Phoenix Song: A Tribute to the Allies
On Fellowship, Firebirds, and the Ones Who Stayed
“Love takes off the masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.”
— James Baldwin
The Tea Table and the Phoenix Chorus
Good morning, my bold-hearted rebels—whether you’ve been sipping from this tea table since the start of our adventure or have only just pulled up a chair, you are welcome here, now and always. Here, I hope you find fulfillment for the weary soul and hope in the darkest of hours. Above all, we promise fellowship—for there will be times when our words fail. Yet, like a friend who sits in the quiet dark space of despair, offering only their presence, so too will we always be here—in fellowship.
This idea of fellowship at the tea table leads us to today’s theme: Allyship. To be an ally is not simply to be named—it is to be in motion. Being an ally is a verb. Allies do not stand still. They move to help or defend, to shelter those caught in the storm of a society not always forgiving. Pride Month, like any righteous rebellion, is built on both the roar of those who lived under oppression and the echo of those who amplified the roar of defiance, refusing to look away. Without our allies, we would not have come this far.
This past month, we have quietly tended to the firebirds in our aviary—feeding, nurturing, watching them grow and thrive. Now we raise them into flight. But not quite yet into the world. Today is something different. A phoenix song—a chorus summoned only by loyal hearts in times of great need, filling us with courage and hope. Today, we bow our heads in deep thanks to those who were not of our lettered kin—yet stepped out of privilege and loved us anyway.
The Comedian Who Covered the Flank
Let’s begin with a man who made laughter his ministry and his tool: Robin Williams. Though never one to wrap himself in the flag of a cause, he wore his love like a second skin. From starring roles in The Birdcage alongside Nathan Lane to his hit comedic classic Mrs. Doubtfire, Robin delved into characters that gave gay men space and depth in an industry where they were too often the butt of the joke, there to complete a punchline. Robin brought queer, gender-challenging characters to the screen in a way that was real and connected with audiences. His work with Comic Relief alongside other notable comedians like Whoopi Goldberg raised millions during the AIDS crisis.
What’s more, Robin listened to the queer people in his life and stood up for them personally when needed. Take, for example, his interview with Nathan Lane and Barbara Walters while promoting The Birdcage. Nathan wasn’t out publicly and had shared he wasn’t ready. So when Barbara Walters began steering the conversation toward outing him, Robin jumped in—redirecting and shielding him before the moment turned invasive. He didn’t wait for Nathan to play defense—he stepped up and took the hit himself. Nathan later described it as an unforgettable act of allyship. As his eyes glistened with that memory, so did mine.
The Rhinestone Revolutionary
While Robin lit the room with laughter, there was another household name speaking straight to the heart of every little country drag queen—Dolly Parton, the rhinestone revolutionary of the Smoky Mountains.
Dolly didn’t just throw glitter at the queer community—she built entire worlds where we were welcome. She supported LGBTQ+ rights decades before it was safe or popular to do so in her industry, spoke out for marriage equality, and embraced drag queens and trans fans without hesitation. Her support wasn’t strategic—it was spiritual. When asked about her inclusive stance, she simply said, “If you're not hurting anybody, do your thing.”
But Dolly didn’t stop at words. She used her songs and spotlight to make room for queer expression. She wrote “Travelin’ Thru” for the film Transamerica, voicing the pain and purpose of a trans woman’s journey with lyrics about divine design and self-acceptance. She publicly opposed anti-trans bathroom laws, dismissing them with her signature sass: “If I have to pee, I’m gon’ pee, wherever it’s got to be.”
And when Lil Nas X, an openly gay Black artist, reimagined her iconic “Jolene,” Dolly didn’t just approve—she applauded. She’s lifted up drag performers on TikTok, trans content creators, and queer country artists often ignored by mainstream platforms. When Dollywood staff once asked a visitor to turn their pro-equality shirt inside out, Dolly made sure the policy changed and issued an apology.
She made space in her parks, her pulpits, and her lyrics for those who felt pushed out elsewhere. When country radio ignored queer voices, Dolly amplified them. When the church cast stones, Dolly sang louder. Her faith never faltered—but neither did her love.
A Quiet Warrior in a Sunday Suit
Perhaps you’re thinking artists and creators are the only source of allies—you’d be wrong. They can be found in the very halls of power that shaped our nation. Jimmy Carter—the soft-spoken Sunday school teacher from Plains, Georgia—quietly redrew the boundaries of faith and fairness.
Carter’s presidency didn’t wear rainbows on its lapel, but it did something rarer in its time: it made room. In 1976, while campaigning, Carter promised to sign a version of the Equality Act that would extend civil rights protections to gay Americans. In 1977, he became the first U.S. president to host LGBTQ+ activists in the White House. Behind closed doors, while the world debated our existence, Carter listened. He lifted the federal ban on security clearances for gay and lesbian employees—an invisible but monumental step for lives and careers long relegated to secrecy or dismissal.
Then, in 1978, when California’s Briggs Initiative sought to ban gay teachers from classrooms, Carter didn’t sit on the fence. He came out against it publicly, stating:
“As long as I am in the White House, our Nation will … fight for basic human rights. I also want to ask everybody to vote against Proposition 6.”
In doing so, Carter added presidential weight to the campaign of a hero we’ve already discussed—Harvey Milk—who had been begging others to join. It may have cost him political capital—but he gave it willingly. Because for Carter, decency was never up for debate.
