Arts & Entertainment
Queer, Crip and Here: Meet blind writer Caitlin Hernandez
Author navigates intersecting identities in life, work

(Editor’s Note: One in four people in America has a disability, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Queer and disabled people have long been a vital part of the LGBTQ+ community. Take two of the many queer history icons who were disabled: Michelangelo is believed to have been autistic. Marsha P. Johnson, who played a heroic role in the Stonewall Uprising, had physical and psychiatric disabilities. Today, Deaf/Blind fantasy writer Elsa Sjunneson; actor and bilateral amputee Eric Graise who played Marvin in the “Queer as Folk” reboot; and Kathy Martinez, a blind, Latinx lesbian, Assistant Secretary of Labor for Disability Employment Policy for the Obama administration, are only a few of the queer and disabled people in the LGBTQ community. Yet, the stories of this vital segment of the queer community have rarely been told. In its monthly, yearlong series, “Queer, Crip and Here,” the Blade will tell some of these un-heard stories.)
Some creators agonize for years before plunging into their art.
This wasn’t the case with queer, blind writer and teacher Caitlin Hernandez. Hernandez wrote her first “novel,” “Computer Whiz,” she writes in her bio, when she was in the fourth grade. She kept her monitor off so no one would see her “masterpiece.”
Reading and writing have been a part of Hernandez’s life for as long as she can remember. “I was writing, even as a little kid,” Hernandez, who was born in 1990 and grew up in Danville, Calif., said in a telephone interview with the Blade, “In first grade, I wrote stories in braille. They taught me to type. Because people were having to translate.”
As a kid, Hernandez used a tape recorder to tell stories. “That happens so often with blind kids,” said Hernandez, who lives in San Francisco with her partner Martha and Maite their Rottweiler.
Maite was Martha’s dog when the couple got together. “I call her my ‘stepdogter,’” Hernandez said. It’s clear from the get-go that she doesn’t take herself too seriously. Maite, her “stepdogter,” is “currently writing a picture book,” Hernandez jokes in her bio.
It’s commonly thought that disabled people lead sad, tragic lives. But Hernandez busts this myth. Martha, her partner, “reads braille with her eyes,” Hernandez whimsically writes in her bio.
Hernandez is committed to teaching and writing. But, she “loves eating coffee ice cream, watching Star Trek Voyager, singing, skipping and using her rainbow cane – sometimes all at once,” Hernandez writes in her bio.
Queerness is an integral part of Hernandez’s life: from her fiction, which tells stories of LGBTQ people, disabled people, and people of color to her rainbow cane.
“Queerness is considered cool now in many places,” Hernandez said, “it’s normalized.”
But that’s not true with disability, she added. “Generally, there’s more fear and misperceptions around disabled people,” Hernandez said.
Because of their discomfort with disabled people, she’s often left alone at social and literary gatherings.
“Because I’m blind, people frequently won’t talk to me,” Hernandez said, “even if I’ve read at an open mic.”
To make people feel more comfortable with her, Hernandez, totally blind since birth, sometimes uses a rainbow cane. “I designed it,” she said, “it has the colors of the rainbow flag. If you’re queer, you’ll get that.”
But it’s also beautiful because it’s a rainbow, Hernandez said, “It’s a great ice-breaker.”
(Hernandez uses her rainbow cane when she’s out with friends. When traveling by herself, she uses the white cane used by most blind people.)
Once people get to know [disabled people],” Hernandez said, “they’re chill with us.”
The Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 (ADA), a landmark civil rights law, despite problems of enforcement and compliance, has done much to change life for disabled people.
The ADA generation (those born when or after the law was passed) has grown up with the expectation that disabled people have rights. They’re not surprised to see curb cuts or braille menus. They expect employers to make accommodations for disabled employees and hospitals to have sign language interpreters for Deaf people.
Yet despite the ADA, ableism persists (even within her own ADA generation), Hernandez said. A key reason why discomfort with and fear of disabled people is still so pervasive is the problem of representation, she said.
Hernandez, a Lambda Literary Emerging Writer Fellow in 2015 and 2018, is acutely aware of how disabled and queer and disabled people are portrayed in fiction and nonfiction.
“Our lives are often represented so badly,” Hernandez said, “often by nondisabled creators. There’s a lot of fear and inaccuracy.”
