Yesterday, Jonathan Joss was murdered. As inadequate as my words may be, I wish to acknowledge the event itself, and to remember Jonathan for the amazing person he was—for quality beyond measure, someone to honor in these dark days.
Note: Click here to access the spoken version of the memorial, which I read aloud on my YouTube channel.
Regarding the event itself, Jonathan was killed while defending his trans partner, Tristan Kern de Gonzales, from a queerphobic attack: by a homicidal bigot while the two men were visiting the site of their former home, in Texas. The home had been razed after two-plus years of neglect from the San Antonio police department. Until the blaze, the cops had ignored the couple's cries for help; afterwards, they had gumption to report how they had found "'found no evidence' to link the shooting to Joss' sexual orientation" (source: Benjamin Lee's "King of the Hill actor Jonathan Joss Killed in Shooting Aged 59"). Never mind that Jonathan had died throwing himself in front of his husband, the bullets from the killer's gun actually meant for Tristan.
Like, how much more evidence do these pigs need? The truth is, they're Texan cops, and had already ignored Tristan and Jonathan for years—the attack in question being an ambush:
When we returned to the site to check our mail we discovered the skull of one of our dogs and its harness placed in clear view. This caused both of us severe emotional distress. We began yelling and crying in response to the pain of what we saw.
While we were doing this a man approached us. He started yelling violent homophobic slurs at us. He then raised a gun from his lap and fired (source: Tristan Gonzales, from Joss' Facebook page).
The rest of the statement is available on the link above. Tristan's words are brave and touching, and I strongly recommend reading them whole.
Reading them, myself, it soon became clear how Jonathan and Tristan shared a powerful love—one that survived the cutting short of Jonathan's noble life by the coward who repeatedly shot him and left him for dead. There's a special place in Hell for such scum, and Jonathan by comparison will rest in power—loved tremendously by someone as kind and thoughtful as Tristan: "I was with him when he passed. I told him how much he was loved. To everyone who supported him, his fans, his friends, know that he valued you deeply. He saw you as family. My focus now is on protecting Jonathan's legacy and honoring the life we built together. [...] Jonathan saved my life. I will carry that forward. I will protect what he built" (ibid.).
It saddens and angers me how something like this happened at all—that there has been virtually no mention of Tristan being trans by any of the major news outlets covering this, and how the San Antonio police department effectively turned a blind eye; re: to everything leading up to the killing itself. It's a staggering reminder of queer and native life punished under such abuse; i.e., forced to endure similar degrees of selective vision (and punishment) conducted elsewhere in America—regarding trans rights across the world, but also right here at home; e.g., two-spirit people:
To it, these killings are an escalation tied to decades upon decades of mounting violence against trans people, and centuries more of similar abuses committed by the state towards them and native peoples. We have always been human, and killing us will not erase that fact, but the death of Jonathan and those like him represents a rising danger we have to speak out against while it happens: together when facing a terrible foe. That foe is silence, and it involves the likes of people such as Jonathan and Tristan, but also myself (who am also trans); it involves the likes of the Palestinians overseas, and all peoples oppressed around the world, trans or not.
In other words, our struggle is shared, and my heart aches for Jonathan and Tristan. I do not envy their home having been in Texas, but also understand their desire to stand one's ground; i.e., while showing love and kindness to others, but also defiance towards their attackers. Theirs is a grace under pressure that deserves the highest praise, those who harm them only worthy of the fiercest condemnation. Neither Jonathan nor Tristan deserves the awful treatment they endured. So I will speak out, joining my voice in solidarity with theirs: by reminding the world that both are human, and owed a measure of justice that includes—among other things—the right to be housed and helped wherever they call home, but also heard when that home is threatened; i.e., among family and friends, including strangers part of a larger family.
Speaking from experience, the option to leave isn't always there. Indeed, when the moment arrives, the choice swiftly becomes an illusion more often than not: leave and live awhile longer while surrendering one's rights, thus any defense of one's dignity and life versus the state as the Great Taker of such things. Such was the fate of the Indigenous Peoples of Turtle Island, being told by powerful white men to run to the ocean, only to be forced into concentration camps. Segregation is no defense, nor silence. Both are death, genocide genocide, and that is what befell Jonathan Joss and Tristan Gonzales; one survived, the other did not, but both paid a heavy price in the shadow of a terrible struggle hanging over us all: replacement. The cost of inaction is death, however fast or slow that occurs.
