Memories of an Unknown Activist

Activism has been a part of my life since I was in middle school and was fighting for the right to use the school auditorium for a student production. Activism, political discussion, thought and action is an important part of how I see myself in relation to the world.

Some people are well known for their activism, if not by the world, then by those who share their ideological priorities. Not me. I have been an activist who is loud and productive and willing to work but not an activist who seeks glory or cameras. Nor have I had time to participate as often as I’ve wanted, I’ve often supported in anonimity.

I often worried that the changes I was fighting for were futile. Then last semester I presented a reflection at a conference where I talked about a more or less failed attempt to establish an LGBTT association on campus. I thought our efforts had been forgotten. I thought I had no right to bring up these old struggles.

Little did I know that a friend who had been part of the group would be in the audience and cry through the entire thing.

Little did I know that we were remembered. That we had the status of legendary on campus. That even the name of our group was still remembered: PRISMA.

Little did I know that I would run into people I’d known from different venues and they would remember me. Activists from the islands (the tropical one and the manhattan one) would recognize my efforts.

For a while I felt like I had no voice. I felt like only those who are getting awards and grandmarshalling at parades should have a right to write our history. But I was there. I marched, I fought, I spraypainted, I yelled, I sang, I stood, I cried. And I think it’s time to start telling these stories.