The Power of Being Seen: Survival, Solidarity, and Leadership in the AFM

June 1, 2026

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by the AFM Diversity Committee

Visibility has always been central to organizing, but during Pride Month it takes on added meaning, especially within the American Federation of Musicians. Pride is not only a celebration; it is a reminder that rights, recognition, and dignity have been won because people have made themselves visible, often at great personal risk. That lesson carries directly into our work as union members.

Pride offers a powerful parallel to union organizing: people step forward, tell their stories, and make it easier for others to follow. The same dynamic fuels strong unions. When LGBTQ+ members are visible, not only as participants, but also as leaders—committee members, stewards, officers, and bandleaders—it lowers the barrier for others to participate. It sends a clear message: this union is yours, too.

The stories that follow come from members of your AFM Diversity Committee.

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Visibility as Survival:

Stewart Williams (he/him), President, Local 72-147 (Dallas, TX)

My personal journey of pride and visibility as a member of the LGBTQ+ community began in the 1980s, as I navigated an already confusing adolescence against the backdrop of the HIV/AIDS epidemic.

By the time I possessed any understanding of what was happening inside me—let alone a sense of pride—the AIDS epidemic had devastated an entire generation of gay men. This generation, already responsible for the first Pride celebrations, responded to the tragedy by giving all they had left to bring about AIDS awareness. And so moved forward an era of LGBTQ+ visibility.

But the work is far from complete. Last year, the governor of Texas ordered the removal of “political” crosswalk art across the state, particularly targeting LGBTQ+ neighborhoods. Rainbow crosswalks were sandblasted away. In Florida, “Don’t Say Gay” laws were passed, restricting classroom instruction about LGBTQ+ lives in public schools, silencing discussions that some young people undoubtedly needed.

Out of ignorance, people still fear us. As a young person, I was terrified of being gay, terrified because I had been taught awful, wrong things about it. It was the visibility of others that showed me how wrong these things were, and it was their visibility that challenged me to do the same.

I am proud that it has been in my community of musicians where this ignorance was challenged. As musicians, we each have a unique opportunity for visibility each time we perform. And when we, as a union, make our pride and diversity visible, we nurture our bonds of solidarity, provide an antidote for ignorance, and ready ourselves for each challenge we face together.

It is worth noting that a Dallas church responded to the removal of one of those rainbow crosswalks in its neighborhood by painting its entryway steps leading up from the street in rainbow colors. They are brighter and more visible than the crosswalk ever was.

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Visibility as Solidarity:

Tihda Vongkoth (she/they), President, Local 427-721 (Tampa Bay, FL)

While my professional music career has evolved beautifully over 15 years, my patience for Florida’s musical situationships has not. The landscape is often unsustainable for queers, women, and people of color. Freelancing requires constant hyper-vigilance to navigate the men who dominate percussion spaces. After years in the orchestral machine, I finally had to ask: “What else can I do?”

As a visibly Lao American musician whose queer identity is less apparent, I am not interested in performative visibility or rainbow capitalism every June. To me, true visibility means sustainably nourishing my own creative ecology. It should not feel radical to reclaim my collaborators, center queer and BIPOC artistic voices, and respect the labor of my contemporaries— yet making a living in predominantly queer spaces remains out of reach for so many.

I found autonomy through chamber music and composing for Spoken Word theater, creating professional environments outside the cisgender, heteronormative status quo. Curating programs featuring artists such as Ann Southam, Anthony R. Green, and Derek Tywoniuk—alongside my own arrangements and compositions for a Krampusnacht program—means no longer waiting for access to institutions that never centered us.

However, artistic freedom requires sustainable infrastructure. Union contracts and Music Performance Trust Fund (MPTF) assistance ensure collaborators receive fair wages and pension contributions. Protecting our queer canon also means demanding better standards, which, in addition, means better digital sovereignty and recording rights.

In response to digital exploitation, I’ve stepped back from social media to focus on “zero-kilometer music”—a farm-to-table approach prioritizing hyper-local musical relationships and a reduced carbon footprint. I am choosing to let my work blossom offline until digital spaces offer better social contracts.

Queer musicians always thrive artistically, but oftentimes we struggle with financial sustainability. My request to fellow union musicians is simple: learn how to file union contracts. When performing in Florida, honor local minimum scales and insist on union agreements. Require presenters and ensembles to file contracts alongside ASCAP and BMI notifications when performing music by queer composers.

“Likes” and “follows” are not enough. Protecting labor is how we protect each other.

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Visibility as Leadership:

Beth Zare (she/her), Secretary-Treasurer, Local 6 (San Francisco, CA)

In the 1970s, being openly gay carried enormous personal risk. LGBTQ+ people lost their jobs, were denied housing, and families disowned them. Cultural norms demanded queer people should stay invisible.

The hostility was not subtle. Public figures such as Anita Bryant launched national campaigns that framed gay people as threats to children and society, helping fuel fear and discrimination across the country. During the height of the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s, members of Ronald Reagan’s press staff notoriously joked about AIDS deaths, while thousands of gay men were dying with little government response. Even mainstream entertainment normalized mockery, treating gay people as the punchline.

Growing up with that backdrop made me skilled at hiding my true identity. I convinced myself that blending in would make life easier. I felt no pride in being different. I hid my sexuality even from myself. That is why it felt so vulnerable to step into a leadership role.

When I got my first professional job in San Jose, California, I became a Regional Orchestra Players Association (ROPA) representative, and not long afterward, a local president. Still uncomfortable in my own skin, I was hesitant to claim my place as a leader. Luckily, others saw in me a ferocity to fight for what was right despite personal risk.

Many queer people spend years devaluing their own voice because survival requires it. Silence comes at a cost. Each time we diminish ourselves, we strip the world of what we might contribute: our creativity, perspective, and hard-earned wisdom.

Coming out carries something profoundly communal. While deeply personal, it can still be an act of leadership for someone else. Every visible queer person widens the doorway for another person who is still afraid to come out.

For many in the community, the resurgence of political rhetoric doesn’t feel abstract. While the legal and cultural context today is not identical to the past, the emotional texture can feel eerily familiar: the sense that visibility is still contested terrain, and that rights once thought settled can be relitigated.

We carry a responsibility to be visible—not because anyone owes disclosure to the world, but because refusing erasure holds power. That, too, is leadership. Sometimes the most radical act of leadership means allowing yourself to be seen.

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