A transgender teen’s physical artwork and non-fungible tokens netted $2.16 million at auction at Christie’s on Wednesday.
“Hello, i’m Victor (FEWOCiOUS) and This Is My Life” included five lots by 18-year-old Victor Langlois, aka FEWOCiOUS, a rising star in the increasingly popular — and lucrative — world of NFT art.
An NFT is a blockchain-powered unit of data that authenticates ownership of digital objects — images, videos, songs, even tweets.
Each lot represents a year of Langlois’ life between the ages of 14 and 18, as he began to understand his gender identity, transitioned and moved from Las Vegas to Seattle.
The series includes a physical painting, a video artwork sold exclusively as an NFT and a collection of physical and NFT doodles, drawings and journal entries from the corresponding year.
Upon request, Langlois will deliver the physical painting to the collector in a custom suitcase, Christie’s said in a statement, “an ode to how he transported his earliest drawings and paintings, when leaving behind his past in pursuit of a brighter future.”
The series reflects a traumatic period in Langlois’ life, amid what he describes as an abusive upbringing. After running away from home at age 12, he was raised by his grandmother, a single mom from El Salvador with three jobs and four kids.
“I think she struggled so much that she just wanted security,” he told Christie’s. “To see me wanting to pursue art, she was like, ‘What? Be a lawyer.’ Which I understand. But it hurt when she would say, ‘Your art is ugly and that’s why you can’t do it.'”
Langlois began drawing art on his iPad, he told Decrypt, because he wasn’t allowed paint. The first piece in “Hello, I’m Victor” is titled “Year 1, Age 14 — It Hurts to Hide.”
Last year, he began selling digital works on the NFT marketplace Nifty Gateway: He earned $25,000 for “Moment i Fell in Love” in November, enough to fund his move to Seattle, and rang in New Year’s 2021 with the NFT drop “Over-Analyzing Again,” which brought in $35,000.
Since getting into digital art barely a year ago, Langlois has earned just under $18 million. According to Christie’s, he’s also the youngest artist to have work sold through the legendary auction house.
“He went all out on this project and bared his beautiful soul for the world,” Christie’s digital art specialist Noah Davis said in a statement. “I hope his success shines bright for other young creative people who might be struggling with similar issues of identity and acceptance.”
On June 23, the first day of the auction, demand was so high it crashed the Christie’s website, Esquire reported. That success is particularly poignant, Langlois said, because too often trans artists are overlooked.
“Thank you so much for believing in me and my journey. It means the world,” he said in a tearful Instagram video Wednesday. “I put my everything into this, and I was so nervous to come out and to tell everyone who I am.”
The seven-figure sale is also a sign of NFTs’ growing influence among auction houses and the art world in general: Sales of NFTs topped $2 billion in the first quarter of 2021, CNBC reported, with twice as many buyers as sellers.
In March, Christie’s set a record for digital art with the $69 million sale of “EVERYDAYS: THE FIRST 5000 DAYS,” an NFT by multimedia artist Beeple.
“I think NFTs are the future,” Langlois told Reuters. “If you’re posting your art and sharing it with the world digitally, I think to offer a way for collectors to own it as a digital asset is just the next step.”
Just as the queer community has been at the forefront of many artistic movements, LGBTQ artists are quickly adopting the NFT model: In April, former YouTuber Chris Crocker transformed their infamous “Leave Britney Alone” video into an NFT that earned $44,000.
The day before Langlois’ auction closed, The Queenly NFT, which bills itself as “the first cryptogallery for queer creators,” held its launch party at the former site of Andy Warhol’s Factory in Union Square in Manhattan, New York.
The inaugural collection includes more than 90 pieces — including works by trans singer Mila Jam, “RuPaul’s Drag Race” stars Manila Luzon and Bob the Drag Queen, gay nightlife photographer Wilsonmodels and lesbian photographer Lola Flash, whose work was just added to the permanent collection at New York’s Museum of Modern Art.
