In this moment, standing tall on the roof of a cop car with the officer still inside, I felt the weight of generations rise with me. He looked up, smirked, and shut the door as if my presence, my defiance, my truth didn’t register as a threat. And maybe it wasn’t.

I am an American. I am trans. I am Afro-Cuban. And I am Christ. Not the Christ used to justify oppression — but the Christ who was hunted, humiliated, and crucified by the state.

I deliberately disobeyed the silent command of the officer seated inside—a refusal to submit to an institution built on slavery, racism, and the violent defense of capital over human life. This is the line I walk: one of fearless expression in the face of state power, without crossing into violence.

Changing the religious narrative begins with embodying a new path of spiritual transformation. One that centers love, justice, and liberation over dogma and control. This path honors the sacred within those who have been cast out, erased, or demonized by dominant religious traditions.

I didn’t come out here to be polite. I didn’t dress for respectability. I showed up like this on purpose. Leather, mesh, devil horns, and an old American flag dragging through the rain. Not to shock you—but to remind you that protest isn’t always clean or quiet or nice to look at.