And even after leaving the White House, he kept showing up. He called for the repeal of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. He criticized churches for using the Bible as a bludgeon. And in 2012, he said plainly that Jesus would support same-sex marriage:
“I believe Jesus would. I don’t have any verse in scripture... but I believe Jesus would approve of any love affair that was honest and sincere and was not damaging to anyone else.”
Jimmy Carter didn’t march in Pride parades or sing in gay bars—but he cracked open spaces where love could breathe. And from a pulpit often weaponized against us, he spoke with the voice of a gentle warrior, reminding us all that allyship doesn't have to be loud to be revolutionary.
A Builder of Bridges
Allies could be found around our old friend Bayard Rustin, the brilliant engineer of the 1963 March on Washington. When threats arose to push him out, it was A. Philip Randolph—a straight ally and longtime labor organizer—who insisted Rustin remain at the helm. Randolph understood what too few did: that liberation for one meant liberation for all. When others flinched at the idea of a gay man in the spotlight, Randolph didn’t just defend him—he demanded respect for him. Without Randolph’s unwavering support, Rustin’s vision might never have reached the Lincoln Memorial steps.
The Co-Conspirator in Hope
Let us remember George Moscone, the straight mayor of San Francisco who worked closely with Harvey Milk to protect LGBTQ+ rights and appoint queer leaders in city government. Moscone wasn't just an ally—he was a co-conspirator in hope. He believed in Harvey’s vision and fought to keep him safe in office. When both men were assassinated in 1978 by a former city supervisor, it became clear: allyship, real allyship, carries risks. Moscone paid the ultimate price for standing beside our movement. His name deserves to ring alongside Milk’s every November.
The Friends Behind the Glitter
As for Marsha P. Johnson, our street saint and revolutionary, her resistance was often made possible by unnamed hands. From the neighbors who fed her, to the activists who bailed her out, to the quiet voices who walked her home after a rally—her survival was never a solo act. These unnamed allies—queer and straight alike—wove a web of care that kept her afloat. They were the friends behind the flare, the hands behind the glitter, the warm soup after the storm.
When Barbara Gittings staged sit-ins at the American Library Association or fought to remove homosexuality from the DSM, she wasn’t alone. She was surrounded by straight librarians, doctors, clergy, and lawyers who saw the truth in her cause. One of the most pivotal legal moments in this movement came through Kiyoshi Kuromiya’s case challenging the Communications Decency Act. And while Kiyoshi himself was queer, it was the federal judges—some of them conservative, straight men—who ruled in his favor, striking down laws that treated queer speech and health information as obscene. In doing so, they didn’t just make space for free speech—they protected lives.
The First Pride Fully Lived
Now then, we have named some of the allies known to history—but as this Pride has been spent in daily reflection on my own journey, this piece would not be complete without remembering my allies.
There were teachers, librarians, and professors who saw the tenderness of a soul still learning about itself and gave me the courage to keep going. There were friends whose love was constant and unwavering as I slowly peeled back the layers of my soul to discover what it meant to live out loud. There was my Greek family, who taught me how to interact with same-sex friends for the first time—relationships still cherished and comforting today. There were family friends who reached out to ensure that even after coming out, I still knew I had a home.
Today, while I do not name them, I honor them. I give thanks for the times they have amplified my voice, been a shelter in the storm, and danced beside me in joy. Without them, we would not have achieved what we have.
The Voices Who Amplified Mine
Then there is you, dear reader—those who have joined us at the tea table this Pride, allies all. You stayed to learn. You shared my words. You amplified them. You offered reframing, solidarity, and hope. You made this the first Pride where I was not simply a silent observer—hiding rainbows behind curtains or wiping off glitter before greeting the world. This Pride, dear reader, was the first I became an active participant—and that is in large part thanks to you.
As I spent all Pride shouting out other creators in Pride on the Page, today I want to say thank you to those who, instead of creating responses themselves, restacked or amplified the voices of others:
, , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , as well as a special thank you to the creator of the prompts themself, and our kin across the seas, .Your comments, your quiet encouragement, your belief in this wild little page of mine—your allyship set to ink and given flesh by imagination. Thank you, truly. Whether you are queer siblings in the fight or cisgender and straight allies, you are all allies to me.
To the unnamed ones—the readers who never typed but stayed, who nodded across digital distance—I see you. I thank you. You built this bridge beside me, simply by listening and I am grateful to you as well, more than words can every convey.
Legacy, Flight, and the Song of Fellowship
Pride, in its purest form, is a mirror and a map. It shows us who we are—and where we might go, together.
So here’s to the ones who were never forced to care, but did.
Who didn’t have to help, but did.
Who weren’t born into the fight, but still showed up to the front lines.
You held the mic when we lost our voice.
You stood behind us when we took the stage.
You loved us not because we were yours—but because we were worthy.
That is allyship.
That is legacy.
For you, the firebirds of old take to the skies and sing a special chorus of thanks.
On Friday, they will set out into the world, winging forward with the spirit of Pride not just in our hearts—but etched into our bones, pulsing in our blood, and exhaled with every breath. Our stride is sure, for our allies stand beside us. And we are not alone.
Until our next bold move,
~ Lady LiberTea ✨🫖
My grandfather owned a private charter service at the Macon, GA, airstrip. He flew the Carters often during the campaign. They were extraordinary people. This is an extraordinary piece. I appreciate it so much.
Thank you!! I am so honoured with your mention!!