LGBTQ+

Karla Jay remembers joining the second night of street protests during the 1969 Stonewall uprising in New York City. For her, and for so many other LGBTQ+ people, something had shifted: People were angry. They didn’t want things to go back to normal — because normal meant police raids. Normal meant living underground. It meant hiding who they were at their jobs and from their families. They wanted a radical change.

Radical change meant organizing. Jay joined a meeting with the Gay Liberation Front, which would become the incubator for the modern LGBTQ+ political movement and proliferate in chapters across the country. At those meetings, she remembers discussing what freedom could look like. Holding hands with a lover while walking down the street, without fear of getting beaten up, one person said. Another said they’d like to get married. At the time, those dreams seemed impossible.

To fight back, LGBTQ+ Americans need to organize, Jay said. That starts with thinking locally — supporting local artists, independent stores and small presses, as well as LGBTQ+ organizations taking demonstrable political action and protecting queer culture.

“See what you can do without going crazy. If you can focus on one thing and you can spend one hour a week, or you can spend one day a week, that’s much better than being depressed and doing nothing,” she said. “Because the person you’re going to help is yourself. This is the time for all of us to step up.”

In the late 1970s and early ‘80s, Paul M. would often fill himself with liquid courage before he slipped through the doors of Club LaGrange, a gay bathhouse that occupied a worn but majestic brownstone in a gritty slice of downtown Boston.

Up a flight of stairs, he’d approach the counter, supply his name and some cash, before proceeding to a room or locker, where he’d stow his clothes and don a towel. Then, for the night, he was anonymous and free to explore the showers, saunas and private rooms of the club—each space a new opportunity to cruise for sex.

“I was young, horny and in the closet,” says Paul, now 82 years old; the bathhouses—outside the gaze of the more public gay bars—filled a need for him.

Boston never had a legendary gay bathhouse scene like those in New York or San Francisco—partly due to a hangover of “Puritan prudishness” that augured a tamer scene overall, according to historians. Boston’s gay community, some of its own members admit, was not as “wild” or uninhibited as those in other large American cities. But for a period in the 1970s and ’80s, a string of baths in the city gave gay men like Paul crucial community spaces—which were also on the forefront of public health, before and after the AIDS crisis hit.

Since 2020, there has been a swell of anti-trans and anti-LGBTQ legislation, all running parallel to attacks on reproductive care, immigrant rights, and education. According to Trans Legislation Tracker, there are currently 569 active bills in the United States and nine have passed. Though some of this legislation may pass, it is important to note that the vast majority of anti-trans legislation fails, in part due to their own unpopularity and the dedicated work of organizers. (The Republican majority is paper thin in both the Senate and the House, which also may make it challenging to enact Trump’s agenda.)

Now, grassroots organizations—specifically those led by and with trans people—are uniquely poised to not only help their communities weather the storm but also challenge the policies and attitudes that harm trans people in the first place.

“I see the moment as an opportunity. An opportunity for trans leaders to really, really get engaged, unite, and speak in one voice,” says Sean Ebony Coleman, founder and CEO of Destination Tomorrow, a LGBTQ grassroots organization working in New York City, Atlanta, and Washington, D.C. “Folks that understand history know that we’ve seen some of these tactics before, so that means there are ways to push back.”

The LGBTQIA+ community contains so many diverse identities and perspectives that, sometimes, groups can be overlooked. This is certainly true for asexual and aromantic communities – demographics whose experiences are often misunderstood or misinterpreted, both within and out with the queer community.

However, to truly understand the spectrums of desire and love, it’s crucial that we educate ourselves about and advocate for ace and aro folks. Whether it’s reading about identities like fraysexual and demisexual that sit on either end of the ace spectrum, correcting harmful assumptions that ace or aro identities can be “cured”, or signal-boosting the work of ace-aro activists like Yasmin Benoit, there is so much that allies can do.

When it comes to aromantic identities, there is particularly limited visibility in the media and wider culture. For questioning folks, that means that there is little representation out there that validates or mirrors their perspective. Our society is so obsessed with the idea of romantic love as an ideal that most alloromantic (non-aromantic) individuals may not even know about alternative models of experiencing love.

Drag the Vote, launched March 6, is a partnership of more than 140 drag artists and allies who are using their social followings to warn against a rising tide of fear, hate and misinformation about LGBTQ2S+ people in Canada. It’s a trend they say is spurred by politically right-wing and conservative voices who appear to be gaining traction ahead of this year’s federal election.

“We’re trying to show people that you can use your vote in a responsible way, to promote a party or parties that will positively reflect our values and defend queer and trans rights,” says Karla Marx, a Calgary-based drag artist and originator of the Drag the Vote campaign in partnership with the queer advocacy organization Momentum.

Drag the Vote boasts the support of several Canada’s Drag Race alumni, including Priyanka, Xana, Bombae, Uma Gahd and more. It also features drag kings such as Eddi Licious, as well as artists who live outside of big cities like Yukon’s Maddy Warbucks and New Brunswick’s Rose Beef.

