Dear Reader,
My dad and I joke that reading The Sun is a family tradition, passed down through generations. Dad received his first gift subscription in the 1980s from his mom, whom I called Gan. Gan was the family matriarch, full of strong opinions on everything from the Reagan-infused politics of the day to the best way to brew a cup of tea. She had a booming, abundant laugh that I could feel reverberating through me, even over the phone. Whenever Gan called, she and Dad routinely discussed The Sun’s latest interviews, shared quotes from Sunbeams, and recommended favorite stories to each other. Back issues adorned our apartment’s coffee table, and Dad often read aloud from them to my mom and me in the evenings. His favorite pieces tended toward optimism, a reminder that the flickering candle of the human spirit is robust, expansive, and, above all, kind; that, even in complete darkness, connection to our shared humanity always illuminates the path forward.
Through this window into hundreds of other lives, I began to see how big the world really was, and that the troubles that plague us are also what make us most alike, regardless of our differences.
When I was eleven, my family moved into an Airstream trailer on the outskirts of Tucson, Arizona. Our Sun subscription followed us into the Sonoran Desert, where issues were now housed in a full-to-bursting magazine rack at the foot of my bed. My understanding of the world was limited then, and I was full of questions about my place in it. I was a boy living in a girl’s body, and I didn’t know any other transgender people—or even the word transgender. It was around this time that I began reading The Sun each night before going to sleep. Most of the interviews and feature-length stories were beyond my preteen comprehension. But the section I returned to religiously—so much, in fact, that at one point I knew each theme and its corresponding issue number by heart—was Readers Write. Entries were short, punchy, and often deeply profound. Through this window into hundreds of other lives, I began to see how big the world really was, and that the troubles that plague us are also what make us most alike, regardless of our differences.
Over the years I came to recognize recurring names in Readers Write—such as David Wood, a previously incarcerated person and Buddhist practitioner with a lifetime of misadventures to recount—but I also liked guessing at the identities of the anonymous contributors. One entry in particular stood out to me because the writer was from Tucson. She signed her piece “S.B.,” my mother’s initials. For several months I covertly fished for evidence that my mom might have actually written it, but too many details didn’t match up, and I had to abandon my theory. A few years later my English teacher noticed an issue of The Sun I’d brought to read between classes. She told me she’d once had a short piece published in The Sun—“But that was years ago, now.” I nodded, privately consulting my mental rolodex of back issues. The next day, I returned to school with the issue containing S.B.’s Readers Write piece and quietly placed it on my teacher’s desk. A gentle smile spread across her face. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s my story.”
As a Sun reader and now a writer, I’m continually amazed by how the magazine brings people together, often in the most far-reaching, coincidental, and unexpected ways. After my essay “The Beetle King” was published in 2022, I received kind messages from readers all over the country for whom my story about the angry little desert boy I’d once been had resonated. Friends and acquaintances I’d had no idea were Sun subscribers reached out to congratulate me. I was introduced to a friend’s mother, who thought my name sounded familiar but couldn’t place how. Later it came to her—she’d read my essay in The Sun. An English teacher from Tucson reached out on social media to say how much her seniors had enjoyed “The Beetle King.” It turned out she was teaching my essay at my former high school—a full-circle moment if I’ve ever seen one.
These days Dad and I take turns gifting each other Sun subscriptions. Now that I’m a parent, I have become the one reading aloud to my family from back issues and leaving them on our coffee table for my child to find. I look forward to the magazine’s arrival each month not only because I enjoy the insightful interviews, true-to-life stories, and stunning photography, but also because reading it reminds me that we are all, always, only a degree or two of separation away from one another—even from those who are no longer with us. Gan introduced our family to The Sun more than forty years ago. Now I hope my child, whose name honors her, will one day derive the same sense of connection and camaraderie from it.
Whether this is your first issue or your hundred-and-first, The Sun incites this kind of yearslong devotion because what it offers is timeless. If you value the human-centered work The Sun’s small, dedicated staff has championed for decades, and you wish to see it continue for generations to come, consider making a donation and becoming a Friend of The Sun. Even the smallest amount helps to keep the lights on and the doors open, but your contribution also goes toward putting the magazine directly into the hands of readers who need it most. As a lifelong reader, contributor, and subscriber, I can’t think of a better way to honor its legacy than to ensure its future. I hope you agree.
Zoë Bossiere
Sun contributor
Author, Cactus Country: A Boyhood Memoir
P.S. You can become a Friend of The Sun by donating here. Your gift is tax-deductible, and they’ll send a receipt for your records.
