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LGBTQ communities around the world embrace antisemitism

Political opposition towards Israeli government has turned into Middle Ages-style bigotry

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Agas Israel Congregation in Northwest D.C. on Oct. 10, 2023, hosted a prayer vigil for Israel. (Washington Blade photo by Michael K. Lavers)

ā€œI stopped reading Facebook feeds,ā€ one of my queer Jewish American friends told me. I wonā€™t say their name, but they are one of the many who showed similar sentiments.

We were speaking about increasing antisemitism among the LGBTQ community, and they were devastated.

Unfortunately, recent events in the Gaza Strip caused a peculiar situation when all Jewish people are blamed for the brutal response of Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s government; and LGBTQ Jews faced microaggression and direct violence, get insulted and attacked, even at Prides. 

First and foremost, I want to say that indiscriminate slaughtering of Gazan civilians is definitely a war crime that should be condemned and avoided in the future, but there are a lot of articles written on this topic by others who are more competent on this topic. This time I deliberately wouldnā€™t discuss Hamas and Israeli politicians here, because this story is not about them ā€” this story is about the way the LGBTQ community is treating their Jewish siblings right now.

There are not so many visible queer politicians among Netanyahu supporters, and they are not spending time in social media queer groups. 

Moreover, right-wing LGBTQ people with connections to the Israeli government don’t care much about LGBTQ communities in the US, the UK, or Russia. 

LGBTQ people who suffer from everyday antisemitism are the ones who need community the most. Unfortunately, we live in a world where many families donā€™t accept their LGBTQ children, and for many queer people, the LGBTQ community became the only family support they had. 

And now antisemitism is taking this support away.

Why political opposition toward the Israeli government turned into Middle Ages-style bigotry is a very good question that doesnā€™t have a simple answer. 

Double standards

For a person who is not deeply into political and social issues, this situation may seem quite typical. After all, people are often used to judging the whole nation based on what their government did, right? Actually, wrong.

As a person from Ukraine, I may say that I spoke a lot about the Russian-Ukrainian war with LGBTQ and progressive activists in the West, and most of them showed enormous levels of compassion to ā€œordinary Russians,” despite the fact that the vast majority of the Russian population supports the Russian-Ukrainian war. Moreover, even after Russia in 2022 deliberately bombed the Mariupol Theater with Ukrainian children inside, Russians en masse weren’t called ā€œchild killersā€ by the American and European LGBTQ communities, and Russian activists still welcomed at Prides.

So it is definitely not about bombing children.

Also, all LGBTQ organizations in the US, UK, and European Union known to me that now openly support Palestine and call themselves anti-Zionists have never openly spoken up against concentration camps, ethnic cleansing, and the genocide of Muslim Uyghur populations in East Turkestan, which is under Chinese occupation right now. 

But LGBTQ groups and activists have never called themselves anti-Chinese, didn’t create a ā€œqueer for Eastern Turkistanā€ movement, and didnā€™t push Chinese LGBTQ people on campus to condemn the actions of the Chinese government.

So, it is also not about fighting Islamophobia.

What is it about? I have been a refugee in three different countries, and I have been involved in LGBTQ activism in some way in Russia, Ukraine, the UK, and the US, and I may say that antisemitism in LGBTQ communities exists in all those countries in some way. 

And in different cultural contexts, antisemitism represents itself differently among LGBTQ people. 

Eastern European antisemitism 

Me and three other LGBTQ activists in 2018 held a small demonstration in the middle of St. Petersburg on Victory Day, a big state-promoted holiday when Russians celebrate the Soviet victory over Nazism. We were holding posters about the common threats between Nazi Germany and the modern Russian Federation, including the persecution of LGBTQ people.

Suddenly, a very respected-looking man came to us, blaming us for an anti-Russian Western conspiracy just because we criticized the Russian government, and then started to say that the Holocaust never happened. When I yelled back at this man, telling him that Iā€™m partly Jewish and daring him to repeat his antisemitic accusation, the man announced that Jews ā€œpaid to live in Auschwitz, so later they would create their own state.ā€

Ayman Eckford participates in a protest against anti-Semitism in St. Petersburg, Russia, in 2018. (Photo courtesy of Ayman Eckford)

No one said anything against this man, but Russians were angry with me for ā€œspoiling a holiday.ā€

Holocaust denial and everyday antisemitism are extremely prominent in Eastern Europe, from Poland to Russia. It is especially strong in Russia.