Thankfully, there are a few fab books with disabled characters by disabled authors, Hernandez said. She loves “The Kiss Quotient” by Helen Hoang, who is autistic. The novel portrays the romance of an autistic econometrician and her biracial male escort.
Hernandez is a fan of “The Silence Between us,” a young adult romance featuring a Deaf character, by hard-of-hearing author Alison Gervais.
“The Chance to Fly,” co-authored by Ali Stroker, the bisexual, Tony-winning actress who uses a wheelchair, and Stacy Davidowitz, is one of Hernandez’s faves. The book, a novel for middle-schoolers, tells the story of a theater-loving, wheelchair using girl, who defies ableist expectations.
Hernandez began to think she was queer when she was in high school. But, she didn’t come out then to anyone except a few of her friends. “They kinda didn’t believe me,” Hernandez said, “because a friend of ours had already come out as queer and they thought I was trying to copy him.”
After she was in college, Hernandez, who earned a bachelor’s degree in literature from the University of California, Santa Cruz in 2012, came out to her parents.
Her folks, now divorced, were fine with her being queer.
Because nondisabled people frequently don’t see disabled people as datable or sexy, some aspects of coming out are more difficult if you have a disability, Hernandez said. “We often miss one of the rites of passage of coming out,” she said, “of saying ‘I am queer – here with my queer date (or partner).’”
Hernandez’s first relationship was with a woman who was closeted. “We couldn’t be out,” she said.
Hernandez got together with her partner Martha in November 2019. Then there was the pandemic and everything was cancelled. “So we didn’t get to go out as an out queer couple,” Hernandez said.
“Everybody knows I’m partnered with Martha,” she added.
But because of ableism, sometimes people don’t see her as Martha’s romantic partner, Hernandez said.
Like many, Hernandez navigates intersecting identities. “I’m thinking more about my being of mixed race,” Hernandez said, “My Mom is white. My Dad is one-half Mexican and one-half German. I can pass as white,” she added.
She’s grappling with what it means to have a Latinx last name, Hernandez said.
She wishes she had taken Spanish. “But I took French,” Hernandez said, “I wanted to do what my friends were doing.”
As a writer, Hernandez hopes to help children who live with intersecting identities.
Her work has appeared in “Aromatica Poetica,” “Wordgathering” and in “Barriers and Belonging,” “Firsts: Coming Of Age Stories by People with Disabilities” and other anthologies.
In 2013, “Dreaming in Color,” a musical written by Hernandez, was produced by CRE Outreach at the Promenade Playhouse in Santa Monica, Calif.
Hernandez’s unpublished young adult novel “Even Touch Has a Tune” is about a queer, blind girl falling in love with another girl and surviving sexual assault, Hernandez said in an email to the Blade. “It’s fiction but has a lot of autobiographical content,” she added.
If you’re disabled, you’re more vulnerable to sexual assault. When she was a freshman, Hernandez became friends with a fully sighted guy who she’d met in her classes. “He seemed nice,” she said, “but then he came over and touched me inappropriately.”
“I froze up,” Hernandez added, “if you’re disabled, you’re vulnerable. You’re taught to be polite – to keep quiet.”
While there’s more representation of disabled people in fiction, Hernandez is still discouraged.
Because of ableism, many literary agents may not want her “disabled and assault novel,” Hernandez said. (Her unpublished YA novel “Even Touch Has a Tune” is represented by Emily Keyes of Keyes Agency.)
Too frequently, representation of disabled people is focused on ableist tropes like “inspiration porn” and “overcoming,” Hernandez said. There isn’t interest in portraying scary, difficult aspects (like sexual assaults) of disabled people’s lives, she added.
But discouragement doesn’t stop Hernandez from writing or from connecting with kids as a teacher.
Hernandez earned a master’s degree in special education and her teaching credentials from San Francisco State University in 2016. Today, she is a resource specialist with the San Francisco Unified School District.
Hernandez enjoys forging a connection with disabled and nondisabled students. “Nondisabled kids come to me for extra help,” she said.
Hernandez has accomplished much. But, “I’ve learned I don’t have to be a role model,” she said, “I don’t have to be perfect.”

