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LGBTQ youth under attack in Florida

Gov. Ron DeSantis putting political ambitions first

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Gov. Ron DeSantis (R-Fla.) (Photo by jctabb via Bigstock)

I remember the feeling of isolation everywhere I went. I remember the sense of despair when butterflies exploded in my stomach after my crush passed by me in the hallway. I remember the terror that a conversation around the dinner table might expose me for who I was. Being a queer young person meant being perpetually weighed down by the secret I was carrying and tortured by the internalized fear that something about me was broken. No space felt safe enough to be in authentically, every moment of every day was spent clinging to a carefully constructed mask designed to shield me from the prying eyes of the world, and when I finally collapsed onto my pillow at night, I often screamed into the pages of my journal wondering in hurried scribbles why I had been punished with this curse. Home wasn’t a safe space. Church wasn’t a safe space. The hallways between classes weren’t safe spaces. It was only once I had ducked into a familiar classroom and slipped into my seat near the front of the room that I could finally exhale and let go. A classroom— a teacher — were my refuge. Shelter. A place to belong. A classroom — a teacher — saved my life.

That wasn’t just the reality of a younger version of myself, it is the world that LGBTQ young people face every day. For many, affirming classrooms are their only lifelines; safe havens where the things that make them unique are first celebrated and they learn to see themselves not as a lonely outlier, but as an irreplaceable part of a rich, vibrant society. Those safe spaces give LGBTQ youth a chance to thrive — and they’re under attack in Florida right now.

I’ll fill you in on the worst kept secret in our state. Governor Ron DeSantis desperately wants to be elected president in 2024. And he understands that to do that, he must outwrestle another Florida resident for the adoration of the most extreme segment of his party’s base: Donald Trump. That jockeying for political power has led to a legislative agenda being championed by the governor and fast tracked by his allies in the legislature that is designed to whip up right-wing fervor by banning books, muzzling teachers, censoring classroom conversations, replacing curriculum with propaganda and giving the state government license to police us in every aspect of our lives.

But while the bills being proposed in Tallahassee were birthed from a cynical lust for power, they threaten to usher in a terrifying new reality in Florida. The Stop WOKE Act (HB 7) would censor honest conversations about this country’s history of slavery, racism, and injustice. It would upend diversity, equity, inclusion and even sexual harassment trainings in the workplace, seeking to preserve the “comfort” of some over the lived experiences of others. A 15-week abortion ban (HB 5) would insert the state government into doctor’s offices and clinics across the state, putting the prying eyes of the legislature over people’s shoulders while they make personal decisions about their own bodies. And the “Don’t Say Gay” bill (HB 1557) would ban conversations about LGBTQ people in schools across Florida, effectively erasing our community from classrooms and curbing efforts to create more inclusive school environments.

These bills serve their intended purpose. They turn schools, workplaces, and doctor’s offices into political battlegrounds and serve up a buffet of culture war issues to fuel the far-right outrage machine. But beyond the sloppily written campaign rhetoric on each page, these dangerous pieces of legislation will have real impacts on real people. The “Don’t Say Gay” bill erases LGBTQ parents, making their presence on Career Day or in a show-and-tell project a potential legal liability. It terrorizes LGBTQ educators, forcing them to consider whether being themselves in the workplace might invoke a lawsuit.

And it isolates LGBTQ young people, reinforcing the bigoted notion that their existence is something to be ashamed of. Rainbow “safe place” stickers will be peeled off. Pride month displays will be stuffed into trash cans. In their effort to avoid being sued by an outraged parent, cash-strapped schools will be forced to shut down conversations and put a stop to the work of making schools safe for every child. And the impact of that chilling effect on LGBTQ inclusion will rest squarely on the shoulders of society’s most vulnerable.

Those who most need our affirmation and support have once again fallen into the crosshairs of a governor and legislative leaders determined to score political points at any cost. LGBTQ young people suffer higher rates of depression, anxiety, and are four times as likely as their peers to attempt suicide before graduating high school. And nearly 40 percent of transgender Americans reported attempting suicide at some point in their lives. This crisis is fueled by the social isolation, family rejection, bullying and discrimination that is all too familiar to LGBTQ people. And its solutions must be rooted in affirming people and creating safe spaces for them to feel a sense of belonging, not further stigmatizing and shoving them back into the closet. Simply put, efforts to legislate LGBTQ people out of society will have disastrous consequences on young people who are already fighting for their lives.

LGBTQ people are a necessary part of the fabric of society. Our historical contributions deserve to be recognized. Our families deserve to be celebrated. Our lives deserve to be valued. And schools should be a safe space for all young people, no matter who they are or how they identify.

As the next generation of LGBTQ young people looks on, we must send a clear message to them: You are perfect exactly as you are. And we will not allow the governor or his allies to use you as fodder for their runaway political ambitions. I remember the feeling of isolation everywhere I went. The sense of despair when butterflies exploded in my stomach after my crush passed by me in the hallway. The terror that a conversation around the dinner table might expose me for who I was. And I remember the safe spaces that saved my life. Those spaces are worth defending. And defending them from political assault is the task we are called to now.