Russian pride about ā€œvictory over Nazisā€ is not about fighting Nazi ideology, but rather about being proud of a Soviet legacy. Simplifying Nazis is bad only because they killed Russian Soviets.

Even in state Russian Orthodox Churches, you could buy the ā€œProtocol of the Elders of Zionā€ Nazi propaganda book.

LGBTQ activists in Russia are generally less antisemitic than the majority of the population, but all the same, they were raised in this culture, so they allow themselves antisemitic jokes and sometimes share Russian supremacy ideas.

So, for them, anti-Zionism is just another, new, and more appropriate way to hate Jews, and they didnā€™t even try to hide antisemitic rhetoric, especially because many prominent Jewish LGBTQ people moved to Israel or to the US, so the community is mostly non-Jewish. 

Western European and American antisemitism

The situation is quite different in America and Western Europe.

ā€œWhy are you supporting Palestine in a way you have never supported people from other war zones, including any other Muslim lands?ā€ I asked my friend and activist from Sheffield in the UK.

ā€œBecause there is a first time in modern history when a country committed such an attack against civilians!ā€ They answered me. ā€œEspecially with our governmentā€™s support.ā€

I closed my eyes, suddenly remembering the Iraqi city of Mosul that was wiped out to the ground by US-led allies, killing not just ISIS fighters, but also peaceful townsfolk stuck under the occupation of the self-proclaimed ā€œcaliphate,ā€ or the Syrian town of Baqhuz Fawqani, where families of ISIS fighters, including babies and pregnant women, were bombed together with Syrian civilians. 

And to mention, once again, Russian ā€œclearingā€ operations and bombings in Chechnya and Ukraine, Syrian President Bashar al-Assadā€™s crimes against his own people in Syria, crimes committed by ISIS, or the ongoing war in Mali. 

My friend has no idea how wrong they were. 

Modern wars are extremely brutal, and there is an ongoing problem of dehumanizing enemies and war crimes that need to be solved. It’s a much broader problem than just Israeliā€˜s actions, but like one of my Jewish nonbinary friends is saying, ā€œno Jews, no news.ā€ 

Anti-Israel graffiti on a building at the corner of 16th and Corcoran Streets, N.W., in Dupont Circle on Nov. 4, 2023. (Washington Blade photo by Michael K. Lavers)

Western antisemitism in the LGBTQ community, including the idea that all Jewish people are extremely privileged white oppressors, is based on a simple ignorance, no less than on prejudice. If in Russia I saw more activists who hate Jews and just want to be anti-Jewish in a modern way, in the UK and US LGBTQ community I saw more people who are generally caring about war crimes. But they refused to make their own analysis and refused to use the same standards for Jews that they use for other minorities ā€” for example, not pushing them to condemn crimes they never committed.

The Palestinian rights movement has one of the biggest and more successful PR campaigns in modern history, while Jewish organizations failed to promote their agenda among non-Jewish populations.

ā€œMost of them [LGBTQ activists and friends] don’t even know what Zionism is, to be really anti-Zionist,ā€ my queer American friend noticed.

But, just like in Russia, some queer people are just bigots who now could show their hate publicly in a way that wouldnā€™t be condemned by their community.

Ayman Eckford is a freelance journalist, and an autistic ADHDer transgender person who understands that they are trans* since they were 3-years-old.

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To West Africa with love

Thoughts on Ghanaian tradition, queerness, and Western imperialism

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A celebration of the life of a Queen Mother (Juabenhemaa) of the Asante Kingdom in Ghana (Photo by Zi Donnya Piggott)

You may know by now that Ghanaā€™s parliament has just passed one of the harshest laws against its LGBTQ citizens in West Africa. Many advocates, activists, LGBTQ people, and allies are still trying to process why and how this happened.

During this announcement a person Iā€™m closely tied to was in Juaben, Ghana. 

They were celebrating the life and passing of their grandmother, who happens to be a Queen Mother (Juabenhemaa) of the Asante Kingdom in Ghana. It was an elaborate two week traditional ceremony with both private and public events and was attended by thousands as well as the whoā€™s who in Ghana including President Nana Akufo Addo himself.

