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![Kennedy Robbins sits on their bed with a lesbian pride flag on their wall and their cat by their feet.]()
“A lot of the way that straight women talk about their partners, they don’t always like their partners, or they’re talking about situations of not really enjoying sex ... I’m like, ‘Oh, so this is normal. We all feel this way,’” 21-year-old Kennedy Robbins said. After breaking up with their high school boyfriend, Kennedy began exploring their gender and sexuality and came to the realization that they're a genderqueer lesbian.“It’s so funny looking back and going, ‘Oh, oh you poor thing,’" Kennedy said. "I would be laying in bed dreaming of a life of like, ‘Oh, I really wish I could grow old with a woman and be married to a woman, and that would be my life.’ But like, ‘Oh, I guess I’ve found my life partner, and I’m just here now, so I’ve just got to live this life of heteronormativity.’”Kennedy now has a girlfriend.“I’ve noticed a lot of just being around her and having these moments of, ‘Oh my God. You’re a real person. Like, you’re here right now. I’m living this life. I’m sitting next to you in this bed, and you’re actually real.’ That’s crazy because I didn’t think that would be possible for me at a certain point,” Kennedy said. “I get queer joy when I’m with my partner and just doing mundane little things with them that I didn’t think I’d be able to do before. I experience it with my friends who are, at least my friends in Columbia, they are all also queer. ... And it’s so wonderful and comforting and freeing.” -
Alphabet Soup
What radical courage does it take to love in the face of hate? Throughout the United States, queer people face genuine malice so insidious it leads them to die by suicide, empowers parents to disown their children and motivates politicians to wage culture wars attacking society’s most vulnerable. Through portraiture and personal narratives highlighting queer joy, found family and meaningful relationships, Alphabet Soup challenges the notion that Missouri’s LGBTQ+ community is a monolith.
Too often news media outlets emphasize stories about anti-LGBTQ+ violence, drag bans, mental illness and, recently, bans on gender-affirming care. Young LGBTQ+ people are four times more likely than their cisgender, heterosexual peers to attempt suicide. This year alone, legislators have proposed 617 anti-transgender bills, 44 of which have already passed.
While this all is true, what does the world learn from ceaseless stories of queer trauma and overwhelming tragedy without also seeing moments of queer tenderness and communal triumph?
Love may not cure all the world’s ills, but it is folly to forget the power of compassion. Queer people smiling, laughing, in their homes and safe from a state that frequently wishes to eradicate their very existence is an act of defiance.
For some, “queer” is a knife to the heart, a ripping open of scabs and scars from childhood bullies, vitriolic preachers and uneducated parents. For others, the term is lifesaving, a shelter against a seemingly ceaseless storm of ignorance, cis-heteronormativity and imposter syndrome. Tucked away within this amalgamation of letters – LGBTQ+ – and the complex identities each represents is joy: rebellious, resistant, radiant.
View the full stories at www.kbia.org/alphabet-soup
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![Ties, photos and soccer medals hang near Struby's window.]()
“I think for a community that has such high rates and frequency of so many of us having had suicidal ideation and suicidal thoughts and suicidal attempts, we’ve got to celebrate that we’re still here,” said Struby, a queer former professional soccer player.As a teen, the now 41-year-old left an unsafe home, moved to the midwest and found community with “a bunch of radical queers” who opened her eyes to what family can truly mean for LGBTQ+ people. Struby uses she/her pronouns but enjoys playing with androgyny, particularly by wearing one of her “cloth necklaces” from her collection of vibrant neckties with the intention of turning femininity and masculinity on their head.“For being a culture and a community that went through the AIDS epidemic, we’ve got to celebrate that we’re still here,” Struby said. “We owe it to our communities and the people who worked hard before us and ahead of us to get us here to celebrate that we’ve made it.’”“Having come from an abusive home, leaving at 17, I got really stuck for a lot of years in my mental health that I had been more unloved than loved, that I had spent more years unloved than loved. I remember just getting in fights with exes about it … because it was this bitter resentment that I had that was like, ‘What do you want from me? I’ve spent more time unloved than loved,’” Struby said. “And then when I reached my 34th birthday, I just let that be an absolute transition. I looked forward to it. I celebrated it in ways that other people celebrate other milestone birthdays. I did so much on my 34th birthday because to me that was every second, including this one, that I have spent more time loved than unloved, in my own power than not in my own power. Like, it’s still growing. It’s more than before. Every second feels amazing, and I am so glad that I did make it through those terrible nights that I’ve had and that I did stay alive, and I’m just so glad to be here.” -
![Holden Franklin, left, and Jack Russell, right, cuddle on a couch.]()