Brent Lomas, a New York drag performer also known as Ruby Powers, said he developed Queenly as a place for queer artists to get proper credit and compensation for their work, with LGBTQ-allied nonprofit organizations receiving a donation for every sale.
“Queer creators belong in every single space, and we deserve to take up space,” Lomas said. “They’re the ones creating the most explosive and powerful moments with their art. They’re the pioneers, showing people the world in a new way.”
This isn’t just a new kind of art, he added; it’s a new kind of patronage.
“Not every queer artist is going to have access to a place like Christie’s,” Lomas said. “Art should be democratizing, and NFTs allow artists to be in control of their work.”
In 2014, Deondre Moore, who was 19 at the time, decided to get an HIV test while he and his friends were at a nightclub in Houston.
Moore wanted his friends to get tested, “so I knew that the best way to do so was to lead by example and do my test first,” he said. He was tested earlier that year, and had recently been in what he thought was a monogamous relationship with a man he was in love with, so he wasn’t worried about the results.
“They tested me for HIV, I knew it would come back negative,” he said. “Went to the back, ready to hear my results, and he said, ‘Your test came back positive.’”
Moore said he “made up a whole scenario” in his head about why he thought the test result was wrong. But just over a week later, a doctor at the student health clinic at Sam Houston State University, where he was a freshman, confirmed the result.
“The doctor walked in, and very quickly got it out of the way. And he said, ‘Mr. Moore, I’m sorry to tell you, but our test confirmed that you do have HIV,’” he recalled. “What I heard the doctor say was, ‘Yeah, you are going to die.’”
Now 26, Moore takes just one pill a day — an antiretroviral treatment that makes the virus undetectable and untransmittable to others. It’s not a cure, but it means that, unlike a few decades ago, people like Moore can live long, healthy lives.
Treatment for HIV has come a long way since June 1981, when the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention published its first scientific report describing the disease now known as AIDS in its Morbidity and Mortality Weekly Report. But advocates say there’s still more work to be done. Stigma surrounding HIV is persistent, and the virus disproportionately affects gay and bisexual men of color, particularly Black men, due to inequality in a variety of areas.
Advocates want to see better health education in schools, better access to health care and, ultimately, an end to the epidemic.
A lack of education — and more HIV cases among young people
Moore’s mother, Kathleen Wingate, said that she didn’t personally know anyone who was living with HIV prior to her son’s diagnosis, so she didn’t know anything about it. Going to his doctor’s appointments with him helped a lot, she said.
The doctor explained to her that she couldn’t contract HIV from hugging her son, kissing him or sharing food and drinks with him.
“And I always thought, ‘Oh, if he touches me … If somebody touches you, you’re going to get it.’ I’ve heard that,” Wingate said. But the doctor told her that if Moore took one pill every day for the rest of his life, he could live to 90 or 100 years old.
Misinformation and stigma persist in part because of poor sex education across the country, said J. Maurice McCants-Pearsall, director of HIV and health equity at Human Rights Campaign.
He noted that young people ages 13 to 24 are overrepresented in new HIV diagnoses, with the age group making up 21 percent of the category in 2018, according to the CDC. Young gay and bisexual men account for 83 percent of all new diagnoses in the age group, and young Black gay and bisexual men make up 42 percent of new diagnoses among young queer men.
“And then we have to ask the question, well, why is that?” McCants-Pearsall said. “Well, there’s a direct correlation with a lack of sexual health education and HIV in young folks between the ages of 13 and 24. That’s undeniable.”
He said HIV’s impact on Black and brown people is also due to social determinants of health, which he said aren’t being addressed for communities of color. “It’s not just enough to give someone a blue magical pill and say, ‘Oh, this is going to prevent you from contracting HIV,’” he said. “No, we have to have comprehensive health care for folks, then address all their needs from mental health to behavioral health services, to increased access to medical treatment and/or prevention services … equal access to educational, employment opportunities, housing.”
