I want to thank the maestro Tim Gunn,Heidi Klum, also every episode of Project Runway and Runway All-Stars,Every gay and lesbian contestant that ever sewed, stitched sequins to dressesor pantaloonsevery queer who ever threw a tantrum, walked out and came back to win.Thank you to the Jersey and Atlanta Housewives and spin-offsTo all their queer queen bestiesI want to thank RuPaul and every queen on every episode of Drag RaceAlso, that dollar store cashier I ran into with my mother in small­-town Massachusettswho actually thought I was RuPaul and kept calling me, “Miss Honey.”Thank you, Oprah, her close friend designer Nate Berkus.I extend condolences to the lover he lost when the tsunami hit Sri Lanka.I also want to thank Walmart and the trans person who workedbehind the register when my mother worked there as a greeter.When eventually she was fired for wearing women’s clothes,to my shock, my mother said, “That’s unjust and I think it’s discrimination.”I want to thank that person wherever they are.l want to thank that mixed-race lesbian Josie on Top ChefI want to thank every LGBTQIA person on every show that my motherwatched religiously, because each and every one of themin one way or anotherprepared my mother at eighty-four years old for the queer art catalogue I was a part ofthat I brought home to show her called Cast of Characters.Holding my breath, I handed it to her, asked her to guess of all the imageswhich was mine.She saw the word queer first, “Why do you call yourselves that? That’slike saying you’re Niggers.”I tried to explain the concept of reclaiming language used against us.My mother refused to listen.She thumbed through the images, eyes wide with wonder.She knows I don’t usually show her stuff for many reasons.She gave her opinion on each image.“Ooooh this one with flowers,” she pointed. “I like this.”The next was an image of a man with cock and balls out,“I don’t like this one,” she said.She persisted onto the next image.“Pregnant butch,” she said out loud and giggled.“A pregnant butch,” she said again as if fascinated by the idea.“I don’t see yours, oh but here it is!”She fastened on a blue and red watercolor of figures gathered in grieftitled, 6 times.“It’s the family of Stephon Clark,” I explained. “That Black kid from Sacramentopolice shot in the back six to eight times, unarmed in his backyard.They said he was a burglar.”“I wanted to paint the pictures of his family grieving because they had no voiceand were made invisible.”My mother got quiet, mouthed something like a haHer eyes narrowed and full, like when I visit and we watch showsabout slavery together/like in Roots when Chicken George has to leave hisson at the crossroads to gain freedom.My mother wants to cry but doesn’t.She commands me to show the catalogue to my father.Later she asks to take a picture because she wants to show myninety-year-old aunt.In New York this year we are celebrating,The 50^th anniversary of the Stonewall Riots.My queer friends complain about all the festivities as“The monster that ate New York,”But I say I’m excited by it allIf only because I can go home to my family(Because of all of those queens and kings before me)Marked safe.