Over the rest of the episode, Candy is given similar moments with many others. She assuages Angel that she can succeed as a model without retreating to prostitution, takes a silent moment to hum “Yes, Jesus Loves Me” with a solemn Blanca, and works through the complicated tension of her best-friendship with Lulu. She even has a moment with her estranged parents, telling her mother that she was her “gateway to the feminine” and finally seeing the approval she had undoubtedly been craving her entire life. “I think that each of these moments — some of which were subtle, some not — speak to somebody,” Ross says. “That’s what I thought was going to be the most powerful.”
Billy Porter agrees. In a separate conversation, the Tony Award-winner tells me, “I feel like our writers understand how important their position is, as artists, as creators, and as people who get to tell stories. In this medium, you have a responsibility to entertain and to educate.”
“How come nobody at the BET Awards is speaking up about Black trans murders?” Ross asks me. “We’re not there, so at least, since we’re not there, where are the supposed ‘allies’ that turned their profile picture purple for Spirit Day or whatever? … This show takes place in the ‘90s, but it’s 2019 and we’re still dying. Where are y’all at? When the mic is there in front of you, how are you going to use it?”
Of course, part of the educational appeal of this particular episode is how easily it translates to the lived experiences of trans women right now. Unfortunately, not everyone seems ready or willing to listen. During my respective conversations with Ross and Porter, both called attention to the lack of urgency there seems to be about violence against Black trans women within prominent Black media circles. “How come nobody at the BET Awards is speaking up about Black trans murders?” Ross asks me. “We’re not there, so at least, since we’re not there, where are the supposed ‘allies’ that turned their profile picture purple for Spirit Day or whatever? … This show takes place in the ‘90s, but it’s 2019 and we’re still dying. Where are y’all at? When the mic is there in front of you, how are you going to use it?”
While speaking about his own feelings of being left out of Black-centric media experiences like the BET and NAACP Awards, Porter plainly says, “I think it’s disgusting. It’s gross. They need to be called out and that’s what we’re doing. Now I’m in a position to start naming names.” The issue, according to Porter, is no longer one of politely asking for acceptance or tolerance. “Fuck that,” he tells me. “What I demand is respect for my existence and my humanity. If you think I’m going to hell, god bless you. But you need to respect my humanity as a human being and fight for me just as hard as you want everyone else to fight for you. I was there for y’all at the Million Man March. I was there for that shit. Where are y’all for us now?”
Taking all this into account, watching this episode can be hard. After all, there is no real separation between Candy’s unfortunate fate in the show’s fictionalized version of 1990s and in the fate of many women just like her, now, almost three decades later in 2019. But because Pose in the business of celebrating its trans characters (even as people in the real world turn a blind eye to their ongoing plight), Candy’s funeral ends on a high note. After spending the season fighting for the spotlight, the Mother of House Ferocity is finally given her tens.
During his closing remarks, Pray Tell announces that, in remembrance of Candy, he would be instating a new lip sync category for every ball. Almost immediately, Candy’s casket is pushed into the first of these new balls, where she christens the category by delivering Pose’s first lip sync — fittingly, to Stephanie Mills’ 1980 smash hit “Never Knew Love Like This Before.” As she glides around the room (“flanked by these beautiful, strong, dark-skinned Black men,” in her own words), Candy looks more confident and effortless than ever. It’s a triumphant moment for a character who had, up until this point, been defined by her inability to find her real place at the balls. Now, in her death, she can be fondly remembered as a winner — a trophy-collector.
Rest in peace, Candy. You’ll be missed.
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