Legislation also plays a role. Thirty-seven states criminalize exposing someone to HIV, according to the CDC. McCants-Pearsall said 11 states have laws that make it a felony to spit or bite someone if you have HIV, “even though we know the science tells us that it is not possible to transmit HIV through saliva.”
Twenty-five states also criminalize one or more behaviors that pose low risks for HIV transmission, he said. The penalties for violating these laws can include prison time: 18 impose sentences of up to 10 years, seven states impose sentences of 11 to 20 years, and five states impose a sentence of 20 years “and this is not based off of behavior motivated by intent to harm,” McCants-Pearsall said.
“This is based off of you not disclosing your status or merely the perceived exposure to HIV, and that’s ridiculous, totally ridiculous,” he said.
Ending the epidemic
Thom Kam, 65, was diagnosed with HIV in 1992. He used all natural and alternative therapies to boost his immune system until 1996, when he was hospitalized and officially had AIDS. At that time, the result of a six-month study showed that a combination of three drugs was effective at containing HIV.
“And I did that regimen eight hours every day around the clock on an empty stomach for three years, which was 4,000 plus doses without missing a single one,” he said. “But I knew how lucky I was. I knew how lucky I was to actually be able to do that … really grateful. And so I did and embraced it for myself and for all the other guys who hadn’t had the opportunity.”
In the ‘80s and the ‘90s, he said, he never thought it would get to this point, when one pill a day can make HIV undetectable. “I didn’t know if we could or not,” Kam said. “It was one big dark tunnel, and there was no light at the end.”
Treatments have improved, but Moore said HIV has been around for 40 years, and there’s no cure or vaccine. He added that about a year and a half into the Covid-19 pandemic, however, multiple vaccines exist.
“I think it just speaks to who’s mostly affected, and who was mostly affected then,” he said. Because the HIV epidemic disproportionately affected queer men, and Black and brown people, “no one cared, no one listened,” he said.
But that is not a view that Dr. Anthony Fauci, the nation’s top infectious diseases expert, shared.
Fauci, director of the National Institute of Allergy and Infectious Diseases, who was a leading researcher during the AIDS epidemic in the 1980s, said the fact that there’s a Covid-19 vaccine and no HIV vaccine is “a scientific issue” and “has nothing to do with effort.”
“We have spent literally billions of dollars on an HIV vaccine. No doubt,” he told NBC News in response to a question in May. What makes a vaccine successful is when the body makes an adequate immune response to a pathogen to clear it and prevent the person from being infected with the same pathogen again.
“That completely is different for HIV, because for reasons we still can’t explain, the body does not make a good immune response against HIV,” he said. “And that’s the reason why we never see clearance of the virus from the body of someone who’s been infected spontaneously.”
As advocates work to end the epidemic or wait for a cure, they continue to fight misconceptions. Among the most common is that HIV is a death sentence, and it is not, McCants-Pearsall said. Another is that if a person is HIV positive, it means “they did something wrong.”
“No one did anything wrong,” he said. “We have free choice. I can love who I want to love, how I want to love them, whenever I want to love them. There’s no shame in that. I did nothing wrong.”
Dr Michelle Telfer, who represented Australia in gymnastics at the 1992 Olympic Games, has described how she “made herself a big target” by becoming a global leader in caring for trans kids.
In a short documentary for ABC News In-depth, Telfer explained that after the end of her gymnastics career at the age of 18, she was inspired to become a doctor by those who had treated her various sports injuries.
She said: “I was trying to decide between doing paediatrics or doing psychiatry. And then in paediatrics, I found adolescent medicine, which is that perfect combination of paediatrics and mental health… I’d found the place I wanted to be.”
In 2012, after returning from maternity leave, Telfer took a job as the head of adolescent medicine at the Royal Children’s Hospital in Melbourne.
She oversaw various services for young people, but her life changed forever when she was asked to lead the hospital’s gender clinic for children.
“I was asked to take over this group of trans children in their care, and I jumped at it,” she said. “I’d never met a trans child before I started this job.”
