not stop at Europe's borders—it was exported through colonialism, imposed onto Indigenous cultures worldwide, many of which had long recognised multiple genders and fluid identities. European colonial powers did not just conquer land; they sought to erase ways of being that did not fit into their constructed binaries. Just as they had done to their own ancestors under Christianisation, they did to the world at large, enforcing Western gender norms as part of their “civilising mission.” The irony, of course, is that the same reactionaries who now rage against “woke ideology” as an imagined threat to their heritage are upholding the very forces that dismantled it in the first place. Their cries for “tradition” ring hollow when the traditions they claim to defend were shaped not by some eternal, unyielding masculinity, but by the very forces of empire and religious dogma they pretend to oppose.
The Fluid Trickster: Loki and the Norse Myth of Transformation
Loki has always been a figure of transformation, a god of shifting boundaries, never meant to be contained within a single, static form. To reduce them to a singular masculine identity, as reactionaries so often attempt, is to misunderstand them entirely. Loki is a shapeshifter, not just in action but in essence—becoming animals, women, and hybrid beings as naturally as breathing. They seduce, deceive, create, destroy, and, in perhaps the most transgressive act of all, give birth. The story of Sleipnir, Odin’s eight-legged horse, is perhaps the clearest proof that Loki exists outside rigid binaries. They do not simply “disguise” themselves as female; they become a mare, carry a child, and bring it into the world. In a world of strict gender delineation, this would be an impossible act, yet in Norse mythology, it is simply part of Loki’s nature.
It is no accident that I found myself drawn to these ideas of transformation long before I had the words to articulate why. I remember when I was twenty, sitting across from a fortune teller in Santa Rosa, CA, who used the Runes in her practice. She cast them before me and asked me to pick one to begin the session. I reached down, randomly—or so I thought—and lifted a single Rune from the pile. Wyrd. The blank Rune. The one that represents the unknown, fate unfolding, the collapse of certainty. My host’s face went pale. She had not expected this. I don’t think she was prepared for it. She told me what it meant and then pressed me to interpret it within my own context. But I had no words then, no framework, no understanding. I had chosen Wyrd, or perhaps it had chosen me, and yet the conversation went nowhere. Still, the moment has stayed with me, lingering in the back of my mind through the decades, revealing itself in new layers over time.
Wyrd is transformation. It is the force that upends structure, the acknowledgement that nothing remains static, that identity is always in flux. And it is precisely this collapse of certainty that reactionaries fear most. The modern panic over gender fluidity, over trans and nonbinary people, is not just about control over bodies—it is a fundamental terror of change itself. The far right clings to the myth of an unshaken, eternal masculinity because to accept fluidity is to accept that their entire worldview is a fabrication. The backlash to Disney’s Loki—specifically the appearance of a female Loki and a Black Loki—exposes the depth of their ignorance. They howl about their Norse heritage being “erased” whilst demonstrating that they never understood it to begin with. Loki was never one thing. Loki was never meant to be bound by one shape, one gender, one identity. The idea of multiple Lokis across the timeline is not a betrayal of myth—it is an almost perfect rendering of how Loki has always existed. To fight against this is to fight against the very essence of the god they claim to honour.
The irony, of course, is that the same people who worship the symbols of their supposed heritage—Norse runes, Viking imagery, tales of strength and battle—reject the very forces that made those myths what they are. They wear Mjölnir around their necks, ignorant of the fact that Loki, the one they so desperately try to deny, was the very reason Thor’s hammer came to be (and what an amazing movie that story would make). They chant about warrior traditions whilst cowering in the face of the Trickster, who refuses to be defined on anyone else’s terms. Their panic is the panic of those who realise, deep down, that they have built their entire identity on an illusion—and that Loki, as always, is laughing at them.