As a history major, a cultural enthusiast and Afro-futurist, I was excited to have first hand accounts with photos and videos of all the ceremonies and to see beautiful Ghanaian royalty and people in their decorated clothes, dress, dance, and tradition. While at the same time supporting my loved one virtually.

About four days into the two week ceremony, my person in Ghana texted me about a male dancer wearing traditional womenā€™s clothes, wearing makeup with a stuffed buttocks. They found it intriguing and was eager to share with me. In this traditional space, it was normalized and the cultural dancer continued to even dance with other men at the ceremony.

A celebration of the life of a Queen Mother (Juabenhemaa) of the Asante Kingdom in Ghana (Photo by Zi Donnya Piggott)

They reported to me that some of the young anti-LGBTQ Ghanian Americans at the ceremony were disgusted and confused. One remarked ā€˜What? Is this ‘Drag Race now?ā€™ as the colorfully dressed person continued to skillfully dance their traditional dance in honor of the Asante Queen Mother.Ā 

Four days later the anti-LGBTQ law passed through the parliament of Ghana, devastating LGBTQ Ghanians, advocates, allies, and diaspora. 

The bill now awaits the presidentā€™s signature to be enacted.

As I read through the 36-page long document called Promotion of Proper Human Sexual Rights and Ghanaian Family Values Bill of 2021, the basis document for this legislation, it includes repetitive emphasis of resistance to foreign imposition and the maintenance of Ghanaian values, culture, sovereignty, and independence and rejection of homosexuality. The document is a combination of the efforts of various groups including Christian organizations, Muslim organizations, family rights organizations, and the traditional chiefs of Ghana.

I found it interesting that there was but one paragraph that mentioned the importance of protecting the lives of LGBTQ people. Can you guess which one group (Christian organizations, Muslim organizations, Family rights organizations and the traditional chiefs of Ghana) was solely appealing to protect the lives of LGBTQ people in the bill?Ā 

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The National House of Chiefs, the group most steeped in Ghanaian historical and cultural tradition, made some attempt within the document to shield the lives of LGBTQ people from harm.

Time and time again, advocates have purported that it is indeed the hatred of queer people that is an imposition. Yet they are Christian and family value organizations funded by the right wing organizations that claim to protect local culture and values but instead create divisions that threaten the livelihoods of their Ghanaian queer families.

It begs the question, What is so western about LGBTQ people?

If we are being completely honest, the language, culture and framework is certainly western. 

The expression of self was never demonized in many now erased cultures across the world but the idea and framework of queerness today is.

The LGBTQ movement is largely a western movement and culture. From the rainbow flag to its terminology. Today LGBTQ/queer is the language we use universally to describe people whose self and sexual expression is not mainstream.

During colonization, many cultural indigenous traditions were lost including the language we used to identify our family and communities. It was then replaced with Christianity used as a tool to control and restrict ā€” as it continues to do so today.

Indigenous Native Americans are fortunate to have retained their language and some of their culture. Their language of two-spirit makes room culturally for those Indigenous people we would call queer today.

There are countless examples of cultures within West African traditions and culture that have celebrated and have space and language for their ā€œtwo-spiritā€ people as described by the Native Americans or their ā€œDagaraā€ people as described by people from the Ghanaian neighboring country Burkina Faso.

That said, as a result of our erased cultures today, LGBTQ/queer is the language and culture we have globally adopted – obviously to the ire of those who donā€™t quite understand their own culture.

Regardless of language, culture or foreign imposition, there is no excuse for the hatred, exclusion, and persecution of any group of people ā€” period.

From Uganda in East Africa, Ghana, West Africa to St. Vincent in the Eastern Caribbean the sentiment remains the same where there seems to be a confusion around cultural identity and the clutching onto an idea of sovereignty in efforts to continue to resist years of colonial oppression, imposition, and trauma.

We havenā€™t even begun to discuss how Christianity, another colonial tool, has culturally divided us and has our societal progress in a chokehold.

However, as a futurist, it is not helpful to remain in a place of blame, anger and self pity ā€” it gets us nowhere. This is the hand that we have been dealt and we must work in various ways to build up our businesses and to nurture and grow families, communities, and our people.