One of the first children she met with, she was, was named Oliver.
She continued: “I said to Oliver, ‘How do you know that you’re a boy? When did you start thinking about yourself as a boy?
“He was 10 at the time, and he told me his story… It was such a beautiful story.
“And I thought, ‘I can help this child have a boy’s body. How many people can do that?”
Oliver went on to receive hormone treatment when he was 15, with the consent of both of his parents. Now 18, he told ABC News: “I’m in my final year of high school. I’m hoping one day to study medicine, cardiothoracic surgery or something similar.
“I’m really optimistic about my future. I’ve huge ambitions I want to do a lot of good in this world. And I think that, you know, I wouldn’t be in that place, I wouldn’t be able to have those dreams, if I didn’t receive support from Michelle.”
Another of the kids in Telfer’s care, a trans teenager named Isabelle, also appeared in the film. She said: “I don’t know where I’d be if I didn’t have Michelle and the Royal Children’s Hospital with me. I think I’d equate a large part of my being alive at the moment to them.”
Right-wing newspaper The Australian has written “nearly 50” articles about Michelle Telfer.
But, despite the huge satisfaction she gets from helping kids to be their true selves, as the “debate” over trans people’s right to exist gets louder, Michelle Telfer has has become a “target”.
“There have always been critics,” she said.
“You don’t go into this area of medicine without being warned about becoming a target. And I’ve certainly made myself a very big target.”
“From August, 2019, to the current time, The Australian newspaper has written nearly 50 articles about me and my work,” said Telfer
“The newspaper is inferring that clinicians like me are harming children, that it’s experimental, that the care is novel, and that they’re potentially mentally ill and they’re not really trans.”
In 2020, following fierce lobbying by right-wing media and anti-trans campaigners for a “national inquiry” into health care for trans kids, Australia’s health minister Greg Hunt referred the issue to the Royal Australasian College of Physicians.
The college shot down the idea of an “inquiry”, instead calling for greater access to gender-affirming services for trans kids.
However, even after the statement in support of her work, Telfer said the articles in The Australian continued and she began to struggle with anxiety.
Finally at the end of her tether, last year Telfer submitted a 42-page complaint to the Press Council over The Australian‘s coverage.
Despite everything, Telfer remains “absolutely optimistic about the future”.
“I know that what we’re doing is the right thing,” she said.
“Society has for hundreds and hundreds of years tried to ignore and dismiss trans people. But now that we’re affirming them, look at what they can do.”
“Old man,” he said, for he did not know his name, but the old man did not stir, so he remained in the old man’s bed, waiting for daybreak, watching him sleep, thinking about, if he had to choose, would he choose Pepa or the ship, wondering whether love was just an excuse for cowardice. When dawn came, the old man was still sleeping, so he left him to his dreams and found his way back to the river.” (98)
And here we have Anne Raeff’s newest novel, a celebration of time, space, and woven narrative. The novel traces the stories of a half dozen people all intertwined, over the span of about fifty years. Throughout the passage of time and the history of the world (wars, guerrilla movements, the spread of yellow fever, the coming and going of queer tourists, and love lost and found) the central crux of the story is the celebration of connection—however fleeting.
Fleeing to Nicaragua from Vienna during a worn-torn era, Pepa and her family settle in the jungle town of El Castillo. While there, Pepa’s parents contract yellow fever, leaving her to wander, learn about, and fall in love with both Nicaragua’s lush landscape, and its inhabitants. In particular, Pepa finds herself thrown into a love story with a local named Guillermo, who shows her how to find home in a new place, and a new way.
Pepa’s world comes further into chaos and heartbreak when her family abruptly decides to move to New York. Straddling the boundaries and borders of love, passion, and geography, Only the River shows two things simultaneously: what parallel universes can look like, writ large, and also the fragmentation that happens due to war, fleeing, and settlement. The idea of home, in people and places.