Doctor Who and the Fluidity of the Time Lord
Doctor Who has never been about a fixed identity. The Doctor is not their body, not their face, not even their name. They are, at their core, energy, not a body—a being of transformation, existing across time and space, shedding one form for another as the narrative demands. From the very beginning, regeneration has been built into the character, a fundamental part of who they are. Yet, despite decades of this fluidity, the modern backlash to a female Doctor, a Black Doctor, and a queer-coded Doctor has been nothing short of rabid. The reactionaries who scream about “wokeness” and claim that the show has “gone too far” are the same ones who claim to be die-hard fans—despite demonstrating no real understanding of the mythos they claim to defend. The panic over the Doctor’s changing form is nothing new. It’s just another chapter in the ongoing fear of fluidity, the same terror that fuels the backlash to Loki’s many incarnations and the broader trans panic infecting the political right.
It’s never really been about Doctor Who. Just as it was never really about Loki, or gender-neutral bathrooms, or trans athletes. What these people actually fear is the loss of masculine dominance in storytelling, the loss of an imagined past where white, straight men were the sole heroes of every narrative. They don't care about the integrity of the character—if they did, they would know that the entire point of the Doctor is change. Instead, what they care about is the preservation of their own fantasy, the illusion that masculinity is unyielding, that heroes must always look like them. When Jodie Whittaker stepped into the role, they seethed. When Jo Martin, a Black woman, was revealed as an incarnation of the Doctor, they frothed at the mouth. Because what they were seeing, what they were being forced to confront, was the undeniable fact that the myth of a fixed, eternal masculinity was just that—a myth.
The irony, of course, is that one of the most beloved actors to ever play the Doctor, my own favourite, owes his own identity to a moment of fluidity. David Tennant, a name now inseparable from the role, is not the name he was born with. Born David McDonald, he had to change his name because another actor had already registered it. So where did Tennant come from? A name lifted from Neil Tennant, the openly gay frontman of the Pet Shop Boys. A name chosen, borrowed, transformed. And yet the reactionary Doctor Who fans—those who claim to be protecting the legacy of the show from “forced diversity” and “political correctness”—would never dream of questioning Tennant’s legitimacy, despite the fact that his very name is a product of the kind of transformation they so vehemently oppose.
Much like Loki, the Doctor was never meant to be one thing. The Time Lords, much like the shapeshifting tricksters of old, are not bound to a single form. Their identity is not fixed in flesh. It moves, it shifts, it regenerates. The idea of a Black Doctor, a female Doctor, a queer Doctor is not a violation of canon—it is the fulfilment of it. The people who rage against this change are simply repeating the same mistake reactionaries have made for centuries: mistaking their own narrow worldview for universal truth. They are not protecting history; they are running from it, desperately clinging to the illusion of permanence in a universe where change is the only constant. And if there’s anything the Doctor has taught us, it’s that those who resist change never win.
The Queer and Trans-coded Figures of European Folklore
Before Christian patriarchy reshaped them into morality lessons, the fairy tales (Märchen) that would later be collected and sanitised by the Brothers Grimm (Grimms Märchen) were filled with liminality, transformation, and cross-gender roles. These stories, drawn from older European oral traditions (Europäische Märchen), often played with identity and blurred the boundaries between male and female, human and other, reality and enchantment. Transformation was not a punishment, but a rite of passage, a path to self-actualisation, or even a form of power. The rigidity of modern gender norms simply does not fit within these stories’ original contexts. Yet, as with so many aspects of pre-Christian European culture, they were later edited, flattened, and stripped of their complexities to fit within the frameworks of patriarchy and social control.
Take Aschenputtel, the original German source of Cinderella. Unlike the Disney-fied narrative of a passive young girl saved by a fairy godmother, Aschenputtel is a story of transformation—one that she orchestrates herself. The magic she wields comes not from an outside force, but from a tree growing on her mother’s grave, tended by her own hands, aided by birds that act as guardians of her transition between two states of being. She exists in liminality, moving between servant and noblewoman, recognised and unrecognised, before stepping fully into her new self.