And so I offer this piece to the brave advocates across various post colonial landscapes ā€” draw close to the cultures and identities from whence you came. Activists like Lady Phyll and Alex Kofi Donor have remained entrenched within their cultural tradition signifying that being queer identifying people and being African in identity and culture arenā€™t mutually exclusive. 

We ought to be bold in addressing and working with external groups ā€” the extremely tough and dangerous part of advocacy ā€” entering churches, parliaments, universities, and being visible and contributing citizens not only within local queer communities but outside of the silos and enclaves of our safe spaces. That visibility puts a human face and personality to our cause. We must be our own politicians. Building real relationships with folks who we may not always agree with but who we may see eye to eye with on other issues. Start showing up for other marginalized groups besides our own.

And perhaps Iā€™m blinded by the context of the advocacy done in little Barbados, perhaps itā€™s a safer place these days, an easier place to exercise this level of visibility … maybe.

What I do know is that we need to employ thoughtful strategy to our advocacy efforts because it was the strategy of the colonial powers that got us in this situation in the first place. 

And it will be our understanding of our own people and the application of strategic thinking that will get us out.

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On National Coming Out Day: No more silent compromises

Rejecting half-truths, embracing the whole me, and redefining my worth

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(Washington Blade file photo by Michael Key)

Though I’ve never lived “in the closet” over the years, I realized I hadn’t fully stepped out of it in every aspect of life. While I embraced being out, certain moments hindered my personal and professional growth.

Have you ever let someone assume something about your life, like having a wife or girlfriend, because it was easier than correcting them? Perhaps you thought, “I’m not in the closet, so it doesn’t matter.” But looking back, did it matter?

This question lingered in my mind for far too long. We must ask whether our actions reflect who we are or if we’re choosing a more convenient version of ourselves. When someone asked, “Is your girlfriend coming to happy hour?” I wasn’t offended, but I wasn’t being entirely authentic, either.

As a gay man, I found it flattering when people assumed I was straight. Was I accepting it as validation of my masculinity? Perhaps. But over time, I realized that allowing these assumptions to persist wasn’t as harmless as I initially believed.

I’ve been fortunate never to experience the closet. The unwavering support from my family, friends, and colleagues has empowered me to live authentically. 

Having a family was, and still is, my guiding light. But by my late 20s, that vision began to fade. By my mid 30s, I saw family life, as a gay man, was a possibility, but I buried myself in building a company. I convinced myself that balancing family and business was unattainable since finding someone with shared values seemed impossible. But was it? 

As an entrepreneur, I’ve experienced the highs and lows of building something from scratch, always embracing challenges. Itā€™s easy when you love what you do. Like building a business, personal growth is shaped by what you choose to invest in and what you attract into your life. Despite my successes, something still felt misaligned. What was I doing wrong? 

I remember moments like vendors taking us to after-hours bars or strip clubs. I recall one instance at a national expo when a vendor took us to a female strip club. I’ve never enjoyed strip clubs, gay or straight; I’d instead host a dinner party. Early into the night, someone arranged a lap dance for me, and I jokingly asked if she could switch places with the security guy. We both laughed, but here’s the issue: I never told them why I got up and left, only her. At that moment, did I sell myself short? Would it affect our partnership? I wasn’t in the closet but wasn’t entirely out either.

Another moment came in my 30s when I was learning how to navigate dating. A friend suggested I downplay my career to avoid intimidating potential partners. I agreed initially but eventually asked myself: Why should I downplay my accomplishments to make others comfortable? By minimizing my worth, I wasn’t just being inauthentic; I was undervaluing myself and the hard work I put into it. What was I trying to attract into my life?

As my journey continued, I became increasingly aware of what I was inviting into my life. My personal and professional lives were out of alignment. When I opened an office in India, I came out to the local director before signing business documents. Why? Friends and colleagues struggle because their business partners don’t know their authentic selves, and I refused to let this happen. More importantly, I owed being genuine to myself.

Many of us create barriers between our personal and professional lives. While change can be difficult, I needed to align them. We believe we’re not lying because we’re “not in the closet.” But by not fully expressing our authentic selves, we hold ourselves back. For me, dismantling those barriers allowed me to transform what I was attracting into my life, personally and professionally.

Had I not become self-aware, I’d still be stuck in a cycle of inauthenticity, missing out on my full potential. Without changing my mindset, I would have continued letting others’ assumptions define me and limit my growth. I only began breaking free from that cycle by fully embracing my true self.

