How Queer Joy Became My Protest (and Why It Still Matters Today)
- Waymon Hudson
- Jun 27
- 3 min read
How Queer Joy Became My Form of Protest
Once upon a time, my activism looked like bullhorns and protest signs.
I organized rallies. Fought discriminatory laws. Worked as a campaign director for LGBTQ+ candidates. Faced down hate groups with glitter in my teeth. There were news cameras and press statements. My voice was a tool, my body a battleground.
It still is — but these days, my loudest protest isn’t shouted. It’s danced.
It’s laughed. It’s written into memoirs, musicals, and Instagram captions. It’s joyful. Because now, I know: queer joy is a form of resistance.
And damn, is it powerful.
Joy Wasn’t Always Safe
The first time I kissed a boy, I thought the world might crack open. It was joyful — electric, natural, right. But also terrifying. Because that kiss carried everything society had tried to bury in me: shame, silence, sin.
Joy felt dangerous. And that made it feel even more true.
Years later, I stood at a Pride parade and faced the Westboro Baptist Church — those infamous signs of hate waving like poison flags. And as they screamed, I smiled. I kissed my partner. I danced. I wore short shorts and glitter. I was happy.
And their rage couldn’t touch me. Because my joy was louder.
From Bullhorns to Broadway
I’ll never stop being an activist. But activism has seasons. And lately, mine has shifted from just political strategy to storytelling as protest as well.
In marketing, I help brands become more human — and that means pushing for inclusive, subversive, emotionally resonant stories. In my creative life, that mission goes even deeper.
In Speakeasy, my Broadway-style musical, queer joy isn’t hidden — it’s the engine of the whole show. Set in a 1920s speakeasy where drag, jazz, and found family defy a violent world, the show pulses with joy as a weapon. The music swings, the queer love is real, and the message is loud: we exist, we resist, and we will not be silenced.
In Notes From a Sissy, my memoir about growing up gay in the South, I don’t just tell stories of trauma — I tell stories of glorious defiance. Pageant solos in angel drag. Shimmering awkward first dates. The wild, weird, joyful moments that helped me survive.
Because survival isn’t just about what you endure. It’s about what you reclaim.
Joy Is Historical. Joy Is Revolutionary.
Joy has always been political for queer people.
Dance floors were our sanctuaries. Drag shows were our sermons. Pride started as a riot, and it’s still a riot — a riot of color, sound, sensuality, visibility. And in a world that has tried to legislate us out of existence, our joy keeps saying:
We’re still here. We’re still laughing. We’re still kissing each other in public.
Even when that’s dangerous.
Especially when it’s dangerous.
From Pulse to drag bans to book censorship — joy is the first thing they try to take from us. That’s why we protect it like gold. That’s why we turn it into art.
And that’s why I share it.
On social media. In my writing. In every moment I live fully as myself — sassy, soulful, queer as hell, and unbothered.
This Is the Work Now
I’m still a strategist. Still political. Still watching the news. But I also know this:
You can’t out-argue hate. You can’t always win with facts. But sometimes, you can win with visibility. With softness. With art. With joy.
That’s what I do now. I tell stories that refuse to flinch. I write musicals and memoirs that put glitter where the shame used to be. I show up — queer, deaf, expat, midlife reinvented — and I live out loud.
Because joy saved me.
And maybe, just maybe, it can change the world too.
💬 Ready to feel it?
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