Then there is Allerleirauh, the tale of a young woman escaping an incestuous marriage proposal by disguising herself in a coat of many furs. This is not a simple case of cross-dressing for survival; her disguise places her outside gendered categories entirely. She is neither princess nor peasant, neither noblewoman nor servant, neither man nor woman. She exists in a space where identity is blurred, where survival means stepping outside of prescribed roles. This kind of gender liminality mirrors trans and nonbinary narratives—stories of shedding an imposed identity, navigating the world under a protective guise, and eventually revealing one's true self.
In Die zwölf Jäger, a princess disguises herself as a man to remain close to the prince she loves. What makes this tale so striking is that it lingers on gender performance as a central theme—the question of what makes a person “read” as male or female. The deception is only uncovered when the prince sees her chest move beneath her clothes, implying that gender in this tale is not innate, but dependent on external perception. Then there is Eisenhans, where a young prince finds himself under the guidance of the eponymous wild man, a being who exists outside the constraints of civilisation. The relationship between the prince and Eisenhans has long been read as homoerotic, given how much of the prince’s development depends on his intimate connection with the wild man, a figure who himself embodies a masculinity outside patriarchal norms.
And then there is Hans mein Igel, the story of a boy born half-human, half-hedgehog, who must navigate a world that does not see him as fully one or the other. He exists in between, neither belonging to one category nor the other, until he eventually sheds his imposed form and reveals his true self. The parallels to trans narratives could not be clearer—a figure born into a shape that does not reflect their truth, misunderstood by those around them, and undergoing a transformation that allows them to step fully into their identity.
These stories, with their cross-gender disguises, liminal states, and self-actualising transformations, do not fit within the rigid binaries that modern reactionaries try to impose on history. And yet, these same reactionaries claim to be defending “tradition” when they rage against gender fluidity, queerness, and trans identities. In reality, they are defending the Victorian censorship of these traditions, not the stories themselves.
It was Christian morality, Victorian propriety, and colonialism that stripped these tales of their ambiguity, sanitising them into rigid moral lessons where gender was absolute and transformation was no longer a journey to selfhood, but a temporary trial to be undone by a return to “normalcy.” The MAGA-bros who drape themselves in the language of traditionalism are not warriors for some ancient, unyielding masculinity—they are the heirs of the very forces that erased their ancestors' stories, bowing before the same systems of control that Christian missionaries used to dismantle European spiritual traditions centuries ago.
The Christianisation of Europe and the Suppression of Gender Variance
Before the Christianisation of Europe, gender variance was not taboo, nor was it viewed as unnatural. Across Indo-European, Norse, and Celtic societies, gender was often understood as situational, fluid, or connected to one’s role rather than a rigid, biological determinant. Many of these cultures recognised identities beyond the binary, whether in the form of gender-variant deities, spiritual figures, or social roles that defied strict categorisation. Among the Gaels, for instance, the sovereignty goddesses and the Morrígan frequently shifted between forms, sometimes appearing as male, female, or something in between, their power residing in their ability to cross boundaries. The Norse had their seidkona—practitioners of seiðr, a powerful spiritual tradition that often saw men taking on feminine roles to access divine knowledge, much like Odin himself, who engaged in such practices despite later Christian narratives attempting to sanitise this aspect of his mythos.
It was not until the arrival of Christianity—not simply as a belief system, but as an instrument of colonial control—that these identities and roles became demonised. The Church sought to reshape society in its own image, dismantling the spiritual frameworks that had long recognised fluidity and replacing them with an ideology that demanded hierarchy, submission, and fixed gender roles. The spiritual figures who once moved between states of being, mediating between the known and the unknown, were rebranded as deviants, monsters, and heretics. The connection between gender variance and witchcraft, heresy, and sin was a deliberate construction, designed to sever people from their ancestral understandings of self and replace them with an external authority that dictated who they were allowed to be.