Photos
PHOTOS: Independence Day Weekend in Rehoboth
Wicked Green Pool Party, fireworks among festivities

Vacationers and residents alike enjoyed Independence Day Weekend activities in Rehoboth Beach, Del. The Wicked Green Pool Party drew hundreds to the CAMP Rehoboth fundraiser on Saturday. That evening, revelers went to the rooftops to watch the fireworks display.
(Washington Blade photos by Daniel Truitt)













Music & Concerts
Red, White, and Beyoncé: Queen Bey takes Cowboy Carter to D.C. for the Fourth of July
The legendary music icon performed on July 4 and 7 to a nearly sold-out Northwest Stadium.

Just in time for Independence Day, Beyoncé lit up Landover’s Commanders Field (formerly FedEx Field) with fireworks and fiery patriotism, bringing her deeply moving and genre-defying “Cowboy Carter” tour to the Washington, D.C. area.
The tour, which takes the global icon across nine cities in support of her chart-topping and Grammy-winning country album “Cowboy Carter,” landed in Prince George’s County, Maryland, over the Fourth of July weekend. From the moment Beyoncé stepped on stage, it was clear this was more than just a concert — it was a reclamation.
Drawing from classic Americana, sharp political commentary, and a reimagined vision of country music, the show served as a powerful reminder of how Black Americans — especially Black women — have long been overlooked in spaces they helped create. “Cowboy Carter” released in March 2024, is the second act in Beyoncé’s genre-traversing trilogy. With it, she became the first Black woman to win a Grammy for Best Country Album and also took home the coveted Album of the Year.
The record examines the Black American experience through the lens of country music, grappling with the tension between the mythology of the American Dream and the lived realities of those historically excluded from it. That theme comes alive in the show’s opening number, “American Requiem,” where Beyoncé sings:
“Said I wouldn’t saddle up, but
If that ain’t country, tell me, what is?
Plant my bare feet on solid ground for years
They don’t, don’t know how hard I had to fight for this
When I sing my song…”
Throughout the performance, Beyoncé incorporated arresting visuals: Black cowboys on horseback, vintage American iconography, and Fox News clips criticizing her genre shift — all woven together with voiceovers from country legends like Dolly Parton and Willie Nelson. The result was a multimedia masterclass in storytelling and subversion.
The “Cowboy Carter” tour has been a social media sensation for weeks, with fans scrambling for tickets, curating elaborate “cowboy couture” outfits, and tailgating under the summer sun. At Commanders Field, thousands waited in long lines for exclusive merch and even longer ones to enter the stadium — a pilgrimage that, for many, felt more like attending church than a concert.
One group out in full force for the concert was Black queer men — some rocking “denim on denim on denim on denim,” while others opted for more polished Cowboy Couture looks. The celebration of Black identity within Americana was ever-present, making the concert feel like the world’s biggest gay country-western club.
A standout moment of the night was the appearance of Beyoncé’s 13-year-old daughter, Blue Ivy Carter. Commanding the stage with poise and power, she matched the intensity and choreography of her mother and the professional dancers — a remarkable feat for someone her age and a clear sign that the Carter legacy continues to shine.
It’s been nearly two decades since Beyoncé and Destiny’s Child parted ways, and since then, she’s more than lived up to her title as the voice of a generation. With “Cowboy Carter,” she’s not just making music — she’s rewriting history and reclaiming the space Black artists have always deserved in the country canon.
a&e features
From Prohibition to Pride: Queering the District podcast reveals local LGBTQ history
The new podcast explores the hidden history and enduring impact of queer spaces in Washington, D.C.

On June 25, as Pride month inched toward its end, three queer creators launched an ambitious project to honor the spaces that built D.C.’s LGBTQ community—and connect them to today’s queer life. The first episode of their podcast, Queering the District, hit streaming platforms that day, aiming to spotlight what host and co-creator Abby Stuckrath calls “third places”: bars, clubs, and gathering spots that have served as hubs for queer life across the city.
Each episode of the 10-part series delves into a different piece of D.C.’s queer past—from landmark clubs to untold personal stories—told through the voices of drag legends, activists, DJs, historians, and patrons who lived it. The show also threads together personal experiences from today’s community, bringing the listener on an auditory journey from Prohibition-era speakeasies to contemporary nights out at places like As You Are or Saints & Sinners.