Likewise, appreciation commonly comes too late, when those we care about have already left us. Jonathan was a man that I had seen for years in media—from John Redcorn in King of the Hill (1997) to His Tongue in the Rain in True Grit (2010), among others. He was someone that I knew largely by sight, a fact confirmed when seeing his photos, after his death. The moment I did, I thought to myself: "I know this man." To be frank, I didn't realize he was queer, but I have to admit I am not surprised, in hindsight. He strikes me as a wonderfully generous and kind soul—a fact confirmed by his final moment of courage, defending his lover from a queerphobic scoundrel with state backing. The latter lives a coward; Jonathan died a hero, and I will honor his bravery and that of his widower's, Tristan. Both deserve far better than the state and its lackeys have granted them. The state is straight (re: "They Hunger"), and this is proof of it.
Ignoring my propensity for thesis arguments, it's vital to remember Jonathan and his kind soul—not as a prop for white men to pimp and little else; e.g., Bad Face, in Sylvester Stallone's Tulsa King (2022) or again, His Tongue in the Rain, for the Coen's True Grit. "Before I am hanged, I wish to say..." Jonathan's character said, before the mask is pulled over his face to blind and muffle his words—the switch callously thrown, sending him to the bottom of an executioner's rope. What is this act of neglect and violence if not execution by stochastic terrorism? And the cops were in on it—as guilty as the killer was, himself. Jonathan wasn't silent, nor was Tristan; but I will speak up in the face of the violence affecting them, adding my voice to theirs. A bigotry for one is a bigotry for all.
I confess, my words aren't as devastatingly immediate as pocket sand. But the name of the game is solidarity versus our enemies wanting to divide us. Don't let them. Remind those who hate us that people like Jonathan Joss are human and always have been; honor the likes of them and Tristan Gonzales. Survive, solidarize and speak out in the face of such atrocities. Feel that pain and let it remind you that you are alive, but also in danger in ways that affect all of us differently towards a similar outcome: ethnic cleansing but also cultural cleansing. Violence against one queer person is violence against all queer folk and their allies, including Indigenous People. Fascism (and its moderate variants; re: the cops whitewashing Jonathan's murder) want us to feel afraid because they fear us, thus muffle our voices; their humanity is gone but ours is not, the best of such things immortalized through the awesome deeds that Jonathan upheld until the end. He died a hero, and his heroism live on, remembered by those who loved him.
Rest in power, comrade. Your quality is beyond measure and I will add you to my songs until my time comes, and we meet again in a world better than this one. When the state crumbles and fascism eats itself, we will be there, watching the chickens come home to roost.
About the Author
Persephone van der Waard is the author of the multi-volume, non-profit book series, Sex Positivity—its art director, sole invigilator, illustrator and primary editor (the other co-writer/co-editor being Bay Ryan). Persephone has her independent PhD in Gothic poetics and ludo-Gothic BDSM (focusing on partially on Metroidvania), and is a MtF trans woman, Tolkien and Amazon enthusiast, anti-fascist, atheist/Satanist, poly/pan kinkster, erotic artist/pornographer and anarcho-Communist with two partners. Including multiple playmates/friends and collaborators, Persephone and her many muses work/play together on Sex Positivity and on her artwork at large as a sex-positive force. That being said, she still occasionally writes reviews, Gothic analyses, and interviews for fun on her old blog (and makes YouTube videos talking about politics). To purchase illustrated or written material from Persephone (thus support the work she does), please refer to her commissions page for more information. Any money Persephone earns through commissions goes towards helping sex workers through the Sex Positivity project; i.e., by paying costs and funding shoots, therefore raising awareness. Likewise, Persephone accepts donations for the project, which you can send directly to her PayPal, Ko-Fi, Patreon or CashApp. Every bit helps!
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