This is not an unfamiliar pattern. The demonisation of gender variance followed the same trajectory as the transformation of Lucifer from “the Lightbringer” into the archetypal monster of Christian Hell. In early Christian texts, Lucifer was not a force of evil, but a being of knowledge and illumination (the Morning Star), assisting humanity rather than condemning it. The notion of eternal damnation, of a literal Hell with fire and brimstone, was not present in the founding documents of their faith—it was a later invention, constructed to instil fear, obedience, and submission. Just as Lucifer’s role was rewritten to serve the agenda of control, so too were the gender-fluid figures of Europe’s indigenous spiritual traditions transformed from wise intermediaries into figures of horror.
What the reactionaries of today fail to grasp is that the panic they stoke over gender nonconformity is nothing new. They are not warriors fighting against some radical modern invention—they are merely repeating the same tired narratives that have been used for over a millennium to justify the erasure of histories that do not conform to the rigid structures imposed by empire and Church. The so-called “traditional” gender roles they champion are not traditions at all, but the result of a long and deliberate effort to sever people from their ancestral ways of understanding identity. Their war on “wokeness” is nothing more than an echo of the Christian conquest of Europe (and the world), an attempt to impose a rigid, fearful order onto something that was never meant to be contained.
Spirituality, as it was understood before these colonial forces took hold, was not about submission to a single, unyielding “truth”—it was about relationship, transformation, and coexistence with forces greater than oneself. That relationship was severed by those who sought to impose control, and now, centuries later, their ideological descendants rage against the very idea of fluidity, as though history itself is slipping through their grasp. But history is not theirs to hold. It is far older than their empire, far deeper than their hierarchies, and far more powerful than the fragile illusions they build to sustain their fear.
The MAGA-Bro Fear of Transformation: What It Really Means
The first people who tried to erase my difference weren’t priests or politicians—they were boys in the schoolyard, fists clenched, eyes burning with a hatred they couldn’t yet articulate. Long before I had words for myself, before I even understood that I was queer, that I was fluid, that I was something beyond the structures they worshipped, they sensed it. They saw the way I moved, the way I carried myself, the way I did not belong to their rigid little world of “boy” and “man.” And because they could not control me, they tried to beat it out of me. But their violence was never framed as cruelty—it was a favour. They weren’t bullying me, they assured me, they were teaching me how to be normal, doing what was best for me. They hit me, shoved me, taunted me, all in the name of fixing me, as though my difference was a sickness that could be beaten into submission. They truly believed they were doing me a kindness.
There is no small irony in this. The conquerors always believe themselves benevolent. The missionaries who imposed their Christian god upon my ancestors claimed they were saving them from their own barbarism. The colonisers who eradicated entire cultures justified it as a civilising mission, as though the destruction of whole peoples was a noble cause. They weren’t erasing—they were improving. They weren’t stealing—they were elevating. The bully and the coloniser share the same delusion: that violence is justified if it serves the ‘greater good’. They believe in control, in hierarchy, in forcing the world into neat little boxes where everything fits. And when something does not fit, it must be corrected—whether with fists or with law, with conversion or with a punch to the ribs.
I fought back. I was bigger, stronger, angrier, and I did not take their violence in silence. That alone confused them—why wasn’t I grateful for their intervention? Why didn’t I submit, fall in line, let them shape me into something more acceptable? I gave as good as I got, which meant they never fully broke me, but they never stopped trying either. The lesson of the bully is that they will never be satisfied. No amount of conformity will ever be enough. You can obey every rule, shape yourself into their image, erase every part of you that does not fit, and still, they will come for you. Because the problem was never you—it was them, their desperate need for control, their terror at the idea that the world might contain something beyond their comprehension.