“I'm always aware when I talk to gay friends of mine that it's actually really hard to find a relationship out in the wild because hookup culture is a motherfucker,” Jack Russell (right) said.Jack met his genderqueer partner, Holden Franklin (left), on Tinder. When Holden saw Jack, they were immediately drawn to his “very big, brown eyes,” which are “very doe-y.” For Jack, Holden’s smile cinched the deal. “I always liked your smile. You smile with your eyes,” Jack told Holden.“This is my first relationship,” Holden said. “I have never had another relationship before him. I'd never had someone I called my partner or my boyfriend or anything before him, and he is the best first boyfriend to have.”“I guess I'm a big fan of quality time: the ability to just relax with someone, just, like, in their arms or something,” Jack said. “That's usually the best time for me to be able to just take a deep breath, be able to melt a little on the couch or wherever and just, I guess, feel safe, feel kind of secure. That's usually when I can feel the most loved.”“I will say this: I have met a lot of gay men, and I've spoken with a lot of queer men in town or queer male-presenting people,” Holden said. “And Jack is single handedly the kindest, sweetest gay male I have met for sure, 100%. From the first moment we met, he was just always complimenting me, always saying the right thing to me, always thinking about me, always wanting to spend time with me. It's very loving.” -
![Kellen Sapp plays with her rings.]()
“Last summer I worked with a bunch of 16-year-olds from all over Missouri, and a lot of them were queer,” Kellen Sapp said. “And there was queer joy in me seeing these younger people knowing who they are, knowing truths about themselves that I did not know at that age and getting to celebrate it and being honest about it now. That was perfect.”Kellen is a 20-year-old asexual, transgender woman who grew up in Columbia, Mo., before leaving the state to study theater with an emphasis in lighting design at the University of Oklahoma.“Queer joy is [that] some of the kids were not able to be out to their families or their schools, but they were honestly and openly queer in the community we had or with me. And there was joy in the interactions we had where they got to be honest about themselves in the only place they ever had been. And sometimes we cried about that. I cried about that. They cried about that. We cried about that together. How much hurt they feel at home, and yet in this place they felt safe to share who they were,” Kellen said. “But even though there was hurt behind those tears, those were tears of joy because being queer is a wonderful thing, and we knew that. And we could share in that even though there are a lot of things about being queer that kind of suck. The way that the world treats young queer people is not a party all the time, but there is always joy in that connection, in the connection to other people experiencing the world like you, or in similar ways, or getting to live honestly in the world when you can’t yet. It’s exciting to see.”Kellen grew up in a Christian faith community that preached “a gospel of love.” She said she feels fully in harmony with holding both queer and religious identities, particularly as she has begun sharing her transness with her college friends, her family and members of her church.“Part of why being honest about all of these different identities is so important to making art is because I am happier than I ever was before, and I'm less scared of who I am, and that makes me a better artist,” Kellen said. “Queer joy for me is joy that is tied to the connection between queer people and in queer community and with our queer selves. It's when I'm so happy that I'm trans—not just that I'm honest with myself, but that I get to be trans and that I get to be queer and that I get to exist with queer people in this world.” -
![Caitlin Cunningham laughs on their couch.]()
“When you know so much darkness, suddenly the light is so bright,” Caitlin Cunningham said. “I mean, queer joy will blind you. You should live so brightly that it hurts people’s eyes. Other people should have to put on sunglasses [because] you’re living so brightly.”Caitlin is the 40-year-old, pansexual, nonbinary, submissive, non-monogamous owner of the Dandy Lion Cafe in Ashland, Mo. The Dandy Lion is the only queer-owned establishment in the town. In addition to a collar they wear around their neck as part of their dominant-submissive BDSM relationship, they also have multiple tattoos both for fun and to represent different aspects of their identity. One they are especially proud of is the word “gay” inked above their knee in old English letters. When Caitlin stands next to one of their partners, who has a matching “ish” tattoo, the pair becomes “gayish.”“You know the big joke is always, ‘Oh, you know you’re non-monogamous when your color-coded calendar is shared with four other people.’ And, it’s true. You have to be on top of your A game in terms of keeping things organized because you’re going to hurt somebody’s feelings otherwise,” Caitlin said. “Yes, it’s difficult. Yeah you joke about calendars and getting together and having enough energy and everything, but ultimately time and energy are the limiting factors. Love is not the limiting factor.” -
![Oliver Ackerman paints Danielle Workman's nails.]()
