"June in Full Bloom" (Text & Image Copyright Wylddane Productions, LLC)
"To be nobody but yourself—in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else—means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight and never stop fighting."
~E.E. Cummings
This morning begins quietly.
A mug of coffee warms my hands. Outside the window, a wren fills the damp June air with a song far larger than its tiny body should be capable of producing. Inside the wee cottage, the gentle notes of a piano concerto drift from room to room. Sunlight touches the flowers on the deck, illuminating their petals until they seem almost lit from within.
June has always felt like a month of blossoming.
Gardens overflow with color. Wildflowers line roadsides and meadows. Trees wear their fullest green.
Everywhere the natural world seems to declare that hiding is over and becoming has begun.
Perhaps that is why Pride Month belongs so naturally to June.
Both flowers and Pride tell the same story.
A seed buried in darkness eventually reaches for the light. A flower unfolds into its truest form. A human being does much the same.
For centuries, flowers carried messages that people could not safely speak aloud. In the Victorian "Language of Flowers," emotions and identities were hidden within bouquets. Lavender became a subtle symbol of queer identity and belonging. Violets carried echoes of Sappho and the enduring history of love between women. Today rainbow-colored blossoms celebrate the beautiful diversity of the LGBTQ+ community.
Flowers have always understood something that humanity sometimes forgets: diversity is not a flaw in creation. It is the very source of its beauty.
As I sip my coffee this morning, I find myself thinking about history.
When Pride Month is discussed, our thoughts naturally turn to Stonewall in June of 1969. And rightly so. The courage shown there changed history. Yet here in Wisconsin—this quiet, beautiful state of lakes, forests, farms, and small towns—remarkable acts of courage occurred even earlier.
In June of 1960, Elroy Schulz died following a police raid in Milwaukee. His death was met not with justice but with cruelty. The official response reflected a society that believed some lives mattered less than others. It is difficult to read that history today without feeling both sadness and anger.
Yet grief has a way of planting seeds.
Just over a year later, on August 5, 1961, those seeds blossomed into resistance at Milwaukee's Black Nite bar. When a group of men attempted to terrorize one of the city's few safe gathering places for LGBTQ+ people, they encountered something unexpected.
People who refused to surrender.
Among them was Josie Carter, a courageous gender-nonconforming queen of color whose name deserves to be remembered. When violence arrived at the door, she and others stood their ground. They defended their community, their dignity, and their right simply to exist.
Eight years before Stonewall, a group of ordinary people in Wisconsin demonstrated an extraordinary truth:
There comes a time when fear must step aside and courage must take its place.
The story did not end there.
Wisconsin would later become the first state in the nation to enact comprehensive protections against discrimination based on sexual orientation. Progress that many assume began elsewhere was often being quietly built here, one brave act at a time.
History is like that.
It is easy to believe that change arrives through famous speeches, celebrated leaders, or moments preserved in textbooks. But more often it begins with ordinary people making extraordinary decisions. A person who speaks when silence would be safer. A neighbor who chooses compassion over prejudice. A community that refuses to abandon its most vulnerable members.
That lesson belongs to everyone.
Not just LGBTQ+ people.
Not just Americans.
Everyone.
Because every generation faces moments when it must decide what kind of people it wishes to be.
Every generation encounters fear disguised as certainty, prejudice disguised as tradition, and cruelty disguised as strength.
And every generation needs people willing to step forward.
As I listen to the wren singing outside my window, I am reminded that courage is rarely loud at first. Often it begins as a small voice. A quiet conviction. A simple refusal to become less than who you are.
Eventually that voice becomes a song.
A movement.
A community.
A better future.
The flower blooming outside does not ask permission to unfold. The wren does not apologize for its song.
The June morning does not seek approval before filling the world with light.
Perhaps there is wisdom in that.
Perhaps the lesson of Pride Month is not only that we should celebrate those who came before us, though we absolutely should.
Perhaps it is also a reminder that every human being deserves the freedom to bloom into their authentic self.
And perhaps the lesson history offers us this morning is that progress has always depended upon ordinary people choosing courage over fear, kindness over hatred, and truth over silence.
The names may change. The challenges may change.
The lesson never does.
So I finish my coffee.
The piano continues its gentle melody. The wren continues to sing. The flowers continue to bloom.
And I find myself grateful for those who stood up when standing up was dangerous.
Because of them, the garden is larger now.
Because of them, more voices are singing.
Because of them, more people are free to bloom.
