Drag, Dance And Sapphic Love: LGBTQ+ Angelenos Share Their Stories Of Joy

What makes you joyful? Is it spending time with your loved ones? Or experiencing something new?

The idea of joy is one that’s prevalent in LGBTQ+ communities. For many, it’s a form of resistance to be happy in the face of civil rights assaults.

LAist has been gathering stories of joy to share moments big and small. And during Pride month, being joyful is more relevant than ever. (We’re still collecting stories to feature. Submit yours through the form at the bottom of this story.) We followed up with four people who submitted their stories to learn more about what’s helped them feel belonging and happiness.

Joey Navarrete-Medina

Joey Navarrete-Medina poses for a portait.

(

Samanta Helou Hernandez

/

LAist

)

Joey Navarrete-Medina's heels. High heels and fashion were part of how Navarrete-Medina explored their identity in the thesis project.

(

Samanta Helou Hernandez

/

LAist

)

For Joey Navarrete-Medina, who just finished their master’s degree in dance at UC Irvine, their story of queer joy comes from healing the relationship with their father.

It started with their thesis project, for which Navarrete-Medina choreographed a dance that explored their gender expressions and identity as a first-generation Mexican American. Since their father plays accordion and favors norteño music, they asked him to compose some music for the 50-minute solo performance. But first, their father had a request.

“It was very vague, like ‘mijo, write me something so I can pull information and start writing [the song] for you,’” they recalled.

This was during a time when family health issues and talks of loved ones passing away were happening, so the dancer got to thinking.

“It became a self-reflection. If my dad would pass, or if I were to pass tomorrow, what would I want him to know?” Navarrete-Medina said. “The thing that kept coming into light was the fact that I never came out to him. I never verbalized ‘Hey dad, I'm gay.’”

Navarrete-Medina gave their father a belated coming out letter, which was later translated into Spanish for ease of communication. It included an apology for not being the son their father expected and acknowledged that he may feel shame or confusion about them being queer. (Growing up, Navarrete-Medina says their experience was marked by conservative values and machismo culture.) But ultimately, the hope was that their father would feel joy seeing them live a full life.

How did Navarrete-Medina’s father respond? By composing and singing a song called “Niño de mi Alma” — "Child of My Soul" — which played as they gradually moved across the stage in a hoop skirt dress.

“When I heard it for the first time, I was bawling,” Navarrete-Medina said. “I think for me it was that idea of queer joy — like wow, this person who I have loved for the 32 years that I've been on this world, they're able to see this new version of me.”

Mallery Jenna Robinson

Mallery Jenna Robinson at her home.

(

Samanta Helou Hernandez

/

LAist

)

Mallery Jenna Robinson focuses her life around activism for Black transgender communities.

(

Samanta Helou Hernandez

/

LAist

)

Mallery Jenna Robinson’s joy is found in building a sisterhood in the Black transgender community “because we don't really have a hub of resources or organizations that support us,” she said.

While Robinson has only lived in Los Angeles for about four years, she’s been busy. She sits on L.A. city’s transgender advisory council and just wrapped a term on West Hollywood’s transgender advisory board — groups that are charged with reviewing and providing feedback on policies and improving relationships. Part of her goals are to break down anti-Blackness and to end HIV and sex work stigmatization.

“Being a dark-skinned, AfraCaribbean trans woman, sometimes it's hard to feel like your voice is valued in any space,” Robinson said.

She also hosts a true crime podcast called A Hateful Homicide to document trans deaths and conducts transgender empathy trainings to help organizations connect better with gender-expansive people. Along the way, she even found time to help organize Long Beach’s Trans Pride.

It’s fair to say that community support is in Robinson’s blood.

“ I've always been very outspoken,” she said. “My maternal grandfather walked alongside Malcolm X, so I come from a family of activists and advocates.”