“I like that we have like a little domestic life,” Oliver Ackerman (pictured) said. While Oliver favors brighter nail polishes, his partner, Danielle Workman, said she enjoys “more accentuating colors” that match her “typical aesthetics.”Oliver, who is 31, and Danielle, who is 30, met on the school bus as pre-teens in Russellville, Mo. Oliver is a transgender man, and Danielle is a transgender woman. Dysfunctional familial relationships, abusive peers and traumatic past partnerships pushed them apart, but the couple eventually found their way back into one another’s lives as adults.“You can't have a story about queer joy, usually, without kind of, like, a constant soil of queer pain to grow it in,” Danielle said. “Pretty consistently, most queer people are going to have a bad family life or not the best like community life with the straight people or cis people around them. They're going to face extreme rejections from people. They'll face hate in ways that cis-het people just don’t.”Oliver and Danielle have been friends for nearly two decades and have lived together for the past seven years. Danielle went on to describe what her life with Ackerman is like now.“I get the privilege of being myself,” Danielle said. “Coming home to somewhere I actually feel completely safe, to somebody that loves me and that I love. I have friends that adore me. I have the money to do what I would like to.”“Sometimes, because we've known each other for so long, it's kind of like old married couple vibes. … We get to have like this really boring domestic life, you know what I mean? Where it's like, we both have jobs – it's really not actually boring, but it's like average, you know,” Oliver said. “That often isn't like afforded to queer and trans people.” -
![Hudson Giles-Lavender, left, and her wife, Jane Lavender, right, sit on their couch.]()
“I noticed her kind eyes. My first and lasting impression is, ‘This woman has kind eyes,’ and if I ever get a chance to know her, I’d like to know her,” Jane Lavender (right) said of her wife, Hudson Giles-Lavender (left).The spouses have been together for more than two decades.“Well, I thought, ‘She was pretty darn cute,’ was my first impression,” Hudson said. “You are; you were very cute.”Hudson, who is 60, and Jane, who is 62, grew up in different parts of Missouri before meeting when they both moved to Columbia. The couple had a commitment ceremony before same-sex partnerships were legally recognized in Missouri. Then, in 2015, the Lavenders got married when the Supreme Court of the United States legalized same-sex marriage nationally.“It was, ‘Let’s just love each other without holding back and see what happens here,’” Jane said of when she and Hudson decided to fully commit to their relationship during a music festival. “Because, we were both trying to hold back, and then we both just loved each other fully, and [it has been] full-on ever since.”“All of its complexities and joy and getting to really know each other, being able to trust somebody completely,” Hudson said, “to me, there’s no greater privilege to finally have that in a relationship.” -
![Decorations hang over Annalise Caul's desk.]()
“You'll always find your people,” Annalise Caul, whose desk is pictured, said. “No matter how early or late in life, you will be able to get either that one person or those people who are going to accept you and love you for who you are.”Annalise met Moe Warren in Wentzville, Mo. The pair became inseparable during high school when Moe moved in with Annalise’s family. The best friends continued living together in college, decorating their shared room in a way that reflects their eclectic interests.In the years since their meeting, the 18-year-olds have watched one another’s queer identities evolve. Moe began using they/he pronouns and came out as trans masculine, nonbinary and demiromantic while Annalise found that pansexual, asexual and aromantic labels fit her best.“I just did not feel like how I felt other people were supposed to feel. And so I’m like, ‘Maybe I’m not into anyone.’ ... I also realized that aromantic was something that might be a label that I might want to give myself. But it was kind of scary for me to think about because I’m a hopeless romantic at heart, so the fact that I might just not ever want to be in a relationship with anyone… I’m still trying to figure that out," Annalise said. “I wanted to be myself and not just someone who was going along with what everyone else was doing. So to find the LGBTQ community was a big thing for me because it felt like where I belonged.” -
![Julia Gonzalez sits on a stool in Main Squeeze.]()
“At some point I was like, ‘I don’t need my parents’ permission to be happy,” said Julia Gonzalez, who is a transgender woman.The polyamorous, pansexual 19-year-old grew up in Texas to a Mexican and Christian family. Julia briefly attended the University of Missouri in Columbia, Mo., but is taking time off after coming out to find housing and navigate how she will pay for her telephone bill, utilities and education without her parent’s support.“I came out to my parents in 8th grade because I was so in love with this guy. I was so into him, and so I came out to my parents because my mom had found a letter that I wrote to him when she was cleaning my laundry, which I didn’t ask her to do,” Julia said. “She read it, of course, because she’s my mom. And she’s like, ‘Hey, what’s this about?’ And I had to come out to my parents. I was like, ‘I just have to tell them.’ And so I told them, and they didn’t respond well. They responded by being like, ‘You’re lying to yourself,’ or, ‘You’re being manipulated,’ or, ‘You’re being groomed,’ or ‘You’re being sexualized,’ or whatever. ‘You’re letting the sinful outside world corrupt you,’ is what I was told.”Even though she knows the world is not always safe for or kind toward transgender women of color, Julia refuses to let that stop her from going out with her friends or partners or from living life to its fullest potential.“I had a lot of experiences that really opened my heart to the idea that nothing that my parents could take away from me could be worth more than this,” Julia said. “And by ‘this’ I don’t mean, like, this person. By ‘this’ I don’t mean my relationship with this person. But my freedom, my dignity, [my ability] to say, ‘This is who I love, and I want to be with them.’ To be happy." -
