In ballroom culture, reading is essential—a practice that challenges, critiques, and connects us. It’s not just about being sharp or witty, though it can be both of those things. Reading is about truth-telling, and sometimes that truth stings. It’s not always clean or easy; it’s messy, emotional, and imperfect, much like the communities it comes from. But at its heart, reading is a way to navigate conflict and hold each other accountable in spaces that don’t rely on punishment to address harm.

Ballroom has always been a world shaped by resistance. Black and Latinx queer and trans folks built it as a space where we could exist fully, away from the systems and structures that reject and erase us. Within that space, reading became a cultural practice—a way to call out what isn’t working, name behaviors that harm the community, and remind each other of the values we share. But reading isn’t just about critique; it’s about care. Even when it’s rough, even when it cuts deep, reading is rooted in the belief that we can—and must—be better for each other.

That said, reading isn’t perfect. It’s shaped by the same humanity that shapes everything we do, which means it can be flawed, even harmful, when we’re not careful. Sometimes a read lands harder than expected, touching on wounds that haven’t healed. Sometimes it feels less like accountability and more like a personal attack. These moments are real, and they remind us that reading, like any tool, depends on how we use it. It’s not just about what we say but why we’re saying it—and what we hope will happen afterward.

In ballroom, reading offers a way to resolve conflict that doesn’t lean on punishment or isolation. It’s inherently abolitionist, rejecting the idea that harm should be met with more harm. Instead, reading calls people in—though not always gently—to examine their actions and the impact they’ve had on others. This isn’t easy. A read can be painful, especially when it hits on something we weren’t ready to see in ourselves. It’s hard not to react defensively, not to push back or shut down. But if we can sit with the discomfort, there’s potential for growth—for ourselves and for the community.

At the same time, it’s important to acknowledge the emotional weight of being read or reading someone else. These moments aren’t always smooth or lighthearted. People’s feelings get involved, and sometimes egos get bruised. That’s part of the process. Reading asks us to be vulnerable, to show up not just as our best selves but as our full selves, flaws and all. It reminds us that conflict is an inevitable part of being in community, and that working through it requires honesty, care, and intention.

What’s remarkable about reading is that it doesn’t demand perfection. In fact, it makes space for imperfection, for the messy, complicated reality of human relationships. It’s not about getting it right every time; it’s about being willing to engage, to reflect, and to try again. Reading says, We’re in this together, and that means I'm going to hold you accountable—even when it's uncomfortable—because I believe in your capacity to grow.

Of course, this is easier said than done. Sometimes a read can feel less like care and more like a weapon, especially when it’s delivered in anger or frustration. And sometimes, even with the best intentions, a read doesn’t land the way it was meant to. These moments are hard, but they’re also opportunities to learn—not just about the person being read, but about ourselves. What are we bringing to this exchange? Are we acting out of hurt, or are we trying to build something better? Are we prepared to hear and hold the other person’s response, even if it’s not what we expected?

Reading is a two-way street. It’s not just about pointing out someone else’s flaws; it’s about creating a dialogue, even if that dialogue is uncomfortable. It’s about making space for accountability and for repair. And sometimes, it’s about sitting with the reality that the process isn’t going to feel good for everyone involved. That’s okay. Healing rarely happens without discomfort, and conflict, when approached with care, can be one of the most powerful tools for transformation.

What makes reading so powerful—and so challenging—is that it forces us to reckon with ourselves and with each other. It asks us to look at what we’re doing, why we’re doing it, and how it’s affecting the people around us. It’s a practice that holds us accountable while also holding us together, reminding us that conflict doesn’t have to break us apart. If anything, it can bring us closer—if we’re willing to do the work.

In ballroom, reading is as imperfect as the people who practice it. But it’s also a testament to the resilience and creativity of Black queer and trans life. It shows us that there are ways to navigate conflict that don’t rely on punishment or exclusion, ways that lean into the messiness of human relationships instead of running from it. And it reminds us that imperfection isn’t a failure; it’s part of what makes community possible. Reading invites us to embrace that imperfection, to work through it, and to grow together. It’s not easy, and it’s not always pretty. But it’s real—and that’s what makes it so vital.