It is wonderful to see multi-generational narratives that involve queerness as fluidly as queerness happens—that is to say, queerness as normalized. Guillermo and his foray into blurred spaces with the two German lovers, Liliana, left by her wife and pining. In this novel, queerness is not a static land that one enters or leaves—it is as running and evolving and changing as the river around which this story revolves.
In our modern world, we need more depictions of love like this, more depictions of landscape like this, more depictions of what love can look like when it is told from many angles—with both the light and the dark. As in her novel about WWII (Winter Kept Us Warm), Raeff has a remarkable ability to be able to take us to new places—fantastical new places—on often well-trot soil. What’s more, the stories Raeff tells, and the fluency with which they are told, earn their place in a canon that is timeless, classic, and necessary. This is a triumph of a novel and a must-read for our times.
Before the coronavirus pandemic tore through the U.S., resulting in nearly 600,000deaths and a slew of collateral damage, transgender people across the Southeast were participating in self-defense classes catered specifically to them. The courses, organized by LGBTQ advocacy group Campaign for Southern Equality, had one goal: to teach trans people to protect themselves should they be the target of an attack.
The campaign saw the classes as a necessity, with trans Americans facing disproportionate levels of violence — including record levels of reported fatal violence against the community.
“When folks are being attacked and murdered, helping with a name change doesn’t really do much good if we can’t keep our people alive,” Ivy Hill, the community health program director for the Campaign for Southern Equality, told NBC News.
Now, as it seems the worst of the pandemic may be in the rearview mirror for the U.S., Hill hopes these classes will resume — either through their own organization or local grassroots groups. While the damage spawned by Covid-19 is slowing down, the violence faced by transgender Americans — particularly trans women of color in the South — appears to be accelerating.
This year is on track to be the deadliest on record for transgender Americans, with at least 28 trans and gender-nonconforming people fatally shot or violently killed so far, according to the Human Rights Campaign, which has been tracking trans deaths since 2013.
2021 is outpacing 2020, when the group recorded a record 44 trans people killed due to violence. By this time last year, the group had tracked 13 trans deaths. Of this year’s 28 known transgender victims, 20 were trans women of color (16 of them Black trans women), and 14 were killed in the South. https://iframe.nbcnews.com/UdlwyyS?app=1
The disproportionate violence trans Americans face in the South, and more specifically the Southeast, is due to a combination of issues, according to advocates. These factors, they say, include a lack of discrimination protections, a flurry of recently introduced anti-LGBTQ state bills, high rates of poverty and a host of cultural factors. To combat this dangerous brew, local and regional advocacy groups, like the Campaign for Southern Equality, say they are working to fill the void left by their states to ensure trans people have some form of protection where they live.
‘Institutional violence’
The Southeast in general is a hostile region for the transgender community due, in part, to “institutional violence,” according to Austin Johnson, an assistant professor of sociology at Ohio’s Kenyon College, who studies the trans community. Trans people face high barriers to health care and housing in the region, and state legislatures in recent years have put forward “persistent attacks” against the community with bills that seek to limit the everyday rights of trans people, he explained.
Add in the high rates of poverty in the region, along with religiosity that promotes a very conservative view of gender roles and sexuality, he said, and there is a combination of factors that contribute to the violence. https://iframe.nbcnews.com/YGXPfXs?app=1
“I think those kinds of norms, all of those intersect with the kind of economic deprivation, educational deprivation, we have in the South, and so when you have all of this deprivation, in terms of the different institutions, it’s going to affect every group,” Johnson said. “When there are some groups that are more disadvantaged, it’s going to affect them. So I think that’s why we’re seeing these really drastic rates of negative outcomes for LGBTQ people and trans people in particular in the South.”
Although there is a disproportionate number of reported killings of transgender people in the South, it does not mean the region is inherently more deadly, according to Eric A. Stanley, an assistant professor of gender and women’s studies at the University of California, Berkeley.
The true number of trans people lost to violence each year is unknown, due in part to the lack of a national database to track anti-trans violence, police misgendering victims in official reports and some victims’ closeted status. Absent that, Stanley said, it is impossible to truly judge the regionality of anti-trans violence in proportion to other areas of the country.