![Kat Wright leans in to kiss Aly Wright on their couch.]()
“I’m here. I'm queer, and I'm absolutely thrilled that you are here and queer, as well,” Kat Wright (left) told their wife, Aly Wright (right).The couple, who met while playing roller derby, have been married for two years. Kat is a 29-year-old nonbinary person who uses they/she pronouns, and Aly is a 35-year-old transgender woman who uses she/her pronouns. The Wrights wore their skates during their wedding ceremony to incorporate their mutual love of the sport into their special day.“Roller derby helped me feel—for the first time—like I was in my own body, which was massive for me. I love Derby to this day just for that,” Aly said. “I feel bad because my body—for all the progress that I've made and all the ways that I feel really good about it, especially compared to before I came out—sometimes I still feel really bad in my body. I look in the mirror, and it just does not match what my brain expects to see there. Or, I get really sad because my body doesn't work the way most other women's bodies work. And not just that but, like, I'm exhausted at having had to think about this and deal with this my entire life. But, especially most potently the last 10 years, I’ve had to navigate the world with [this] trauma on my shoulders, these weights that I've been carrying. And so when that gets particularly exhausting, and I just start sobbing, Kat is always there to pick me up.”The night before their wedding, the couple braided together their handfasting knot, using ribbon in the colors of the lesbian pride flag, and tied the knot during the ceremony itself.“For me, queer authenticity and queer joy, I think that there's a narrative out there that says that you wouldn't know joy without also knowing struggle, you wouldn't know the good times without also having the bad times. And, I don't think that's necessarily a fair narrative,” Kat said. “I don't think we should have to struggle. I don't think we should have to experience bad times. But, I do think that in the society we live in, for me, queer authenticity and queer joy is knowing all of the risks that come with being fully yourself and doing it anyway in every aspect, from your personal relationships to being out in the workplace to wearing your pride flag. I think it's knowing that there is risk and knowing that it is worth it to do it anyway.” -
![Husbands Jeff Terry and Travis Griffin hold hands and their crosses.]()
“We love each other, and God is love,” Jeff Terry said.Jeff, who is 47, first met his now-husband, 45-year-old Travis Griffin, in middle school. The Episcopalian couple reconnected as adults following the 2011 Joplin tornado that destroyed much of their hometown and left nearly 160 people dead.Jeff, whose family was not accepting of his sexuality, came out in his mid-30s and faced harassment both in the workplace and from his neighbors.“There were times when I would just question whether God even existed or not because I couldn't understand my situation," Jeff said. "There are times where I’ll lay down and I’ll pray and I’ll say, ‘You know, God, I believe in my heart that this is right and this is OK, but if I’m wrong, forgive me.’ I don’t have a lot of moments like that because I’m very confident that what Travis and I are doing and what we have is OK.”During his time in the armed forces, Travis encountered traumatizing prejudice and he said he was raped “to teach me a lesson about being gay and being in the Marine Corps.”“I’d been through, like, ‘Turn Me Back Around’ ranch in my own church as a kid where they tried to ‘un-gay’ you, things like that," Travis said. "But, I saw [later in life] that a church can be affirming. You can have different viewpoints and still be a Christian, still be gay, still follow Christ."Despite their pasts, filled with both joy and pain, the husbands are secure in their marriage and their relationship with God. -
![Dani Emma Devine kisses her girlfriend, Cheryl Barbero, on the forehead on a bench.]()
“I’ve never wanted to live more in the last 15 years than I have now since I’ve met Cheryl,” Dani Emma Devine said.Dani (left) met her now-girlfriend, Cheryl Barbero (right), through Facebook less than a year ago. The 65-year-olds chatted briefly online then decided to meet in person at The Center Project, mid-Missouri’s only LGBTQ+ community center. After realizing they had mixed up their dates for The Center Project’s “Lesbians Over 60” gathering, they changed course and opted to share a meal at Ernie's Cafe & Steak House instead.“I’m so incredibly happy that it almost puts the definition back in being gay,” said Dani, who is a transgender woman. “She was just what I was looking for. There was so little disagreement about life in general … I don’t know, maybe a 10% or a 5% difference between her opinion and my opinion. And I used to say that the words that she says just as easily could have come from my mouth.”“I’m not afraid to go out and hold Dani’s hand somewhere or give each other a hug and kiss. That’s just who we are. That’s just who I am. I don’t really care what anybody else thinks,” said Cheryl, who is pansexual and uses she/they pronouns. “I like being who I am, and I don’t have any trouble being who I am in front of anybody. I don’t have any trouble holding Dani’s hands, being affectionate. I care about her, and when we’re together, we’re in this little bubble of just the two of us. And it’s like, ‘Oh, are there other people out here? I didn’t notice that.’”
