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When wolves cry wolf

Friday marks six years since the #MeToo movement went viral

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Sam Schultz (Photo courtesy of Sam Schultz)

BY SAM SCHULTZ | The voices of sexual assault survivors are typically muted or silenced, particularly in the LGBTQIA+ community. We’ve seen the media and our courts focus on perpetrators without acknowledging the impact on those of us fighting a system and a culture that sweeps victims’ stories under the rug.

Within the queer community there is a familiar similarity in the response (denial and distraction) of powerful men accused of sexual assault. These are sadly not isolated incidents within the queer community. We just don’t talk about them, at least not publicly. A discussion about consent within our community is imperative as society continues to bring attention to this conversation at large.

As young queer people, many of us are objectified and reduced to conquests by often older or more powerful peers. We learn to believe that our primary value to many is sex rather than equal treatment and respect. While society rightly talks a lot about women who are objectified and targeted, we barely acknowledge that sexual assault is an issue in the LGBTQIA+ community.

We’ve seen countless examples in the media in which victims of sexual assault experience more ridicule and hatred than the perpetrators. Sexual predators broadly deny their criminal behavior while their victims spend a great deal of time recovering from the trauma predators cause. With constant denials, predators often receive support from their friends and fans who rush to their defense without any facts about the crime. Victims are demonized and shamed despite evidence and corroboration, even in the face of prosecutions, indictments and convictions. 

In an effort to gain equality and respect, the queer community has often turned away from the reality of sexual assault in our own community. 

When one of my attackers, David Daniels, was granted tenure at the University of Michigan in 2018, I knew that I needed to come forward about what he and his husband did to me. I felt devastatingly sure that I wasn’t the only person he victimized, and I felt an overwhelming responsibility to prevent future rapes. The #MeToo movement championing accountability was making progress, and I had been in therapy for years to process the assault in ways that honored my dignity and didn’t destroy me. Empowered, I felt confident in my decision to cry foul.

Before I exposed the truth, I thought I knew what coming forward might mean for me. I was reluctantly prepared for media attention and scrutiny, as well as a shadow that would hover over my personal and professional life. I was aware that this news would be uncomfortable for a lot of people, especially since the men who raped me had power, status and wealth. 

I wrote a public statement about how being raped impacted my life and career in the years that followed. I spoke with investigators who brought charges against David Daniels and Scott Walters, the men who have recently admitted to raping me. After the District Attorney’s office assigned a prosecutor to this case, a trial date of April 2, 2020, was set. Multiple young men came forward with their own experiences alleging abuse. The University of Michigan completed an investigation into Daniels’ abusive behavior as alleged by 20 students, and the Board of Regents unanimously fired him without severance on the basis of what they found; a rarity at this institution. Yet even after the university’s investigation into the behavior of David Daniels, I remain the scapegoat for his firing by many of his friends and fans in an effort to distract and deflect. 

Why are we inclined to believe denials even when crimes are brought to light? Victims face accusations of attention-seeking when we come forward publicly, and we face accusations of cowardice when reporting anonymously. As a society, we see countless examples of predators calling their reckoning a witch hunt, but is the burden placed on victims not exactly that?

The power dynamics that pervade these crimes often include a charismatic and familiar predator and their less-powerful prey. Yet charisma is not synonymous with integrity, even through a queer lens. When one lives with integrity, one understands the potential to reconcile our mistakes. The dominant denial script of predators lacks that integrity. Predators do not want to admit or be held accountable for their actions because of the consequences they might face. Despite any consequences they may experience, rapists do not live with the nightmarish reality they’ve inflicted on their victims.  

When a survivor comes forward after years or decades, people often ask “why now and not right away?”. Sadly, it’s because my experience is the devastating norm — coming forward means accepting delayed justice at best.

The general public, especially those identifying as part of the queer population, people like you reading about my and others’ experiences, must be kinder and more compassionate to victims and resolve to believe them more. No one asks for rape or enjoys the recovery that follows, whether they come forward or remain silent. Those who do come forward accept the unenviable responsibility of holding sexual predators accountable so that others are spared from knowing the horrific, inflicted pain. Our government, and all systems, must improve the treatment of and resources for victims of sexual assault.

As survivors, we prove that we are stronger than our oppressors. And elusive as hope may seem, hope is what drives the recovery. As we commit to seeking justice, should not the criminals commit to accountability, regardless of the consequences? No matter how many people may come forward to hold the perpetrator of their abuse accountable, does a guilty plea (and then denial) invalidate that many accusations? And will we accept the evasive denials that permeate the responses to allegations of sexual misconduct?

Sam Schultz is an accomplished singer, runner and advocate. They recently found justice after experiencing sexual assault in 2010.

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Stand with displaced queer people living with HIV

Dec. 1 is World AIDS Day

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(Bigstock photo)

Today, on World AIDS Day, we honor the resilience, courage, and dignity of people living with HIV everywhere especially refugees, asylum seekers, and queer displaced communities across East Africa and the world.

