We Are Still Here
This June, I find myself thinking about memory.
Not just the memories we carry as individuals, but the ones we inherit. The stories that reach us across decades. The moments that shape us long before we understand why they matter.
When I was in high school, I came across And the Band Played On by Randy Shilts on a library shelf. I was young, and while there was much I could not fully grasp at the time, parts of that book stayed with me. They have remained with me for more than thirty years. It was one of my first glimpses into a history that was not as distant as it seemed, a history marked by fear, loss, courage, and resilience.
Not long after, I saw photographs of the AIDS Memorial Quilt spread across the National Mall in Washington, D.C. I never saw it in person, only through pictures, but even then it stopped me in my tracks. The scale of it felt impossible to comprehend. Each panel represented a life, a story, a person loved by someone. Together, they became something larger than a memorial. They became a refusal to forget.
That memory has stayed with me as well.
As a fiber artist, I spend much of my time working with materials that have long histories of carrying meaning. Cloth has always been more than cloth. Quilts, garments, woven blankets, knitted shawls, and handspun yarns often outlive the hands that made them. They hold stories. They preserve memories. They become tangible reminders of people, places, and moments in time.
Perhaps that is why the Quilt continues to resonate with me. It stands as a reminder of what happens when people choose remembrance over silence. It reminds us that every name mattered, every life mattered, and every story deserved to be told.
This year, I am not creating a special Pride collection. Not because I am unwilling to, but because I find myself drawn to something quieter. I want to spend this month reflecting on those who came before us, those who created communities when it was difficult and dangerous to do so, those who cared for one another when many turned away, and those who fought for a future they might never see.
I am also thinking about the makers who are creating today, bringing their voices, creativity, and perspectives into the world through their art. And I am thinking about those who are still finding their place, still discovering who they are, and still searching for communities where they can be fully themselves.
Pride is often a celebration, and it should be. But for me, it is also an act of remembrance.
It is remembering that progress was not inevitable. It was built by people willing to stand up for one another. It is remembering that fear and hate have consequences, and that compassion, visibility, and community save lives. It is remembering that every generation inherits both the struggles and the victories of those who came before.
This June, I am choosing to honor that legacy in the way I know best: by remembering, by reflecting, and by continuing to make.
We remember.
We create.
We are still here.