QueerAF Partnership: How Wales Does Ballroom Right

I first stumbled into Ballroom as a queer teenager from the Welsh valleys who’d spent years being bullied. The scene in Cardiff was the first place where I didn’t have to hide. 

I found a community that moved with purpose and taught newcomers to honour the Black and Latinx trans women who built Ballroom long before any of us arrived. Now, at 20, three years after I first walked in, like the many before me who’ve found comfort and community in the scene, I can fiercely recognise how pivotal it’s been in my life. 

Ballroom culture was born in a spirit of defiance by Black and Latinx trans women in 1970s New York. Women who built their own world when the rest of society, and even the beauty standards of white queer people, refused them one. Houses became chosen families; runways became safe ground. 

Across its fifty-year evolution, Ballroom has passed through several eras shaped by the needs of its community and are colloquially known in the community by colours. The early Black Era in the 70s was rooted in survival and protest. During the HIV/AIDS crisis, it was known as the Red era in honour of the red ribbon which became an international signal of the struggle. This was a time when, as depicted in Pose, houses became lifelines. More eras followed before the current Purple Era brought global visibility and a stronger digital presence. These eras remind us how Ballroom has adapted, endured, and protected its people. 

But as Ballroom has spread across the globe, particularly through Europe, that defiance in some cases has become diluted. The aesthetics have been borrowed, but the politics left behind. 

In some cities with large white populations, many scenes have been criticised for being quietly “recolonised”, with white queer participants dominating spaces while the Black trans foundations fade from view. 

And yet, Wales has done it differently.

The Welsh Ballroom scene, bold and beautifully intentional, has carved out a model of what respect looks like in practice. At its heart are organisers who insist on teaching history alongside technique. 

Before you learn to dip or duckwalk, you are encouraged to learn about Crystal LaBeija, the House of Latex, and the Black queer history that has survived multiple eras of Ballroom. You also learn through “Know Your History” sessions run by leaders of the scene. Ballroom isn’t just about competition or glamour; it is about survival, defiance, and chosen family. 

Tayo and Supreme Bulgari Prada, two leading figures in Welsh Ballroom, have become known for their insistence on context. They have invited Black trans women from New York, the birthplace of Ballroom, to lead sessions and share their lived knowledge. Among them is Aja Miyake-Mugler, whose presence connected Wales directly to the heart of Ballroom. From across the Channel, Kendall Miyake-Mugler from Paris, France, representing the leading chapter of Ballroom in Europe, has also lent his voice and expertise. It’s not tokenism. It’s lineage. And that is what makes Wales shine. 

Part of Wales’ success may lie in its scale. The intimacy of the scene allows for accountability. People know each other well. There is a collective understanding that Ballroom is a living culture, not an aesthetic to consume. Despite Wales being a largely white country, people of colour are pushed to the frontlines. Ballroom is a safe space for all, but a vital haven for many.

As Ballroom’s popularity continues to soar, especially in the wake of TV shows like Pose and Legendary, the Welsh are setting an example for upcoming scenes. It reminds us that celebration and education are not opposites; they feed each other. You cannot fully live the fantasy of Ballroom without knowing the harsh reality that built it. 

For Wales, a country often framed as small or peripheral, to be leading by example in global queer culture is something worth celebrating. It shows that respect doesn’t limit creativity. It gives it meaning. 

The Welsh scene gave me the confidence that carried me into the wider world, and into London’s Ballroom scene, where that lineage still guides me. Wales showed me that reverence and creativity can coexist, and that respect is an action, not an aesthetic. Ballroom was born from Black trans resistance, and in Wales that truth is not only remembered but actively upheld. From Cardiff to the catwalk, Wales proves that progress in queer culture doesn’t mean rewriting the past, but honouring those who danced it first. 

This article is part of a QueerAF and Inclusive Journalism Cymru partnership dedicated to uplifting Welsh LGBTQIA+ emerging and marginalised journalists. 

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