“A lot of performers want a way to use their platforms to respond to this terrifying rise in hate,” says Fae Johnstone, Momentum’s executive director and co-founder of Drag the Vote. “Performers will be doing social media posts, videos, distributing resources, posters, stickers—and then we’ll have Drag the Vote shows once voting registration happens.”

This article felt like a little spot of light among all the bleak news recent, so I thought I would share.

Free, seriously.

No hidden costs, no strings attached – just genuine support and assistance when you need it most. And it's all confidential. If you are a trans person in need of flight assistance for you upcoming gender affirming care, reach out to us below.

(NOTE: According to Federal regulation, beginning on May 7, 2025, U.S. travelers must be REAL ID compliant to board domestic flights. If you need to travel on or after May 7, 2025, we will not be able to service you unless you have a REAL ID.)

With anti-trans legislation taking shape across Canada, the question of which jurisdictions remain safe for trans people is on a lot of people’s minds. Transfeminine jurist and activist Celeste Trianon began producing the Canadian Anti-Trans Risk Map in 2023 to provide some answers. The map colour-codes each Canadian province and territory, as well as the country as a whole, according to the level of risk each jurisdiction’s government poses to its trans residents. Inspired by a similar project in the U.S., produced by trans journalist and public commentator Erin Reed, Trianon wanted to visualize the anti-trans political movement so she could answer the question, “I’m planning on moving to Canada: where should I go?”

Legal literacy is important to Trianon, who is based in Montreal, Quebec. Much of the general population “has no idea what is happening, especially with respect to legislation” targeting trans rights, she says. But some parts of Canada are much worse for trans people than others, and people, both within the LGBTQ2S+ community and without, need to know the difference.

Trianon works from the assumption that every jurisdiction—be it a province, territory or the country as a whole—is at “medium risk” of enacting a law or policy that harms trans people. Since she began monitoring anti-trans legal developments, Trianon has noticed the “biggest shift” in Alberta and Saskatchewan, where anti-trans legislation has been passed, and Manitoba and New Brunswick, “where things have gone down,” she says. Alberta currently ranks on her map as having the “worst active anti-trans laws,” thanks to recent provincial legislation restricting gender-affirming healthcare for trans youth and making it more difficult for all youth to change their names and pronouns at school.

She deems Manitoba, New Brunswick and Yukon to be “low risk” jurisdictions. These are provinces and territories that have taken active steps to be more inclusive and protective of their trans residents.

Hungary's annual Budapest Pride should be held in a "closed venue" this year rather than processing along an avenue in central Budapest as previously, Prime Minister Viktor Orban's Chief of Staff said on Wednesday, citing child protection.

For all the LGBTQ+ individuals I bonded with in prison, including the three I spoke with to talk about their tattoos, ink connected them with others through identities, experiences, cultures, and values. These connections are crucial to making prison time easier, for creating safety, and for stealing joy in a place that isn’t designed for it.

In the wake of the executive orders threatening to cut federal funding to programs providing gender affirming care, the clinic did make some changes to its public-facing communications. “We were asked to take our pronouns out of our signature box, and information about our gender-affirming support groups and care was taken off the website,” said Quinn, who requested I not identify the location, name, or type of clinic out of fear of retribution. “But groups and individuals are still meeting with their providers.

“The actual care has continued, because it’s ethical medical care.”

Quinn is one of countless healthcare workers across the United States mobilizing to support the young transgender and gender-diverse patients they care for, as the Trump administration unleashes a flurry of executive orders, and political attacks, aimed at limiting this population’s ability to exist openly in the world.

Within this climate, many workers, like Quinn, are mobilizing in private. Others are taking action in the open as union members, participating in protests against hospitals that roll back services or staging creative actions to show support for their patients. While no one is free from fear of repercussions, those organizing as union members seemed more comfortable going on the record, and those who are retired especially so.

But every healthcare worker I talked to said they are desperate to do what they can to stem a mounting attack on an already vulnerable population and keep providing care that they fervently believe saves lives. “I have seen what not providing gender-affirming care looks like, and objectively speaking, it results in worsening mental health issues, can result in increased mortality, and can worsen patient outcomes,” Andrea Soto López, a pediatrician for a Los Angeles-area hospital, told me over the phone.

Transphobia and homophobia are common in Nigeria, which has no legal protections for LGBTQ+ people. The Same-Sex Marriage (Prohibition) Act of 2014 reinforced existing colonial-era laws that criminalized same-sex activity as “carnal knowledge against the order of nature,” punishable by up to 14 years imprisonment. The 2014 act went further than the original laws by banning marriages and civil unions, the operation of gay organizations and social clubs, public expressions of LGBTQ+ identity and advocacy of LGBTQ+ rights. In northern Nigeria, where Sharia law operates, homosexual activity can be punishable by death by stoning. There is no specific provision in the 2014 law covering trans people, but it is not possible to legally change your gender in the country and gender-affirming health care is hard to access. Trans Nigerians seeking hormone therapy typically obtain drugs through international pharmacies online and take them at home without guidance from medical professionals. Cross-dressing is prohibited under Sharia law in the north and the Nigerian military; in recent years, some lawmakers have attempted to pass a federal ban.