Even though I’ve never lived in the closet, I still fear what being this open might bring. But that’s precisely why I need to do it. My personal and professional allies have shown unwavering support, standing by me through everything. To those who have supported me on this journey, thank you, it’s now my turn to support others.

Authenticity isn’t just a choice; it’s essential for a fulfilled life. You must ask, you must act, and yes, you will fail and learn along the way, but that’s OK. Every time you act, you move closer to your authentic self. Embrace vulnerability and the discomfort of feeling exposed, it’s then you will begin to reclaim your strength.

To the person on the partner track who’s afraid to bring their partner to a company retreat: bring them! To the young adult worried about being kicked out of the house: seek local support; someone will help you! To the person fearful of losing their job because of who they are: quit! To the person who wants a family, look around; someone shares those values! If someone offers to set you up with a girl or guy, ask if they have a brother or sister, and you might get a date! To those still searching for the right partner, ditch the apps and be present! 

I kept my personal life “private” for years because I thought, “I’m not in the closet.” I’m not referring to social media; this is about deep-rooted beliefs that live rent-free in our minds, filtering our responses and decisions. While writing this piece, I mistakenly typed, “I’m not out,” perhaps it wasn’t a mistake; it was a sign. I am grateful those filters expired long ago and are now evicted for living rent-free.

We live in a world where mental health is still stigmatized. Small acts of inauthenticity can cause anxiety that spills into our professional lives. It makes us seem “off” and can lead to missed opportunities. Worst of all, you may feel trapped and remain silent.

It’s time to stop allowing these things to hold us back. We must discuss mental health, authenticity, and their impact on our lives. The journey isn’t about becoming someone new; it’s about shedding what doesn’t define you so you can fully embrace who you’ve always been.

As I continue my journey, I will do so boldly, out loud, and unapologetically. Note to readers: If you’re struggling, want to discuss this topic further, or just need a virtual coffee chat, feel free to reach out via Instagram, @gregorybarretta.Ā 


Gregory Barretta is a serial entrepreneur overseeing several companies, committed to mentoring, leading, and empowering others to grow.

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Itā€™s time we talk about trauma

Coping with parental rejection a common struggle for LGBTQ community

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(Photo by TeroVesalainen/Bigstock)

(Authorā€™s note: The content of this article may be triggering for some readers. If you or someone you know struggles with suicidal ideation, support can be found by calling or texting 988.) 

In becoming a barback, I dove headfirst into the underbelly of fast-paced, homoerotic nightlife, which can be as stressful as it is fun but almost always entertaining. For me, though, the best part has been the camaraderie formed with my staff, in particular the other barbacks, all of whom bust ass behind the scenes while sharing laughs and memes along the way. Among this crew Iā€™ve formed solid, healthy friendships, although itā€™s Marsel in particular who sees me in a way most in D.C. never has. 

At first, I wasnā€™t sure if Marsel and I would get along. Heā€™s ripped, tatted, confident, and hot, which is essentially the recipe for intimidating. Then we worked bar shifts together and I finally got to know him. Turns out heā€™s insanely witty, kind if youā€™re not an asshole, and overall easy to talk to. As it so happens, he and I are quite similar: two gays in our mid-30s working as barbacks who ended up in D.C. after growing up in rural, ruby-red states. Still, one parallel stands out above the rest: we both also have daddy issues. 

Thatā€™s rightā€”itā€™s a clichĆ© and often a punch line of jokes (which can still be funny, by the way), but the reality for many queers is rejection from one or both parents. For some, including Marsel and me, the traits of a toxic parent warps childhood beyond just conservative thinking. Case in point: both of our dads harbored deeply rooted anger and resentment, making their reaction to learning who we are seemingly inevitable. 