By the time I reached high school, I understood the system for what it was. The smartest students—the ones who, like me, did not fit in—were also targeted by the bullies, but their survival mechanism was different. They withdrew, kept their heads down, took their beatings in silence. And yet, they had something I did not: words. I had lived my entire life unable to read or write aside from a few precious sight words, unable to engage with the world in the way they could. I could fight off the bullies, but I could not navigate the world of letters. So, we made a deal. I protected them, and in return, they tutored me. I traded fists for knowledge, shielding them from the same fists that had once tried to ‘fix’ me. In that moment, I saw the truth of it all: power is never truly about strength—it is about control over who gets to speak, who gets to tell their own story, who gets to be heard.
I abhor bullies. Always have. Always will. I call them out whenever I see them, because I have spent too much of my life recognising their patterns, seeing the same script play out over and over again. And I see it now, in the modern reactionaries, in the so-called defenders of tradition who rage against gender fluidity, who claim that “wokeness” is a disease to be cured, that trans people are deluded and must be brought back to “reality” for their own good. They dress up their cruelty in the same language that my childhood bullies did. They aren’t trying to hurt us, they insist—they’re trying to save us. They aren’t erasing trans people, they’re “protecting women.” They aren’t banning books, they’re “shielding children from harmful ideas.” They don’t hate us, they simply believe we should not exist.
Their entire worldview is built on fixed hierarchies and rigid structures. They cannot function in a world that does not obey their rules. Change is their greatest enemy. Social progress, racial justice, economic liberation—all of it threatens their control. Gender fluidity, above all, terrifies them, because it represents the instability of their imagined ‘golden past.’ Their fantasy is one where the strong rule over the weak, where men are warriors and women and children are property, where everyone is locked into their place. When something does not fit within that structure, they react with the same fear and violence that all bullies do: they attack, believing that through sheer force, they can make the world conform to their will.
But their entire ideology is built on hypocrisy. They drape themselves in Viking imagery, pretend to be warriors, speak of their Germanic or Celtic ancestry as though it is a bloodline of pure dominance, and yet they reject the fluid gender realities those cultures embraced. They claim to be the protectors of European tradition, yet their so-called traditions are Victorian-era fabrications, products of colonial suppression and Christian conquest. They take what was once spiritual and twist it into something hollow, in the same way the Church built its cathedrals over our sacred sites, in the same way they stole our festivals and gave them the names of their ‘saints.’ They do not protect history. They overwrite it, just as they always have.
And here is the ultimate irony: their fear of gender nonconformity is actually a fear of their own history. They are afraid of what has always been true—that their ancestors were not the rigid patriarchs they imagine, that gender was not always binary, that transformation was not feared but revered—sacred. They are afraid that everything they have been taught to believe is a lie. And so they rage. They lash out. They pass laws, ban books, punish children, attack the vulnerable—all in the vain hope that they can force history back into the shape they want it to be.
But history does not belong to them. It never did. And no matter how many times they try to erase, suppress, or overwrite it, the truth remains: change is inevitable, identity is expansive, and history is not theirs to command.
Reclaiming the Fullness of Myth and Folklore
The battle over so-called “wokeness” is not just a political struggle—it is a spiritual sickness, a manifestation of what the Cree and Ojibwe peoples call Wetiko, the cannibal mind-virus that consumes everything in its path, including itself. Wetiko is a sickness of separation, domination, and greed, an ego-driven disorder that convinces its hosts that the only way to secure their existence is through conquest, through taking, through consuming more than they could ever need. It is a sickness of disconnection, convincing those infected that they are apart from, rather than a part of, the world. This is what MAGA represents—not merely a political movement, but a manifestation of Wetiko in its most virulent form, an ideology so self-obsessed, so incapable of connection, that it seeks to devour even its own history.