Abby Stuckrath, alongside her sibling Ellie Stuckrath, and producer Mads Reagan, make up the podcast’s creative team. A recent journalism graduate of American University, Abby told the Blade that her passion for queer storytelling began during college—and that D.C. itself played a defining role in shaping her queer identity.
“I went to American University. I graduated last year and studied journalism. When I was in school, I always wanted to focus on queer stories – especially in D.C., because I’m from Denver, Colorado, I’ve never lived in a place like this before. D.C. has always just kind of been a place I call home when it comes to my queer identity.”
But breaking into the media to tell those stories wasn’t easy. Stuckrath quickly learned that editorial support—and funding—for queer-focused projects is limited. So she decided to do it her own way.
“I kind of found out that if you want to tell stories, you kind of have to do it on your own– especially when it comes to queer stories. There’s not a lot of people begging for us to talk about queer people and to pay you for it. So I was like, ‘Okay, let’s just do it on my own.’”
The idea for the podcast first took root in conversations with Ellie, Abby’s sibling and biggest supporter. Ellie had also moved to D.C. to find more space to explore and express their queer and gender identities. Together, the two began shaping a vision that would combine storytelling, sound design, and grassroots community input.
“I was like, ‘I don’t know what exactly I want to do yet, but I want it to be queer, and I want it to be about D.C., and it’s going to be called Queering the District, and we’re going to find out what that means.’ And Ellie is my biggest supporter, and my best friend. And they were like, ‘Hell yeah. Like, let’s do this.’ And so we decided to just do it together.”
The name stuck—and so did the mission. The team began researching queer D.C. history and found a city overflowing with stories that had rarely been documented, especially in mainstream archives.
“We started looking up the history of queer culture in D.C., and it kind of just clicked from there,” Stuckrath said. “I did not know anything about how rich our history is in the city until one Google search, and then I just kept learning more and more. I was kind of pissed because I studied gender studies in school in D.C. and didn’t learn shit about this.”
Season one focuses on the role of third places—non-work, non-home spaces where queer people could gather, exist fully, and build community.
“Third places have always been the epicenter of queer life… places outside of just your own personal home, because sometimes that isn’t a safe place. And of course, the work most commonly in the past and still today, isn’t a safe place for queer people to be full of themselves. So like, bars were the first place for queer people to really thrive and meet each other.”
To make the show participatory, Queering the District includes a twist: a voicemail line where anyone can call in and share a memory or question. The team calls the phone “Fifi”—a nod to the kind of retro guestbooks often used at weddings, but reimagined for queer nightlife and history.
“We wanted to find a way for people to share their stories with us anonymously… so even though we start in Prohibition, we wanted to connect it to now—like, those people who were singing jazz to each other in a white queer bar are connected to you singing karaoke on a Sunday night at your favorite gay bar. We’re all interconnected by this third place of queer bars in D.C.”
Those connections are emotional as well as historical. While building the series, one realization hit Stuckrath particularly hard: the immense loss of queer spaces in D.C., especially in neighborhoods that have since been heavily redeveloped.
“Every time I go to a Nats game, I think about, well, this just replaced five gay bars that used to be here. It used to be the home of Ziegfeld’s… Tracks, which was almost 2,000 square feet, with a volleyball court in the back, a fire pit, and iconic light show. I just didn’t know that we had that, and it made me sad for the queer elders that are in our city now who walk the streets and don’t see all those places they used to call home.”
That sense of loss—alongside the joy and resilience of queer community—is what the show aims to capture. As the podcast continues, Abby hopes it serves as both a celebration and an educational tool, especially for young LGBTQ people arriving in D.C. without realizing the queer foundations they’re walking on.
“D.C. is a unique city, and specifically young queer people who are hoping to move to the city—to know that you’ve got to know your history to be here. I hope this serves as an easier way for you to consume and learn about queer history, because queer history defines how we move in life.”
And for all the voices still left out, Abby is clear: this podcast is an open door, not a final word.
“This is a perfectly imperfect podcast. We should just be a starting point. We shouldn’t be the ending point.”
New episodes of Queering the District drop every Wednesday on all major platforms.
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