For Marsel, that pivotal moment came when his parents discovered he had a boyfriend in high school. In addition to filling his mind with fears about being gay, ā€œthey made me switch schools, severely monitored all my communications, what I would wear to school, and who I could hang out with. I spent the remainder of my high school years alone with no friends, isolated in a rural town outside of Nashville.ā€ 

A few years later, Marselā€™s parents kicked him out upon learning he engaged in sexual activity with men. ā€œThey expelled me from the family home and, for many years, treated me as though I no longer existed to them. I spent the better part of a year living in my car and the rest of the time couch-surfing, relying on the kindness of friends.ā€ 

As for me: my dad served dual roles as patriarch and specter of my family. He was abusive physically and verbally, though still I tried maintaining a connection to the guy, likely fueling my attraction to mean guys but thatā€™s another story. Despite my efforts, my father abruptly ended our relationship shortly after I came out. In our last phone call, he couldnā€™t even say the word gay, choosing instead ā€œthe way you are.ā€ From there he listed everything he disliked about me, none of which was my homosexuality because these days no one admits so boldly to prejudice. Instead, they gaslight you with every other vulnerability as justification for mistreating you. 

Itā€™s been well over a decade since Iā€™ve spoken to or even seen my father, and at this point Iā€™m certain heā€™ll happily march to his grave without seeing me again. Losing a parent is always hard. Losing one because they donā€™t want to love you anymore, wellā€”itā€™s a searing pain that rips your heart wide open. I wouldnā€™t wish it on my worst enemy. 

Sadly, stories like these are far from unique among queers, nor are they the sole trauma we experience. From living in shadows and in shame, to schoolyard bullying and alienation, to pressures of religion or toxic masculinity, to a higher likelihood of sexual violence or discrimination in the workplace, we are affronted with so many traumas theyā€™re nearly a marker for our kind. This also doesnā€™t include intersectionality with other traumas, such as a growing up in America a woman, a person of color, or poor. Itā€™s no wonder, then, that the National Institutes of Health (NIH) published a review last year declaring, ā€œLGBTQ people are at higher risk of PTSD compared with their cisgender/heterosexual peers.ā€

To most queers, what I just described is neither new nor surprising. In fact, in the face of this collective trauma, queers often come together in the form of fundraisers or Pride events. Yet despite rallying around the common inputs of our trauma, we rarely discuss the outputs. Thatā€™s right ā€” emotional trauma has outputs, as neuroscience has proven, and when left untreated those outputs emerge as toxic traits in our adult lives.  

To illustrate, letā€™s take it back to Marsel. While he hoped to leave his past behind in Tennessee, that wasnā€™t the case. ā€œFor things I hadnā€™t fully processed or dealt with, my past trauma would bubble up to the surface in the form of emotional triggers, which would inevitably spark my anger. My anger manifested in various ways, and I would often find reasons to justify my behavior. I was angry about my relationships, angry about my body, angry about my career ā€“ basically, I was angry about everything. And the root of all that anger was the unresolved trauma I hadnā€™t properly addressed.ā€

I couldnā€™t relate more. I tried to be tough and pretend I didnā€™t care that my father abandoned me, but the thought still crossed my mind and crushed me every time. Then I took that pain and subconsciously projected my anger everywhere ā€” onto friends, onto other gays, onto myself, but especially onto my relationships, where Iā€™d swing like a pendulum between states of hyperattachment and hyperdetachment with almost no in-between. Steadily, my unresolved trauma chipped away at my self-worth, and once that goes, self-destruction is inevitable. 

Since the path to self-destruction is riddled with more trauma, the downward spiral only gets steeper. ā€œMy most impactful and lasting piece of trauma occurred two days before my 25th birthday,ā€ Marsel told me. ā€œThe summer of 2013 I had been more than reckless with the frequency of my sexual encounters. I had often done pretty dangerous and wild things in regard to meeting up with guys. Then, on Dec. 10, 2013, I found out I was HIV positive. 

 ā€œAt the time it was quite Earth-shattering news because I knew no one who was positive and had no idea what this would mean for me. I was pretty hard on myself for being reckless, and it took a bit to pick myself up, but over time I used it to inspire me to live my life fully and authentically.ā€ 

Often it takes Earth-shattering events to serve as a wakeup call for change. When my PTSD transformed into social anxiety, it was easy to suppress at first with sex, drugs, and most often alcohol, which inevitably led to the occasional outburst, or the loss of a friend. Yet still Iā€™d go out, even more anxious Iā€™d run into newly formed enemies, so Iā€™d drink more, at times pre-gaming by myself before pre-gaming with others before eventually stumbling into the bars. Naturally this facilitated more outbursts, cost me more relationships, and once landed me a night in jail. The further I unraveled, the more I numbed it with heavier drinking, darker sex, harder drugs, until finally ā€” it pains me to write, but for the sake of honesty I must ā€” I was contemplating, threatening, and attempting suicide. 