“I don’t think anywhere is necessarily safer, as the kinds of anti-trans antagonism that propels so much of the harm is any and everywhere,” Stanley said.
Stanley did note, however, that the Southeast is “less resourced” when it comes to combating violence against the transgender community — and the LGBTQ community more broadly — due to the relatively high poverty in the region and the lack of a social safety net.
Alabama, Louisiana and Mississippi — three Southeastern states — are also home to the highest homicide rates in the country, further adding to the climate of violence that trans people face in everyday life.
‘Dehumanized’ by state legislatures
Outside of housing and basic needs, transgender Americans only recently received federal protection from being fired for their gender identity, thanks to the Supreme Court’s 2020 ruling in Bostock v. Clayton County, Georgia. Besides that, there are no federal discrimination protections in other areas of life for trans people, according to the Movement Advancement Project, an LGBTQ think tank.
Hill said trans people’s inability to safely access public spaces without fear of discrimination — and the issues being debated in state legislatures aimed at rolling back the rights of trans people — have created a climate that has “dehumanized” the trans community. That combined with a lack of legal protections such as nondiscrimination ordinances leaves trans people vulnerable and easy targets of violence.
Twenty-two states do not have public accommodation nondiscrimination laws protecting LGBTQ people from being discriminated against in public places due to their sexual orientation or gender identity, and 20 do not have such protections when it comes to housing, according to the Movement Advancement Project. Many of these states are clustered around the Southeast.
In addition, only 15 states — none in the Southeast — have laws that make it illegal for a defendant to claim the victim’s sexual orientation or gender identity contributed to their violent actions, known as the “gay/trans panic” defense.
“I think for a lot of us, what people kind of miss is just how dangerous or scary it can be just to move through public space, which is something that other folks who are cisgender generally don’t even have to think about,” Hill, who lives in South Carolina, said of being trans in the South.
A number of Southeastern states have recently passed bills that restrict the rights of transgender Americans. Alabama, Florida, Mississippi and Tennessee all passed bills that bar trans student athletes from competing on sports teams that match their gender identity.
Tennessee enacted an additional law that compels businesses to display signs that read, “This facility maintains a policy of allowing the use of restrooms by either biological sex, regardless of the designation on the restroom,” if transgender people are allowed to use bathrooms that match their gender identity. The state also enacted a law that restricts access to gender-affirming care for trans minors.
State bills targeting transgender people that did not pass in 2021 will likely be introduced next year, advocates warn. Advocacy groups, including the Human Rights Campaign, say serious political change must happen on the federal level to help stem the tide of rising anti-trans violence.
HRC President Alphonso David said one of the most important things that can be done to help protect trans Americans is for Congress to pass the Equality Act. The federal legislation would explicitly create LGBTQ nondiscrimination protections in housing, credit, education, public spaces and services, federally funded programs and jury service.
“It is heartbreaking to see violence against transgender and gender-nonconforming people across our country,” David said in a statement. “The Equality Act that will provide legal recourse to incidents of discrimination, discourage discrimination, and work to reduce stigma against transgender and nonbinary people nationwide.”
In addition, HRC cited actions the Biden administration took — such as reinstating the Equal Access Rule that allows people to access Department of Housing and Urban Development-funded housing without discrimination based on their gender identity and encouraging the Education Department to enforce Title IX with protections based on gender identity — as tangible solutions to help the trans community.
Some advocates, however, are not optimistic about additional national actions, especially given the slim majority Democrats hold in Congress. That’s why groups like the Campaign for Southern Equality continue to focus on lobbying state legislatures and supporting more local, grassroots efforts.
‘Robust community of grassroots work’
A number of queer advocacy groups in the Southeast say they are filling in the gaps left by the federal, state and local governments.
Organizations like Atlanta-based Southerners on New Ground are dedicated to keeping reports of anti-transgender violence in the news to ensure the public is aware of this ongoing issue.