For many, living with HIV is not just a health journey it is a journey of navigating stigma, borders, laws, discrimination, and survival.

Yet even in the face of displacement, uncertainty, and exclusion, queer people living with HIV continue to rise, thrive, advocate, and build community against all odds.

To every displaced person living with HIV:

• Your strength inspires us.

• Your story matters.

• You are worthy of safety, compassion, and the full right to health.

• You deserve a world where borders do not determine access to treatment, where identity does not determine dignity, and where your existence is celebrated not criminalized.

Let today be a reminder that:

• HIV is not a crime.

• Queer identity is not a crime.

• Seeking safety is not a crime.

• Stigma has no place in our communities.

• Access to treatment, care, and protection is a human right.

As we reflect, we must recommit ourselves to building systems that protect not punish displaced queer people living with HIV. We must amplify their voices, invest in inclusive healthcare, and fight the inequalities that fuel vulnerability.

Hope is stronger when we build it together.

Let’s continue to uplift, empower, and walk alongside those whose journeys are too often unheard.

Today we remember.

Today we stand together.

Today we renew hope.

Abraham Junior lives in the Gorom Refugee Settlement in South Sudan.

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Perfection is a lie and vulnerability is the new strength

Rebuilding life and business after profound struggles

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(Photo by Orhan/Bigstock)

I grew up an overweight, gay Black boy in West Baltimore, so I know what it feels like not to fit into a world that was not really made for you. When I was 18, my mother passed from congestive heart failure, and fitness became a sanctuary for my mental health rather than just a place to build my body. That is the line I open most speeches with when people ask who I am and why I started SWEAT DC.

The truth is that little boy never really left me.

Even now, at 42 years old, standing 6 feet 3 inches and 225 pounds as a fitness business owner, I still carry the fears, judgments, and insecurities of that broken kid. Many of us do. We grow into new seasons of life, but the messages we absorbed when we were young linger and shape the stories we tell ourselves. My lack of confidence growing up pushed me to chase perfection as I aged. So, of course, I ended up in Washington, D.C., which I lovingly call the most perfection obsessed city in the world.

Chances are that if you are reading this, you feel some of that too.

D.C. is a place where your resume walks through the door before you do, where degrees, salaries, and the perfect body feel like unspoken expectations. In the age of social media, the pressure is even louder. We are all scrolling through each other’s highlight reels, comparing our behind the scenes to someone else’s curated moment. And I am not above it. I have posted the perfect photo with the inspirational “God did it again” caption when I am feeling great and then gone completely quiet when life feels heavy. I am guilty of loving being the strong friend while hating to admit that sometimes I am the friend who needs support.

We are all caught in a system that teaches us perfection or nothing at all. But what I know for sure now is this: Perfection is a lie and vulnerability is the new strength.

When I first stepped into leadership, trying to be the perfect CEO, I found Brené Brown’s book, “Daring Greatly” and immediately grabbed onto the idea that vulnerability is strength. I wanted to create a community at SWEAT where people felt safe enough to be real. Staff, members, partners, everyone. “Welcome Home” became our motto for a reason. Our mission is to create a world where everyone feels confident in their skin.

But in my effort to build that world for others, I forgot to build it for myself.

Since launching SWEAT as a pop up fundraiser in 2015, opening our first brick and mortar in 2017, surviving COVID, reemerging and scaling, and now preparing to open our fifth location in Shaw in February 2026, life has been full. Along the way, I went from having a tight trainer six pack to gaining nearly 50 pounds as a stressed out entrepreneur. I lost my father. I underwent hip replacement surgery. I left a relationship that looked fine on paper but was not right. I took on extra jobs to keep the business alive. I battled alcoholism. I faced depression and loneliness. There are more stories than I can fit in one piece.

But the hardest battle was the one in my head. I judged myself for not having the body I once had. I asked myself how I could lead a fitness company if I was not in perfect shape. I asked myself how I could be a gay man in this city and not look the way I used to.

Then came the healing.

A fraternity brother said to me on the phone, “G, you have to forgive yourself.” It stopped me in my tracks. I had never considered forgiving myself. I only knew how to push harder, chase more, and hide the cracks. When we hung up, I cried. That moment opened something in me. I realized I had not neglected my body. I had held my life and my business together the best way I knew how through unimaginable seasons.

I stopped shaming myself for not looking like my past. I started honoring the new ways I had proven I was strong.

So here is what I want to offer anyone who is in that dark space now. Give yourself the same grace you give everyone else. Love yourself through every phase, not just the shiny ones. Recognize growth even when growth simply means you are still here.

When I created SWEAT, I hoped to build a home where people felt worthy just as they are, mostly because I needed that home too. My mission now is to carry that message beyond our walls and into the city I love. To build a STRONGER DC.

