It didn’t matter that we couldn’t play instruments very well. (I never even attempted.) We played them anyway and if you played them faster, no one realized you messed up. It didn’t matter that no one would publish our writing. We made our own zines. It didn’t matter that no one made clothes we liked. We put our own together with safety pins. We didn’t need you to let us into your community. We made our own. And our community was made up of all kinds of people. All backgrounds. All sexual orientations—with revolving doors to choose a new one whenever you liked. In these basements, in these halls, in these art school classrooms, I met the most amazing fucked-up people and they loved you for who you were. Here in these halls of kindness I met people who I’d previously avoided, been afraid of, mocked, reviled, and flat-out hated and they were calling me brother. And I loved them back.