Brandon J. Wolf is the press secretary for Equality Florida.

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Commentary

Washington Blade responds to concerns over White House pool duties

Inaccurate media reports create confusion but we stand with our colleagues

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A photo from inside the White House on Monday. (Washington Blade photo by Joe Reberkenny)

Last week, President Trump announced his unconstitutional ban of CNN, MSNow, and Politico from the White House. Coincidentally, on Monday, it was the Washington Blade’s turn to serve as the print pool reporter on duty covering the president’s actions that day. This important responsibility is shared and rotated among the print members with each serving roughly once per month. The Blade is the only LGBTQ outlet with a seat in the briefing room, a slot in the pool rotation, and membership in the White House Correspondents’ Association, something we fought for decades to secure after enduring years of discrimination, ridicule, and resistance to openly queer journalists working inside the White House. We take our responsibilities there seriously. 

There are two pools that cover the president: broadcast and print. The other four members of the broadcast pool — ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox News — agreed to boycott their pool duties. There has been no boycott among the print pool, which is a separate entity. I called the president of the White House Correspondents’ Association on Monday to confirm that no outlets in the print pool were boycotting. 

A boycott by the Blade would set us back and lead to our expulsion from the pool and briefing room and our replacement by a right-wing outlet sympathetic to President Trump’s approach to attacking the media. The LGBTQ community is far better served with the Blade in the room than a far-right blogger taking our seat.

Let’s be clear: the Blade stands for diversity, equity, and inclusion and we stand for the First Amendment and freedom of the press. In solidarity with the broadcast pool, we made two important decisions on Monday — the first day anyone had to think about any of this. First, we refused to take or share any videos or still photos of the president, which would have undermined the broadcast boycott. Second, when Politico’s turn comes up for pool duty in mid-October, the Blade will not fill in and cover for them while they are banned. Politico must be readmitted and allowed to do their job. 

After a rough day navigating and reporting on all of this, the Advocate published a reckless and inaccurate story suggesting that the Blade had crossed a picket line. Not true, as there is no print pool boycott. They claimed that I wouldn’t talk to their reporter. Also not true. I called their reporter within 90 minutes of receiving his message and he didn’t take the call or call me back. Their story named me and our White House reporter, immediately exposing us to public criticism and worse. The environment in D.C. is so toxic and even violent these days that subjecting our staff to unfair and false accusations like this invites harassment, doxxing, and worse. To do that without even talking to us is next level irresponsible and the antithesis of journalism.

On Tuesday, I talked to two reporters and an editor at the Advocate but they refused to retract anything in their inaccurate story. If the reporter had returned my call, I could have explained all of this but they are more concerned with clickbait and sensational headlines, a dangerous practice in these troubled times. 

Back to the pool. The Blade was in the briefing room in the Reagan era, when Press Secretary Larry Speakes made jokes about AIDS and the reporters in the room laughed out loud. We endured all of that abuse and worse for decades, always standing in the back of the room and never being called on. The Blade’s journalists persevered. When President George W. Bush was re-elected in 2004, the Blade’s White House credentials were revoked amid an earlier press crackdown. Notably, no one boycotted or stood up for us. When Barack Obama won election in 2008, I received an email from his communications director informing me that effective midnight on Jan. 20, 2009, the Blade’s credentials would be restored. 

So we have had quite a ride navigating administrations and their changing requirements for gaining access but always playing the long game. As Barney Frank used to say, “If you’re not at the table, then you’re probably on the menu.” The Blade is at the table and we do our best to ensure the LGBTQ community’s issues are addressed by both parties. 

Thanks for reading and supporting the Blade’s work. If you have questions about our approach, you can reach me at [email protected].  


Kevin Naff is editor of the Washington Blade. Reach him at [email protected].

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Young people should know history of the fight for human rights

Trump is working to erase contributions of marginalized people

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From left, Rep. Bella Abzug (D-N.Y), Frank Kameny and Rep. Shirley Chisholm (D-N.Y.). (Photos of Abzug and Chisholm public domain; Washington Blade archive photo of Kameny)

When talking with otherwise really smart young people, I am amazed how little knowledge many of them have about the fight for human rights in the United States. Our country was founded by white men, who didn’t think about giving full rights to Black Americans, women, the LGBTQ community (what they knew of it, or called it). They wrote in the Declaration of Independence, “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” But that referred to all white men, and intentionally didn’t mention women. For 250 years, the country has been trying to make up for that, and making progress in fits and starts. We have yet to fully succeed. Today the felon, and his fascist aides, in the White House, are working daily to take us backwards. 

For that reason alone, it is important for younger generations to understand the fight for human rights, know who was fighting for those rights, and understand it is an ongoing fight. Often, when listening to some millennials speak, one would think the world began with them. They either forgot, or never learned, about all those who fought for the rights they now have. I realize this was true for previous generations as well. In 2016 I co-hosted a fundraiser for Pete Buttigieg during his run for president. He is an undeniably brilliant guy. Yet when he spoke of marriage equality, he just thanked Justice Kennedy for it. I reminded him after he spoke, while it’s nice to thank Kennedy for his vote, it shouldn’t be done without acknowledging the many activists who worked for decades, to get to the point that allowed Kennedy to cast that vote. In the same way it was clear to me during the Hillary Clinton campaign for president, many young women didn’t understand the work many of their own mothers had done, to fight for their right to control their own healthcare, and women’s rights in general. They took for granted the rights they had. Now, after losing some of them, many will realize the fight for their rights is never-ending. 