At the heart of the far-right’s panic over gender, identity, and change lies a fundamental fear of interconnectedness. To accept fluidity—whether in gender, culture, or society—is to accept that the world is not meant to be fixed, that people are not static beings, and that control is an illusion. But to a Wetiko-infected mind, the very idea of change is a threat to its own existence. MAGA thrives on the illusion of a “golden past” where men were men, women were women, and every person knew their place. But this past never existed. It is a fantasy, a dream conjured by empire and maintained by force. The stories they tell themselves—of the strong conquering the weak, of the rightful order of things, of tradition as an unchanging truth—are nothing more than desperate attempts to deny the inevitable reality of transformation.
But transformation is older than patriarchy. It is older than empire. It is older than every system of control that has tried, again and again, to force the world into rigid categories. It is the natural state of being. Long before Christianity imposed its rigid binaries, long before Victorian morality redefined history to serve its own ends, the stories of our ancestors were filled with change. Loki was never one thing. The Doctor was never one face. The Märchen of Europe spoke of transformation not as a punishment, but as a rite of passage.
The MAGA war on “wokeness” is, at its core, a war against their own cultural roots. The figures they idolise—the Vikings, the Celts, the Germanic warriors—would not have recognised the rigid gender roles and oppressive structures they seek to enforce. The traditions they claim to defend were stolen, stripped of their complexity, repackaged into tools of empire and domination. They are not protectors of heritage. They are its erasers. Like the missionaries who came before them, they do not preserve—they overwrite. They built their churches atop our sacred sites, renamed our festivals, twisted our myths, and now, centuries later, they have the audacity to claim that they are the defenders of tradition.
But reclaiming these myths means reclaiming history from the forces that erased it. It means peeling away the layers of colonial suppression, stripping back the falsehoods imposed by empire, and returning to what was always there: a world of movement, a world of transformation, a world where change is not feared but embraced. The real tradition is not one of rigid binaries, of absolute order, of submission to an artificial past. It is the dance between chaos and structure, between the known and the unknown, between self and transformation, past and future.
MAGA, as wetiko, is a parasite feeding on the fear of its followers. It thrives on disconnection, on severing people from their own histories, on ensuring they never recognise the contradictions within their own myths. But history does not belong to them. It never did. And no matter how much they try to erase, suppress, or rewrite it, the truth remains: change is inevitable, identity is expansive, and history will not be confined by the delusions of those too afraid to see it.
Final thoughts …
If Loki, the Doctor, and the trickster figures of folklore have taught us anything, it’s that change is inevitable, identity is expansive, and energy is what defines us—not the shells we inhabit. The reactionaries may try to cling to a rigid, lifeless version of the past, but history itself is not on their side. The very myths they claim to defend betray them, revealing a world where transformation was power, where the boundaries between male and female, human and divine, self and other were never as fixed as they pretend. Their war on “wokeness” is, at its core, a war against history itself.
I chose to be blunt in this piece because I abhor bullies. Always have. Always will. I fought them in the schoolyard, I called them out throughout school, and now, I wield my words in the same way I once wielded my fists. If I have a platform, I will use it to strip them of their delusions, to expose their cowardice, to ensure that the lies they tell themselves—and the world—do not go unchallenged. The people who attack trans, queer, and nonbinary identities are no different from those who tried to beat my difference out of me when I was a youngling. They are no different from the conquerors who burned our sacred sites, renamed our gods, and told us we were broken. They frame their violence as benevolence, their cruelty as wisdom, their erasure as protection. But I see them for what they are. I have always seen them for what they are.
MAGA-bros might rage against “wokeness,” but in doing so, they reveal their own ignorance of history—because the past they claim to defend was never as simple as they pretend it was. They do not protect tradition; they desecrate it. They do not honour heritage; they erase / overwrite it. Their obsession with control is nothing more than fear dressed up as righteousness. And fear does not win. It never has.
I will not soften my words for the comfort of those who seek to erase us. The past is not theirs to twist into a weapon, and the future is not theirs to dictate. We exist. We always have. And no amount of revision, repression, or reactionary rage will ever change that.