Because strength is not perfection. Strength is learning to love an imperfect you.

With love and gratitude, Coach G.


Gerard Burley, also known as Coach G, is a D.C.-based fitness entrepreneur.

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Elusive safety: what new global data reveals about gender, violence, and erasure

Movements against gender equality, lack of human rights data contributing factors.

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Activists who participated in a 2024 Pride march in San Salvador, El Salvador, carry a banner that calls for a country where “being a woman is not a danger.” (Photo courtesy of Colectivo Alejandría)

“My identity could be revealed, people can say whatever they want [online] without consequences. [Hormone replacement therapy] is illegal here so I’m just waiting to find a way to get out of here.”

-Anonymous respondent to the 2024 F&M Global Barometers LGBTQI+ Perception Index from Iraq, self-identified as a transgender woman and lesbian

As the campaign for 16 Days Against Gender-Based Violence begins, it is a reminder that gender-based violence (GBV) — both on– and offline — not only impacts women and girls but everyone who has been harmed or abused because of their gender or perceived gender. New research from the Franklin & Marshall (F&M) Global Barometers and its report A Growing Backlash: Quantifying the Experiences of LGBTQI+ People, 2022-2024 starkly show trends of declining safety among LGBTQI+ persons around the world.

This erosion of safety is accelerated by movements against gender equality and the disappearance of credible human rights data and reporting. The fight against GBV means understanding all people’s lived realities, including those of LGBTQI+ people, alongside the rights we continue to fight for.

We partnered together while at USAID and Franklin & Marshall College to expand the research and evidence base to better understand GBV against LGBTQI+ persons through the F&M Global Barometers. The collection of barometers tracks the legal rights and lived experiences of LGBTQI+ persons from 204 countries and territories from 2011 to the present. With more than a decade of data, it allows us to see how rights have progressed and receded as well as the gaps between legal protections and lived experiences of discrimination and violence. 

This year’s data reveals alarming trends that highlight how fear and violence are, at its root, gendered phenomena that affect anyone who transgresses traditional gender norms.

LGBTQI+ people feel less safe

Nearly two-thirds of countries experienced a decline in their score on the F&M Global Barometers LGBTQI+ Perception Index (GBPI) from 2022-2024. This represents a five percent drop in global safety scores in just two years. With almost 70 percent of countries receiving an “F” grade on the GBPI, this suggests a global crisis in actual human rights protections for LGBTQI+ people. 

Backsliding on LGBTQI+ human rights is happening everywhere, even in politically stable, established democracies with human rights protections for LGBTQI+ people. Countries in Western Europe and the Americas experienced the greatest negative GBPI score changes globally, 74 and 67 percent, respectively. Transgender people globally reported the highest likelihood of violence, while trans women and intersex people reported the highest levels of feeling very unsafe or unsafe simply because of who they are. 

Taboo of gender equality

Before this current administration dismantled USAID, I helped create an LGBTQI+ inclusive whole-of-government strategy to prevent and respond to GBV that highlighted the unique forms of GBV against LGBTQI+ persons. This included so-called ‘corrective’ rape related to actual or perceived sexual orientation, gender identity, or expression” and so-called ‘conversion’ therapy practices that seek to change or suppress a person’s gender identity or expression, sexual orientation, or sex characteristics. These efforts helped connect the dots in understanding that LGBTQI+ violence is rooted in the same systems of inequality and power imbalances as the broader spectrum of GBV against women and girls. 

Losing data and accountability

Data that helps better understand GBV against LGBTQI+ persons is also disappearing. Again, the dismantling of USAID meant a treasure trove of research and reports on LGBTQI+ rights have been lost. Earlier this year, the US Department of State removed LGBTQI+ reporting from its annual Human Rights Reports. These played a critical role in providing credible sources for civil society, researchers, and policymakers to track abuses and advocate for change. 

If violence isn’t documented, it’s easier for governments to deny it even exists and harder for us to hold governments accountable. Yet when systems of accountability work, governments and civil society can utilize data in international forums like the UN Universal Periodic Review, the Convention on the Elimination of All Forms of Discrimination Against Women, and the Sustainable Development Goals to assess progress and compliance and call for governments to improve protections. 

All may not be lost if other countries and donors fill the void by supporting independent data collection and reporting efforts like the F&M Global Barometers and other academic and civil society monitoring. Such efforts are essential to the fight against GBV: The data helps show that the path toward safety, equality, and justice is within our reach if we’re unafraid of truth and visibility of those most marginalized and impacted.

Jay Gilliam (he/him/his) was the Senior LGBTQI+ Coordinator at USAID and is a member of the Global Outreach Advisory Council of the F&M Global Barometers.

Susan Dicklitch-Nelson (she/her/hers) is the founder of the F&M Global Barometers and Professor of Government at Franklin & Marshall College.

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