We knew about Freddie Jackson. We knew about Luther Vandross. We knew about Jermaine Stewart. We knew about Frank Ocean too. But we still nodded our heads to the beat and did the snake when they sang the chorus. We still walked across the gymnasium floor and asked the girl to dance when we heard the first note of that ballad. We still let the bass bang hard in the trunk once we downloaded the album. Despite the fact that they maybe, probably, more than likely were singing to another man, we dedicated the record to the girl who we were with in the back seat of our mom’s Honda. We didn’t need a rainbow flag to force us to accept them. We didn’t need those five letters to make us respect the choir director and our Uncle Peaches. They were a part of our community before the colonizers made it weird. We were more progressive than history will ever remember.