Sorry to get heavy, but itā€™s important to dissect why and how queers experience emotional hardship. We donā€™t struggle simply because weā€™re queer but rather due to the trauma thrust upon us by a world that still fears queers. As a result, normal events ā€” such as a breakup or losing a job ā€” can feel insurmountable, like proof that those who rejected us were right all along.  

Thankfully, queers can rely on each other for support, right? Sounds nice in theory, but in practice we D.C. gays are pretty fucking mean to each other. Sure, we find our friends, but often our community is itching to judge us at every corner. We throw insults, ostracize those deemed ā€œcrazy,ā€ and constantly seek validation from people we (Instagram) deem perfect. And no, I am not above this. Iā€™ve been a narcissist. Iā€™ve burned bridges with glee. Looking back, it was my inner turmoil bursting at my seams.  

Marsel summarized our behavior well: ā€œEverything is a trauma response. That mean gay you see at the bar ā€“ trauma response. That gym obsessed muscle queen ā€“ trauma response. That career-driven type-A Capitol Hill gay ā€“ trauma response. Most of the time I find when people are treating me a certain way, it has little to do with me and everything to do with their own trauma.ā€ 

So, we find ourselves amid a queer trauma cycle in which hurt queer people hurt more queer people. Sounds bleak, but the good news is we also have the power to change that. And we must, for a recent survey by the Trevor Project found a staggering 41 percent of LGBTQ+ youth aged 13 to 24 considered suicide in the last year alone. Queer trauma isnā€™t going away, so itā€™s on us to avoid bestowing our trauma to younger queers and instead provide a safe community not only to thrive but to experience inevitable lows as well. That may seem like a tall order, but based on what Iā€™ve learned from Marsel, two measures can move us closer.

First is simple self-reflection, for when trauma goes unnoticed it grows steadily like mold, potentially upending your behavior without you even noticing. ā€œAs I moved through different stages of my life,ā€ Marsel explained, ā€œI began to see how this unprocessed trauma and anger influenced so many aspects of who I had become. It colored my reactions to conflict, my relationships with others, and even my relationship with myself.ā€ 

The only way to process trauma is to excavate your mind and dissect underlying memories and feelings, which can be accomplished in many ways including journaling, art, or my personal favorite: therapy. While I didnā€™t start therapy until my 30s, taking that leap became a life-changing, and potentially lifesaving, decision. ā€œThrough therapy,ā€ added Marsel, ā€œI was able to uncover the reasons why this trauma continued to follow me throughout my life and how it manifested.ā€ 

It all sounds so simple: get therapy, and youā€™ll get better. However, therapy only goes as far as you let it. Progress is never linear and brutal honesty is a must; as a result, not everyone gets there (no judgment though, for Iā€™m not all the way there myself). In fact, my hardest step was admitting I needed therapy at all, for seeing a therapist is often treated like spotting a UFO ā€” no one wants to admit it out of fear of looking insane. However, often the fear of appearing crazy leads to the most toxic behavior, as Iā€™ve witnessed in D.C. time and time again. 

To heal requires dissolving the ego. While tough, itā€™s truly the first and most important step. 

As for the second measure: we need to cut each other some slack. No, this doesnā€™t mean excusing terrible behavior, but it does mean holding the belief that others ā€” including and especially your queer enemies ā€” can grow. If not, then tell me: whoā€™s supposed to believe in your growth if you donā€™t believe in the growth of others? And if your response is you donā€™t need to grow, you likely have the most growing to do. 

Writing off one of us is writing off all of us, and if we keep burning each other at the stake for every flaw, weā€™ll grow weaker as a community. Besides, the rest of the world already does that to us. Why do it to each other as well? 

My hope is for more queers to see each other the way Marsel and I do. Not because he and I are perfect ā€” if anything, weā€™re far from it. Instead, in between inside jokes, we share our mistakes, our hardships, and the work weā€™re putting in toward self-love and improvement. That feels rare in a city obsessed with perfection, but thatā€™s also why it feels genuine. 

And genuine feels worlds better than perfect ever could.Ā 

Jake Stewart is a D.C.-based writer and barback.

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