When I speak to younger members of the LGBTQ community, I am amazed how many don’t know the history of the AIDS epidemic, many thinking it was always a disease you could deal with by taking medication. They don’t understand the work so many activists did to bring attention to this devastating disease, and get the healthcare so many needed. Those like Cleve Jones, Larry Kramer, Dr. Anthony Fauci, and so many others. Recently, I realized how many young women don’t know the names of Gloria Steinem, Betty Friedan, Shirley Chisholm, Bella Abzug — women who fought for their rights. And this is just recent history, no less knowing about the Suffragettes, the strong women who fought for their right to vote. I’ve met young women who don’t know what the ERA is, and others who think it passed. Many don’t know the nation couldn’t get 38 states to approve an amendment to include them in the Constitution. The same for young members of the LGBTQ community who don’t know what the Equality Act is. Others think it passed, and are shocked when told it didn’t and in 27 states, they can be married on Sunday, and kicked out of their home, and fired from their job, on Monday. They don’t know names like Frank Kameny, Harvey Milk, Barney Frank, or the history of the Mattachine Society, or the Stonewall Riots.

Our current president is trying to wipe out all this history, and reverse any progress that has been made. Knowing this, it makes it even more important for school systems across the nation to fight to educate our children. We should ensure no child can graduate high school, without taking a course called “The 250-year fight for human rights in the United States.” They need to understand the history, and learn about the people who fought for their rights. They need to know how far we have come in 250 years, and understand, as we begin the next 250, how far we still have to go, to ensure real, full equality, for all.


Peter Rosenstein is a longtime LGBTQ rights and Democratic Party activist.

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What LGBTQ veterans are building after ‘Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell’

DADT repeal took effect on Sept. 20, 2011. Trans servicemember ban reinstated

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The Pentagon (Photo by icholakov/Bigstock)

Fifteen years ago this month, the repeal of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” took effect. At the time, the importance of the change was obvious: gay, lesbian, and bisexual Americans would no longer have to hide who they were to wear the uniform. What was harder to see was what would follow: a generation of LGBTQ veterans able to carry their service openly into American civic life.

Earlier this month, Alaska state Rep. Andrew Gray, an Army veteran, stood before the Anchorage Assembly and asked the city to recognize Sept. 20 as LGBTQ Veterans Day.

His former command sergeant major, Mike Grunst, followed him to the microphone. A 35-year veteran who had served in combat, Grunst called troops who had served while hiding who they were “the bravest I have ever served with.”

Then Denise Sudbeck stepped forward. A Vietnam-era Navy veteran, she thanked the country for the privilege of serving and asked that the next generation have the same chance.

The Assembly approved the recognition.

Nothing about the scene required a new vocabulary. A veteran made a request of his community. A commander vouched for those who served beside him. Another veteran asked that younger Americans inherit the opportunity she valued. They entered the civic record simply as veterans.

That identity can do more than win recognition.

When federal policy abruptly ended the careers of transgender servicemembers this year, veterans and servicemembers in California began asking a practical question: What happens when those Americans come home?

Republican Assemblyman Jeff Gonzalez, a Marine combat veteran, began one hearing with questions about transgender military service. He listened as veterans explained how the military handles medical care and deployment case by case.

Then the discussion turned to separation.

“I don’t wanna see any veteran homeless,” Gonzalez said. Before the hearing ended, he was asking: “How can I help? How can I understand? How can I be a good advocate?”

The legislation that followed would provide housing, employment and transition assistance to discharged servicemembers. Republican state Sen. Shannon Grove spoke for it. The Senate passed it 32 to 0.

Americans have plainly not settled their disagreements over transgender people. Nor should military service be a prerequisite for rights that belong to every citizen.

But military service creates relationships that are difficult to reduce to the abstractions of the culture war. Before a legislature, “the transgender issue” can become a veteran who deployed, an officer who led troops, or the person who once stood beside you.

The political question changes because the human relationship has already changed.

The pattern is beginning to appear across the country. Kansas is among the states recognizing LGBTQ Veterans Day for the first time this year. New York and Virginia are pursuing broader state-level programs for LGBTQ veterans.

Sept. 20 is deliberate. On that day in 2011, “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” ended.

We usually remember repeal for what LGBTQ Americans gained: the ability to serve openly. Fifteen years later, we can also see what the country gained.

A gay veteran can stand before his local government beside the commander who once led him. A transgender servicemember can sit before a legislator who begins with doubts and ends by asking how he can help. A veteran from an older generation can ask her neighbors to give those who follow her the same chance to serve.

This is citizenship in practice.

The enduring legacy of “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” repeal is not only that Americans were finally allowed to serve openly. It is also what they can now build after coming home.

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