Marsha P. Johnson Taught Us How To Defy This Anti-Trans Wave

Time​ Magazine

19-06-2025

It's Pride Month again. But unlike recent years, when corporations flooded us with rainbow merchandise and vague nods to the Stonewall Riots, this year feels markedly different. The signs of authoritarianism are everywhere— anti-trans executive actions and legislation, Democrats scapegoating the trans community for its political failures, and corporate backpedaling on LGBTQ+ support.
On his first day in office, President Donald Trump issued an executive order declaring, among other things, that trans people do not exist. The next day, he signed an order calling for the country to restore 'merit-based opportunity'—a euphemism for straight, white, cisgender supremacy. And on Wednesday, the Supreme Court upheld a Tennessee state law that bans gender-affirming care for minors, greenlighting bans in up to 27 states.
And yet, despite it all, my mandate for Pride remains unchanged. And despite Trump's attempts to erase trans people, I know he cannot because I know my community's history. I look to the lessons of our elders and trancestors—those trans ancestors whose lives continue to guide us.
For me, 2025 marks the Summer of Marsha P. Johnson. This Aug. 24 would have been her 80th birthday. In the decades since her death, the lessons of her life have only become more resonant. That's why it felt necessary to center the second season of Afterlives, my podcast honoring the lives and legacies of trans folks our community lost too soon, on this movement titan. In a time of major erasure of our stories, we want to archive them.
Marsha's legend lives in many hearts today. It's sprinkled throughout speeches and social media posts, it's been the subject of a posthumous TIME cover, and even inspired the dedication of a Brooklyn Park in her honor. Recently, decorated artist and activist Tourmaline released Marsha's first definitive biography, The Joy and Defiance of Marsha P. Johnson. I was able to interview the best-selling author extensively for Afterlives, where we bonded over new Marshaisms gleaned from video archives like, 'Get your heart ready for heart failure.'
Connecting with Marsha through grainy video clips stripped from interviews and the extensive collection of home videos created by her once-roommate, and also noted activist Randy Wicker, I was able to learn more about her. There is something so soothing and encouraging about the old-school campy lilt to her voice. Listening to her is like being caressed by a long-lost auntie.
The warmth I feel for Marsha only deepened when I got the chance to visit her sister, Jeannie, and her nephew, Al. Both of them still live in Marsha's hometown of Elizabeth, New Jersey. They graciously welcomed my production team and me around their kitchen table. As the bright, late winter light shone through the window, they regaled us with tales of Marsha before she was an icon. The Elizabeth of the 1950s certainly was no bastion of queerness. However, Marsha became known for her exuberant personality and penchant for off-beat performance. According to her family, Masha was the most off-key singer in the children's Christmas chorus when she was growing up. But somehow, her charm always won over audiences. And whenever she opened her mouth, she would help raise the most money for the chorus.
A tinge of jealousy ran through me when Al talked about being babysat not just by Marsha, but also the legendary Sylvia Rivera as a child. I returned to a lifelong question I have for myself: What if I could have known myself or people like who I'd become sooner? I grew up starved for images of trans possibility. My first glimpses of Marsha came through early Wikipedia pages and, later, through Tumblr posts, scattered pieces of a lineage I was never meant to find.
Both Al and Jeannie wanted to set the record straight about Marsha's relationship with her family. While it's true she had many difficulties in life and was often misunderstood, she regularly returned home to visit her mother and them. And while her mother didn't always understand her identity, they still deeply loved each other. That love shone through Jeannie as well. Before we left, she gifted me the most scrumptious slice of Key Lime cake. I salivate every time I think of it.
While Marsha kept her family close, she also built a sprawling community and found pockets of joy as she got older. From Times Square, to the Village, and later back to Jersey, Marsha picked up chosen family along the way. She mentored younger people, including a young Sylvia Rivera, and showed them how to survive homelessness and poverty. For so-called 'street queens' like them, sex work was a common source of survival. But Marsha believed that collectives were stronger than any individuals and that standing in solidarity with one another could improve the safety of their community. In time, that ethos led to the formation of Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries or STAR, a group that helped often abandoned youth find shelter. They'd pool resources for sustenance.
Marsha often struggled with housing herself. But she never turned away from performance. She'd perform on the streets and on stage, traveling as far as London, to make a splash. Often, she'd wear costumes made from materials she found while dumpster diving. Her aesthetics and tuneless vocals left audiences in awe and laughter. At a time when trans people are told we're asking for too much, and that we should disappear, Marsha's life reminds us we can make art out of scarcity—and joy out of resistance.
Most people know Marsha's name through the Stonewall Riots of 1969, the militant uprising against harassment from the New York Police Department. These violent riots became a catalyst for the modern LGBTQ+ movement. In Tourmaline's book, one account recalls Marsha smashing a shot glass into a mirror and yelling, 'I got my civil rights!' This is a message of radical defiance we need now.
As trans rights come under attack, the message from politicians is clear: they want us forgotten, just like in Marsha's time. But we must remember that trans people built movements. That we organized, fought, and cared for each other. It's these lessons from Marsha and history, lessons of full, nuanced trans lives that the fascists don't want you to know about. Our voices and our stories can serve as an antidote to fascism and authoritarianism.
Some of Marsha's friends have said that the person she truly was—the poor, unhoused, sex-working artist—would be unrecognizable today beneath the polished iconography. We've turned her into a symbol. But what we lose in that transformation is the story of how she lived.
Marsha teaches us that performance can be a form of protest. That caring for others is political. That imagination can be more valuable than wealth. That defiance doesn't require perfection—only courage. She reminds us that collectives are stronger than individuals. That joy can coexist with rage. That survival is a legacy.
Marsha lives on not because we mythologized her, but because she modeled what's possible when you decide to be your most authentic self, every single day. She wasn't a pillar of perfection. She didn't have much to her name. But she lived, loved, and fought until her name and her power became undeniable.
As we face a new wave of anti-trans hate, let's do the same.