J.R. Whittington

This year, Pride isn’t just a celebration—it’s a glitter-covered fuck you to the systems trying to erase me. I’m Black, gay, Afro-Latino, and an artist, and baby, I’m not here to survive—I’m here to be reckoned with. If you’ve ever questioned why Pride still matters, read this and try not to feel the fire.

I tear myself open, offer the marrow of my dreams, and still vanish into their indifference. This isn’t mourning—it’s the holy act of making space for who I am becoming.

I booked a TV show at the top of the year and thought, “Finally, it’s happening.” But Hollywood said, *“No, bish. Back to the grind.”* Still, I’m here—seasoned, sharp, and ready. Dreaming out loud. Fighting for the unseen.