It seemed like fate that Transmission Fest, New York City's first-ever trans music festival, took place on the summer solstice. The term derives from two Latin words: Sol (sun) and systre (standing still). When the sun stands still in the sky, cultures both ancient and contemporary host celebrations of rebirth. This is practical — the solstice is the longest day of the year, which makes for excellent parties — and spiritual. It is evidence that no matter how brutal or freezing the previous winter, the sun’s warmth will always return.
After a winter of devastating political attacks on trans people, the festival was a reminder that our movement is resilient and will always create its own light. As Stefa, one of the organizers, sang, “They can cut off all our heads, but they can’t stop spring from coming.” Throughout the five-hour event, which featured more than a dozen trans performers, this insistence on renewal was on full display. Performers and organizers acknowledged the political reality that surrounded them, but insisted that this was a moment to celebrate, regroup, and remember our collective power.
The festival was the brainchild of Cecilia Gentili, the activist, author, and founder of Trans Equity Consulting. “We are often included in Pride events,” she told me over the tuning of amplifiers as the event was about to begin, “but we’re not centered. And there’s a difference.” After sharing this observation with Oscar Diaz, a member of her team, they decided to create their own celebration to fill the gap.
Although Gentili initially wanted to produce a small event, “small in Cecilia’s world is a waterfront music festival,” Diaz said with a laugh. In less than two months, they pulled together an event featuring performers like Fire Island standout Tomás Matos, Kelela collaborator Rahrah Gabor, and singer-songwriter Arewà Basit.
In lieu of tickets, Transmission Fest collected donations for three organizations: Queer Art, Black Trans Liberation Kitchen, and the Stonewall Foundation, which each expand possibilities for LGBTQ+ lives in different ways. Queer Art provides mentorship and grants to emerging and established artists, while the Stonewall Foundation funds hundreds of grassroots organizations each year. The Black Trans Liberation Kitchen, founded by the activist Qween Jean, provides meals and fellowship to trans and nonbinary people throughout New York City. Beyond fundraising, Gentili says her intention was to spread joy.
“Just joy,” she said, “not only for the people who are with us but also for the people who are above us, too.” The commitment to trans ancestors — or transcestors, as many call them — was felt in the soil and sky. The festival took place in the recently renamed Marsha P. Johnson State Park, a seven-acre haven of picnic tables and swings nestled along the East River in Williamsburg, featuring stunning views of Manhattan. The poeticism of this location was not lost on anyone. “She is mother!” Gentili exclaimed.
Johnson was a central figure in the Stonewall Uprising and the co-founder of Street Transvestite Action Revolutionaries (STAR), a mutual aid organization that provided housing to trans youth, among many other activities. She was also known as the “Mayor of Christopher Street,” due to her effervescent outfits and joie de vivre. One couldn’t help but imagine her presiding over Transmission Fest like a Queen, blessing each performer with her abundant love. For many in attendance, Marsha’s capacity to forge joy from impossible circumstances served as a powerful blueprint.
“We’re living in crazy tumultuous times,” said Joshua Allen, one of the night’s hosts, “and the opportunity to get together and celebrate, to bring joy, it’s so imperative right now.”
The performances began at 5 p.m. with a set by drag artist Dev Doee, clad in a sparkling red dress that lit up the stage like a flame. Her set was an ode to rock ‘n’ roll icon Tina Turner, who passed away in May. Intent on carrying forward Tina’s powerful legacy, Doee christened the stage with the kind of front flip, jump split combo that forces a crowd to stand up and scream. And they did: her set culminated with the audience throwing dollar bills as Doee danced on the park picnic tables in full, unabashed glory.
The night was defined by rambunctious musical eclecticism, from Brooklyn rap to soaring ballads. Stefa, a multimedia artist, composer, and vocalist from Queens, tied these different threads together during their set, coaxing the audience into a harmony that held the multitude of the moment: grief, joy, ecstasy, and pain. Unlike many Pride events, Transmission Fest was free and open to the public, which meant dozens of passersby stopped to revel in Stefa’s message. As the event grew more crowded, they welcomed everyone into a song “to hold all of your transformations.”
While Stefa’s gentle voice soared over the East River, the previously chatty crowd grew silent, as if holding vigils for their younger selves. “Getting to know myself has been the wildest shit I’ve ever done,” Stefa shared from the stage. The audience — awash with trans and queer people of all ages — nodded with a sense of recognition and relief.
With each of Stefa’s songs, the crowd sank deeper into a cocoon of self-love too often denied to trans and nonbinary people in everyday life. “It honestly makes me want to cry,” said Jesenia Tejeda, an engineer and DJ who lives near the park. “I came here to be with my trans community, and it feels so good.” Lee’Lagos, who took time off work to attend the festival, added: “I’m from Florida, the college I went to is being attacked. We really need these spaces.”
The night continued with a stunning performance by Arewà Basit, whose songs of love and heartbreak brought tears to my eyes. I could feel the presence of young trans and queer people who did not get to be in Brooklyn, and longed for them to know that spaces where they could be fully, freely themselves existed — and were waiting for them to arrive.
At one moment, noticing the duality of joy and grief that suffused the evening, Basit transitioned into an impromptu rendition of Nina Simone’s classic “Feeling Good.”
“It’s an old world, it’s a bold world, it’s a cold world,” they sang. “It’s a new dawn, it’s a new dawn, it's a new life for me.”
For decades, the song has scored displays of resilience, acknowledging both the cruelty of the world, particularly against Black people, and the radical willingness to continue remaking oneself anyway.
Basit’s performance coincided with the sunset, the sky itself backlighting their stage in a gauzy tapestry of purple and pink. Even the Empire State Building flashed a vibrant shade of fuschia that perfectly matched Basit's hair. “She literally said this is your moment, mama. It was unreal,” they told me after taking the stage. “It felt like a dream.”
But this was no dream. Even as hateful politicians continue their attempt to transform trans lives into a nightmare, Transmission Fest was a real — if temporary — expression of trans beauty and power.
Correction: An earlier version of this article misstated that Arewà Basit offered the final set of the night; Transmission Fest concluded with a performance by Las Mariquitas, a queer and trans band based in New York.
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