Allison Ponthier's love letter to the LGBTQ community

This Pride Month, Billboard asked artists to write a series of love letters to their LGBTQ fans, highlighting what the community means to them as people and as artists. Below, Alison Pontier she thanks the community for “loving me before I knew I was lovable” and offers them her love in return.

Queer people showed me what queer love was before I knew it existed.

One of my earliest childhood memories was a family trip to a lake for Mardis Gras. I didn't know what gay was then, but I did know that I loved playing in the sand and eating King Cake with my uncle's best friend. They were always together. I thought about what it would be like to have a person just like you—a person always by your side, staying with you, laughing with you. I didn't realize it at the time, but this relationship that caught me at such a young age was the first loving gay relationship I ever saw, even if no one told me it was at the time.

Around the age of 12 in North Texas, I had the dreaded suspicion that I was stuck with my best friend. I thought back to the year before, when a dance classmate had told me that being gay was “a man loving another man,” with an expression that told me she thought it was weird. I wondered what this meant for me, a girl who likes a girl. I prayed I wasn't making it up. But a small candle was burning inside me and I thought of my uncle and his partner. I hoped that if I found my girl, I could be like them.

Queer media gave me representation before I knew I needed to be represented.

One day after school, I was on my broken laptop looking for shows to pass the time. I was 14 and lost in every sense of the world. There was a beautiful, powerful woman in an ad for a TV show with an odd name: “RuPaul's Drag Race.” I had never heard of Miss RuPaul. I had never heard of drag. But I knew it was something I wasn't supposed to watch, so I literally hid in my closet and watched every episode available.

Drag queens changed my life. As a shy girl who didn't relate to my peers at school and had a hard time at home, I attribute my survival to the only piece of LGBTQ+ media I'd ever seen. It was silly, creative, hilarious and emotional. And for the first time in my life, I realized that hope was out there for me.

Queer spaces gave me a home before I knew I could feel at home.

At 18, my only respite from the chaos was at Station 4, a gay club in Dallas. They put big, ugly X's on my hands and danced the night away in my own corner of the world. In the real world, I felt misunderstood and unwanted. But once I got into S4, almost like going through a portal, I became someone who enjoyed being around others and wasn't afraid of those around me. I loved the drag king who lip-synched me, the queer woman who taught me how to dance, and the trans bartender who yelled at me for trying to wash off my Xs to look cooler even though I was never going to drink. (If for some reason the bartender ever sees this letter, you were right. Thank you.)

In this place, I learned that nowhere was like the Texas I had always known. This version of Texas, full of life, love and celebration was the home I didn't even know awaited me. Thanks to queer Texans for showing me what it means to be a Texan.

The queer community loved me before I knew I was lovable, and now it's my turn to say: I love you.

I love you for redefining what family can be, especially chosen family.

I love you for showing me that true happiness can exist for us.

I love you for your creativity and sense of humor against all odds.

I love you for looking out for each other and speaking your mind.

I love you for persisting and existing just as you are.

I love you because you are a survivor.

Regardless of where you fall under the LGBTQ+ umbrella, how you present, or whether you're “out,” I love you. Thank you for what you have given me, just my possessions.

Love,
Alison Pontier