Rows of headstones marked with American flags stretch across a military cemetery at sunset as a lone service member salutes in remembrance of the fallen men and women who gave their lives in service to the United States. (Image generated by ChatGPT using DALL·E, 2026.)
Every year on Memorial Day, people thank veterans for their service.
I understand why. Most people mean well. They want to show respect to those who wore the uniform, and I appreciate that sentiment. But Memorial Day was never intended to be a celebration of living veterans. That is what Veterans Day is for.
Memorial Day is something different.
It is a day set aside to remember the men and women who never came home.
As a veteran myself, that distinction matters deeply to me. I served in the United States Navy during the era of Operation Desert Storm aboard the USS Minneapolis-Saint Paul. I came home. I was able to continue my life, build a future, struggle, grow, love, fail, succeed, and simply continue existing. The people Memorial Day honors were denied that opportunity.
That is the sacrifice we are meant to remember.
Memorial Day is not about performative patriotism or turning military service into an abstraction. It is not about glorifying war. It is certainly not about reducing remembrance to sales events, social media slogans, or a long holiday weekend without reflection. It is about human beings whose lives ended in service to their country.
Behind every name engraved on a memorial wall was a real person. Someone who had favorite songs, inside jokes, dreams for the future, people they loved, and people who loved them. Some were barely adults. Some left behind spouses and children. Some never had the chance to become who they might have been.
When we lose sight of that humanity, Memorial Day becomes hollow.
I think one reason this misunderstanding happens so often is because American culture tends to merge all military remembrance together into one broad category of “supporting the troops.” But Memorial Day carries a solemn purpose. It is closer in spirit to a funeral than a celebration.
For veterans, especially, this day can carry complicated emotions. Many of us knew people who did not make it home. Others think about how easily circumstances could have been different. Military service creates an understanding of mortality that often stays with a person forever. Memorial Day brings those thoughts closer to the surface.
It should.
We should feel the weight of it.
That does not mean people cannot gather with family or enjoy the day. Life continuing is part of what those who died were protecting. But somewhere amid the cookouts, gatherings, and long weekend traditions, there should also be a moment of silence and honest remembrance.
A moment to think about the cost of war.
A moment to think about the young lives lost across generations.
A moment to remember that freedom is not an abstract phrase. For many families, it came with unbearable personal loss.
I also believe Memorial Day should challenge us to think more carefully about how casually nations sometimes enter conflicts. Honoring the dead should include respecting the gravity of sending human beings into war in the first place. Remembering sacrifice means understanding that these losses were not symbols. They were people.
Today, I am not asking anyone to thank me for my service.
Instead, I ask people to remember those who gave everything and never had the chance to come home.
That is what Memorial Day is for.
Transgender Pornography Is Performance, Not Representation
By Katherine Walter
On July 16, 2026
In adult films
A stylized editorial composition pairs bold typography with filmmaking imagery, including a director’s chair under studio lights, to emphasize the essay’s central argument that transgender pornography is a staged form of entertainment rather than a representation of transgender lives. The image underscores the distinction between commercial fantasy and lived experience while affirming that supporting transgender pornography is compatible with recognizing its representational limitations. (Image generated by ChatGPT using DALL·E, 2026.)
Whenever people discuss transgender pornography, I think it’s important to begin with an honest admission: I support transgender pornography. I don’t believe there is anything inherently wrong with consenting adults creating or consuming adult content. Sex work is work, performers deserve respect, and transgender performers deserve the same autonomy over their bodies and careers as anyone else.
At the same time, I think we need to be honest about what transgender pornography is—and what it isn’t.
Pornography is entertainment. It is staged. It is directed. It is edited. It is created to satisfy an audience. It has never been an accurate representation of how people actually live, love, or experience their sexuality.
Transgender pornography is no different.
For decades, the largest commercial market for transgender pornography has been cisgender men. Like every successful entertainment industry, producers have responded to the desires of their customers. The stories, camera work, performers, marketing, and even the terminology used have largely been shaped by what sells to that audience.
That doesn’t make transgender pornography bad.
It simply means we shouldn’t mistake it for a documentary about transgender lives.
As a transgender woman myself, I often find that mainstream transgender pornography doesn’t speak to me. That’s not because I object to pornography—quite the opposite. It’s because so much of it is produced through the lens of what cisgender men find appealing rather than what transgender women themselves might find authentic, relatable, or emotionally engaging.
I would love to see more transgender pornography created by transgender people, for transgender audiences, or at least with our perspectives in mind. Stories that reflect our relationships, our intimacy, our humor, our vulnerability, and the many different ways we experience attraction and desire.
Instead, much of the industry revolves around familiar commercial formulas. Performers become fantasy figures rather than complete people. The focus is on creating a particular erotic experience for the viewer, not portraying the diversity of transgender lives.
Again, that isn’t unique to transgender pornography.
Mainstream heterosexual pornography is not an accurate depiction of heterosexual relationships. Lesbian pornography produced for straight men often bears little resemblance to the lived experiences of many lesbians. Gay pornography is designed to entertain its audience, not to document everyday gay life. Every genre emphasizes fantasy over realism.
Transgender pornography follows the same commercial model.
The problem arises when people have little or no real-life interaction with transgender people and pornography becomes their primary source of information. They begin to assume that what they see on screen reflects how transgender women generally look, behave, think, or approach relationships.
It doesn’t.
Porn performers are actors. Scenes are planned. Directors make creative choices. Editing removes awkward moments. Bodies are selected because they fit a particular aesthetic. The finished product is designed to arouse viewers—not to educate them about transgender people.
That’s why it’s important to separate fantasy from reality.
Transgender women are as varied as any other group of people. We are professionals, students, artists, parents, veterans, athletes, scientists, retail workers, and everything in between. Some of us enjoy making pornography. Most of us do not. Our identities cannot be reduced to a category on an adult website.
Supporting transgender pornography and recognizing its limitations are not contradictory positions.
I can appreciate adult entertainment while also acknowledging that it is a commercial product built around audience demand. I can celebrate the performers while recognizing that the industry’s priorities do not necessarily reflect the experiences of transgender women as a whole.
Pornography is performance.
The sooner people understand that, the easier it becomes to appreciate it for what it is—fantasy created for entertainment—without confusing it for a realistic portrait of an entire community.