Advocacy is time-consuming, but she says connecting with other Black trans women is a vital way she experiences joy. And that’s a necessary emotion to indulge in because in the midst of her work is the wave of anti-LGBTQ+ legislation that targets her existence.

“I want them to know that regardless of what's happening, there are still people out there on the front lines and even behind the scenes who are assuring that we won't stand for this,” Robinson said.

She hopes that her presence and voice can be a point of belonging and strength for future generations.

“That way those who express and identify a little bit closer to me can be like, ‘look, someone was here, continuing to do the work even when all of those things were in play,’” she said.

Johnny Gentleman

Johnny Gentleman uses makeup to create the drag king look.

(

Samanta Helou Hernandez

/

LAist

)

Johnny Gentleman with his finished drag king look.

(

Samanta Helou Hernandez

/

LAist

)

In Johnny Gentleman’s world, being a drag king and creating space for Black and brown kings to perform is what brings him joy.

Gentleman recalled a moment before his more than 5-year performing career when he saw a drag king named Havoc Von Doom in Long Beach, performing as the green Power Ranger — his fantasy idol as a kid.

“The way they interpreted the character was just so captivating,” Gentleman said. “It just kind of hooked me in.”

He fell in love with drag — and challenging the assumptions of it — after that. Gentlemen runs Dapper Puss Entertainment, a producing company where he focuses on the inclusion of Black, Indigenous and trans performers of color in events.

Gentleman grew up in Chino without seeing any trans people around him, likening it to “Latino misogyny,” where the community stayed away from LGBTQ+ people. This backdrop, coupled with a white and cisgender-dominated drag field, informs his view.

“I made it my goal to just fight for visibility for BIPOC folks and for trans folks,” he said. “We have just as much talent.”

He pushes back on the notion that drag performers need to be ultra-pretty and put together, or do more dangerous moves like death drops (when someone throws their leg in the air and falls to the floor). Drag kings, he says, can be just as entertaining without all the wigs and dresses.

Gentleman says that drag came at a crucial time in his life, and it gave him an avenue to becoming a person that he liked being on stage. He says it helped him see his truth with his heritage and trans-masculine and nonbinary identities. It’s a way for him to release emotions and anxiety, and to learn more about himself.

Savannah Guerrero

Savannah Guerrero at Artesia Bar.

(

Samanta Helou Hernandez

/

LAist

)

Artesia is an LGBTQ+ bar located in Redondo Beach, Calif.

(

Samanta Helou Hernandez

/

LAist

)

Savannah Guerrero says her story of joy is about realizing “how special sapphic love was after going into a queer bar for the first time.”

While Guerrero has been out as a lesbian since middle school, she wasn’t really plugged into the local LGBTQ+ community. She didn’t own a flag or anything gay-related until 24, but it wasn’t intentional. Guerrero’s path growing up just unfolded that way.

So when she started dating her girlfriend last year, they went to Stache (a bar and club in West Hollywood) for the first time.

“It definitely was a freeing feeling, like a brand new world to me,” she said. “I remember I saw a couple [being] really romantic with each other.”

Guerrero recalls how the moment was treated as totally normal by the people around them. In her mind, she compared what she was looking at to her own relationship, connecting that this display of love was a shared experience.

“I felt a deeper love for myself, as a woman loving a woman,” she said. “Going into these spaces and seeing other people who looked like me and had this demeanor like me, I was like, ‘oh, it makes sense.’”

Guerrero had already been to a gay bar without realizing it when she went to Artesia Bar, a spot in Redondo Beach, with a friend. She just thought it was a gay-friendly place, but she ended up meeting her current girlfriend there. At the time, there weren’t a lot of people at the bar. But she says just knowing that other lesbians use Artesia Bar as a watering hole — just like her group did —makes that visit feel more impactful as it helps grow her understanding of how butch culture works.

“It's been a year that we've been together and I'm still learning and going into these new spaces,” Guerrero said. “More and more, I find different parts of myself that make so much sense.”