And that is something worth celebrating—not only this June morning, but every morning.
~Wylddane
~E.E. Cummings
This morning begins quietly.
A mug of coffee warms my hands. Outside the window, a wren fills the damp June air with a song far larger than its tiny body should be capable of producing. Inside the wee cottage, the gentle notes of a piano concerto drift from room to room. Sunlight touches the flowers on the deck, illuminating their petals until they seem almost lit from within.
June has always felt like a month of blossoming.
Gardens overflow with color. Wildflowers line roadsides and meadows. Trees wear their fullest green.
Everywhere the natural world seems to declare that hiding is over and becoming has begun.
Perhaps that is why Pride Month belongs so naturally to June.
Both flowers and Pride tell the same story.
A seed buried in darkness eventually reaches for the light. A flower unfolds into its truest form. A human being does much the same.
For centuries, flowers carried messages that people could not safely speak aloud. In the Victorian "Language of Flowers," emotions and identities were hidden within bouquets. Lavender became a subtle symbol of queer identity and belonging. Violets carried echoes of Sappho and the enduring history of love between women. Today rainbow-colored blossoms celebrate the beautiful diversity of the LGBTQ+ community.
Flowers have always understood something that humanity sometimes forgets: diversity is not a flaw in creation. It is the very source of its beauty.
As I sip my coffee this morning, I find myself thinking about history.
When Pride Month is discussed, our thoughts naturally turn to Stonewall in June of 1969. And rightly so. The courage shown there changed history. Yet here in Wisconsin—this quiet, beautiful state of lakes, forests, farms, and small towns—remarkable acts of courage occurred even earlier.
In June of 1960, Elroy Schulz died following a police raid in Milwaukee. His death was met not with justice but with cruelty. The official response reflected a society that believed some lives mattered less than others. It is difficult to read that history today without feeling both sadness and anger.
Yet grief has a way of planting seeds.
Just over a year later, on August 5, 1961, those seeds blossomed into resistance at Milwaukee's Black Nite bar. When a group of men attempted to terrorize one of the city's few safe gathering places for LGBTQ+ people, they encountered something unexpected.
People who refused to surrender.
Among them was Josie Carter, a courageous gender-nonconforming queen of color whose name deserves to be remembered. When violence arrived at the door, she and others stood their ground. They defended their community, their dignity, and their right simply to exist.
Eight years before Stonewall, a group of ordinary people in Wisconsin demonstrated an extraordinary truth:
There comes a time when fear must step aside and courage must take its place.
The story did not end there.
Wisconsin would later become the first state in the nation to enact comprehensive protections against discrimination based on sexual orientation. Progress that many assume began elsewhere was often being quietly built here, one brave act at a time.
History is like that.
It is easy to believe that change arrives through famous speeches, celebrated leaders, or moments preserved in textbooks. But more often it begins with ordinary people making extraordinary decisions. A person who speaks when silence would be safer. A neighbor who chooses compassion over prejudice. A community that refuses to abandon its most vulnerable members.
That lesson belongs to everyone.
Not just LGBTQ+ people.
Not just Americans.
Everyone.
Because every generation faces moments when it must decide what kind of people it wishes to be.
Every generation encounters fear disguised as certainty, prejudice disguised as tradition, and cruelty disguised as strength.
And every generation needs people willing to step forward.
As I listen to the wren singing outside my window, I am reminded that courage is rarely loud at first. Often it begins as a small voice. A quiet conviction. A simple refusal to become less than who you are.
Eventually that voice becomes a song.
A movement.
A community.
A better future.
The flower blooming outside does not ask permission to unfold. The wren does not apologize for its song.
The June morning does not seek approval before filling the world with light.
Perhaps there is wisdom in that.
Perhaps the lesson of Pride Month is not only that we should celebrate those who came before us, though we absolutely should.
Perhaps it is also a reminder that every human being deserves the freedom to bloom into their authentic self.
And perhaps the lesson history offers us this morning is that progress has always depended upon ordinary people choosing courage over fear, kindness over hatred, and truth over silence.
The names may change. The challenges may change.
The lesson never does.
So I finish my coffee.
The piano continues its gentle melody. The wren continues to sing. The flowers continue to bloom.
And I find myself grateful for those who stood up when standing up was dangerous.
Because of them, the garden is larger now.
Because of them, more voices are singing.
Because of them, more people are free to bloom.
And that is something worth celebrating—not only this June morning, but every morning.
~Wylddane
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