Justin stepped into the blue corner, Sarah R stepped into the red. The reedy cry of the pai chawa, a traditional Thai instrument, croaked from the speakers. 

Then, with the high metallic clang of a bell, they pounced. And jabbed and swung their legs into high kicks. The audience cheered with each hit. It gasped at the near misses. 

Part of the drama—and the excitement—of the fight was that in any other space aside from this ring at Ballard Jiu Jitsu, these fighters aren’t even allowed to compete. The thrill of the fight was twofold: The exhilaration of hitting and being hit and the ability to actually, finally fight. 

Queer Fight Night runs one of the few martial arts tournaments in the US where trans people can easily compete. (Outside of these occasional tournaments, Queer Fight Night teaches monthly self-defense classes for queer and trans people, where I was punched in the head about one hundred times—I’d recommend it). The March tournament was the third and the biggest, and the next one, over Labor Day weekend, is just two months away. If someone is willing to compete against anyone of any gender, they’re welcome.

With another high “ding” of the bell, the fight ended. Justin and Sarah R, both sweating and marked with red gloveprints and footprints, hugged. The audience, which was made of a couple hundred queer and trans people, roared. 

Welcome to the Seattle Queer & Trans Martial Arts Tournament. 

In a world eager to ban trans athletes on the unproven basis of “biological advantage,” Queer Fight Night offers an opportunity for fun, competition, spilling some communal blood via friendly aggression, and cutting their knuckles on what was, for many of the fighters, their very first time in the ring. The March event was only the third iteration of the event that originally started as a birthday party. It drew over 100 eager fighters. The next fight night over Labor Day weekend promises to be even bigger. 

A few hours before the first fight, about 100 people in folding chairs nodded along to the tournament rules. They were fighters, lovers and friends and family and they’d come from all over the country and as far as Europe. Tournament organizer Gwen Roote stood by the door. Her co-organizer read the rules from a sheet of paper: No spinning backfists. Don’t hit the  spine or head. Groin protection wasn’t a rule, but by all means, protect the bits. Dozens of hands shot up when they asked for questions.

Roote, who offered to braid the hair of anyone who asked, held the first queer and trans tournament to celebrate her birthday. She had only competed a little before she transitioned, but missed it. It was fun, and she had trouble finding a space. Even when she is willing to compete against cis men, they’re not always willing to compete with her. She says other tournaments have left the final say to the other fighters. Another tournament said she could totally compete, but only if she wrestled bare-chested. (It goes without saying why a woman does not want to wrestle with men bare-chested.) 

Queer Fight Night doesn’t put people in that position. Everyone is welcome to compete—but only as long as they’re willing to compete with anyone at their skill level. And those skill levels, and reasons for coming, were all over the place.

Alex, a boxer from Seattle, said they’d only started training last winter to burn off pent-up energy. Aurora, who doesn’t use a last name, but is willing to sell the open slot to interested sponsors, says she wants to be a superhero for trans people. In her matching blue shorts and sports bra, she even looked the part. Katie Christensen came from Cedar Rapids, Iowa. At 43, she knew she’d never be a world champion. But she could at least show the world that trans people belonged in the ring, even as their states were pushing them out. As of Tuesday, Iowa’s civil rights protections no longer include gender identity, and trans people born in the state can’t change the sex on their birth certificate. Christensen tried to get a all-queer boxing class going at home, but people were too scared to go, she says.

"That's why I'm here, doing something like this," she says. (Later, a swift right hook took Christensen down in the first round.) 

Also in the crowd was Alana McLaughlin, a world-famous fighter and one of only two transgender women to compete in a professional MMA match. She was on the night’s title card, and lost to Abigail Austin, aka Abby X, another trans woman who volunteers for Queer Fight Night and runs Seattle's Red Panda Boxing, a trans-inclusive Muay Thai gym. (“Red Panda” is a bit of a misnomer: The gym’s mascot is a pomeranian, who sat in Austin’s lap during our phone call).

Austin was rarely far from the ring. Before her match, I saw her scuttling around, cornering fighters, and helping others warm up. She moved here from Indiana (a state that also banned trans people from changing their birth certificates) to start Red Panda Boxing a few months ago. Just this week, it moved from Ballard Jiu Jitsu to a new space in Capitol Hill.

Austin, who also teaches self-defense classes with Queer Fight Night (her student punched me in the head, which again, I’d recommend), says a lot of American fighting culture has a toxic fixation of “destroying” opponents. She’s not interested in recreating it. Competition is important—trans people need a place to strive like anyone else—but so is uplifting each other. It’s also important to teach trans people—who are largely seeking out martial arts because they’re scared they’ll have to fend off an attack one day—to have fun. The positive vibes, the hugging, the cheering? It’s no accident.

"This is why at our event we uphold those values to make them explicit, overt," she says. "We want each other to do well."

On fight night, co-founder Roote stood clutching a microphone in front of a giant pile of near-identical Doc Marten boots. She addressed the shoeless, but not sockless (thank God) crowd, who sat cross-legged on big blue sparring mats. At the back, people stood against the wall with their arms crossed. Those who were too far to see the action, or had their view blocked by the pillars at the center of the room, craned their necks toward a flat-screen TV mounted on the ceiling. It played a live camera feed from above the ring. 

Before the fights, Roote reminded the crowd not to take photos. Even though everyone fighting was happy to be fighting, this event was just the kind of thing the far-right may seize on. 

But for most of the night, a boisterous emcee named Mar was in control.

"Welcome to the rumble in rain city!" they said, welcoming the crowd to the first of twenty-two "whopping, astounding" fights. The sun had only just set, casting the bridge pylons outside in pale blue light. 

People smoking outside and watched through the front window. A fight had just finished.

"Send them all the good energy in the world," Mar said. "It's hard to take multiple kicks in the leg."

Tad Schultejans stood nervously in the red corner. It was their first ever kickboxing match. Their coach, Mad Green, hung off the side. A wave of brown hair peeked from under the green bandana on their head. Both fighter and coach had flown in from St. Louis, Missouri, along with eight members of their own “Queer Fight Club,” who chattered excitedly in front of me. 

Green’s Queer Fight Club started as an art school project. The idea was to start a fight club and document it relentlessly. But after the camera came down, the club kept going. They still teach three classes a week.

It’s a habit: Green grew up fighting. They’d learned from their father, a now long-retired amateur MMA fighter. As a kid, they competed in gyms all over Missouri they remembered as "toxic, remote" places. 

"It was not about joining a community and letting rage out," Green says. "It was being an individual who could kill another person."

Schultejans also grew up around martial arts, but stayed away from their Dad’s martial arts school out of fear. Though he encouraged Schultejans to take classes like their brother did, Schultejans couldn’t kick the feeling that they’d try and fail spectacularly. The feeling stuck until one frustrating day. They were sitting in their car after class and ruminating on a fight with a friend that had robbed their punches of power during class. And they decided they were done letting their head get in the way of their hands. They’ve punched hard since.  

With the bell, Schultejans rushed at their opponent, who staggered backward. Nothing dissuaded Schultejans. Not a nasty jab to the face in the first round, or the exhaustion that hung on their shoulders in the second. In the third round, they flew forward again and pistoned until the bell rang.

The referee held Schultejans’s red glove in the air. Green ran to their friends. 

"Y'all, that was so awesome," they said. Their smile was enormous.