Area Mama’s murder took place amid rapidly spreading misinformation about LGBTQ+ rights in Nigeria, resulting in a surge in transphobia and homophobia. On social media, fans mourned the loss of Area Mama, whose content provided one of the few examples of a publicly out trans person living in the country. “I remember how unapologetic she was about being herself, and how beautifully her energy radiated every time she came on screen,” said Victoria, a Lagos-based queer woman who was in law school in Abuja at the time of Area Mama’s murder. Almost 6,000 people signed a petition calling for the Nigerian Ministry of Justice to take “immediate and decisive action” to thoroughly investigate her murder, categorize it as a hate crime, end violence against LGBTQ+ people and advocate for legislative reforms. At the same time, Nigerians posted hateful messages on Area Mama’s videos, misgendering her and saying that she deserved to die. No one expects the petition to put significant pressure on authorities or the government. Members of Nigeria’s queer community have come to accept that they only have each other — and that to live safely as themselves, they have to do so underground.

Organizations that support the rights of trans and non-binary people are sometimes able to operate more openly because the 2014 act lacks a specific provision against trans people. Creme De La Crème (CDLC), for example, a Nigerian transgender and non-binary rights foundation, has been able to operate despite the hostile environment. The organization works with Nigeria’s National Human Rights Commission, a non-governmental group that promotes and protects human rights in the country, to educate state bodies, such as the Nigerian military, on the experiences of trans Nigerians. Even so, Franklin Ejiogu, CDLC’s executive director, said the organization’s offices and safe shelters have been raided repeatedly. CDLC has moved headquarters on multiple occasions and is now looking to buy its own properties to safeguard against threats from landlords and the public that can lead to raids.

Rather than lobby for national policy change, which they know is a losing battle given the government’s staunch anti-LGBTQ+ stance, many organizations prioritize smaller-scale efforts to improve the daily lives of queer folks. They run education initiatives to improve representation and stop the spread of misinformation, including hosting in-person panels, which they publicize as relating to “equality” rather than LGBTQ+ rights specifically. They also publish online material on the queer experience in Nigeria. In one episode of Q Convos, a podcast featuring conversations on queer identity and culture run by The Initiative for Equal Rights (TIERs), five queer Nigerians discuss the prevalence of kito, a slang term for people who entrap, assault and extort queer people through dating apps, as well as other luring mechanisms.

I recall a few of us at a vigil for Christian Paige, on a freezing Chicago morning, right by the Picasso statue at City Hall. We started leafletting but were practically invisible. Then they drifted in, in twos and threes, and suddenly there was a crowd of trans people, and for that one morning everyone going into or out of Chicago City Hall knew the name “Christian Paige” and that she had been killed in their city.

Fast forward two decades. I was reading CNN when I came across a photo that stopped me cold: A nationwide rally had been called to protest the murders of Black trans women like Debbie and Christian, and in New York City alone thousands of people showed up, all in white t-shirts.

I stared at that picture for a long time. It still gives me chills.

Our protests today show that we won’t take the assaults on our lives lying down. They show we will stand up on our hind legs and fight back. We don’t need cisgender acceptance, but we do demand our basic human rights.

Just had an interaction that reminded me of this.

I was a daycare teacher for 3 years, and I'm a cishet dude. My daycare had a policy in their contract that men were not allowed in the infant room. This had gone unchallenged since the 90s, when it was written. I apparently was the first man to challenge it, and it was entirely by accident. All I did was offer to sub for an infant teacher, not knowing the contract, and this triggered a whole beurocraric thing that resulted in the contract being rewritten.

I know I'm far from the first man to work there. Did every other man who worked there think they were unqualified to change a diaper? To pat a baby to sleep? To feed a little one in a high chair?

And this isn't even touching on how I got stuck with the 4s because my boss expected me to be scary because I'm a man. I don't have an aggressive bone in my body. Thankfully they learned that fast.

I also had to deal with plenty of parents who seemed unable to comprehend a man who actually want to be a caregiver. Clearly Mr. Teacher must have ulterior motives! I must be a gay who is trying to corrupt the youth! I must want to abduct children! I have had so many parents try to accuse me of the worst things because they can't imagine a man who actually likes children.

And so much of this was from the dads. Sir, you have a child! Are you telling you that you don't want to be around your child? That you are so repulsed by your child that you can't imagine other men thinking they are pretty neat?

I am not looking forward to seeing other people react to me parenting my own children. I hate how the patriarchy makes men beat down other men. Men should be allowed to want to be dads.