“Those folks are amplifying their voices and amplifying their stories,” Johnson said of advocates sharing the stories of trans people lost to violence. “I wonder if we didn’t have this robust community of grassroots work, that we wouldn’t even know many of their names.”
In Charlotte, North Carolina, the trans community has been racked by violence. Two Black women, Jaida Peterson and Remy Fennell, were killed in the span of two weeks in April. Ash Williams, an organizer with Charlotte Uprising and the House of Kanautica, which both support the local Black trans community, said the groups’ main goal has been to get money in the hands of struggling trans people so they can find stable housing. After Peterson’s death, the groups raised over $20,000 for trans people of color. Williams said if they had this kind of funding year-round, it may have saved Peterson’s life.
“We believe that how we are organizing is certainly in the spirit of what we understand to be happening across the country, which is, we hope, some kind of cultural awakening that says trans people matter and Black lives matter,” Williams said.
Thousands march during a Transgender Resistance Vigil + March in Boston on June 13, 2020. Barry Chin / Boston Globe via Getty Images file
However, he added, distributing funds so the community members can take care of each other only goes so far when there is limited access to health care and other necessary services.
“Because of the way that power structures are, regular people have to show up,” Williams said. “And one of the things that we hope to be able to do is to get people mobilized and to show up for the trans folks where they live.”
Several groups in the Southeast are organizing to provide vulnerable trans communities with essential needs, such as housing, where they say state institutions have failed to provide a path to safety.
“A big portion of the folks that we serve participate in survival sex or sex work. Therefore, they don’t have verifiable income,” Kayla Gore, co-founder of My Sistah’s House, told NBC News last year. “So that’s the reason that they can’t get housing or they’re underemployed, in a sense that they don’t necessarily have access to equitable jobs that will provide them an income that is enough to obtain stable housing.”
My Sistah’s House also provides emergency housing in an effort to keep the local trans population safe in the immediate term.
House of Tulip in New Orleansis renovating a multifamily home in hopes of creating a pilot program to house 10 transgender people facing housing insecurity. The group, according to its website, also plans to establish a “separate space that can serve as a community center” where transgender people have a safe space to visit, access resources and get a hot meal or shower. H
House of Tulip said 1 of every 3 trans people in Louisiana faces homelessness, emphasizing the need for immediate housing as well as investment to help trans people find long-term housing arrangements.
Trans United Leading Intersectional Progress, or TULIP, is a nonprofit collective creating housing solutions for trans and gender-nonconforming people in Louisiana.House of Tulip
Johnson said local grassroots groups in the Southeast have come to realize in the absence of institutional help, they have to rely on each other for survival.
“When you have that kind of community building, it’s empowering, and people are not going to just roll over and expect this treatment that they’re getting,” Johnson said. “Also, they’re going to honor those who they’ve lost in their community, because they have people to rely on.”
Long before the push for marriage equality truly began, before Obergefell v Hodges, before the Defense of Marriage Act, there was Jack and Michael McConnell.
This year Jack and Michael will celebrate 51 years of happy marriage, making them longest-wed same-sex couple in the world. They were also the very first.
Thanks to a clever legal loophole they managed to do it as early as 1971, exchanging vows before a Methodist pastor and a dozen guests in a friend’s apartment.
Their journey began in 1966, at a Halloween party in Oklahoma where the pair first laid eyes on each other.
“I was looking for the three T’s: tall, thin and 23. And believe it or not, at 24, I thought that time had passed me by!” Jack laughs. “But there was Michael, and the three T’s were standing right in front of me.”
Michael wasn’t quite as enamoured at first, though.
“Well, I was a little taken aback, because Jack had been in the Air Force and he had his hair in a really short, flat top style,” he said. “At that time most people in our community were doing the long Beatles-type hair. So I looked at him and thought, ‘I don’t know about this guy.’
“But my friend Cruz said, ‘Michael, you don’t know what you’re talking about. You two are destined to be together.’ And I think Cruz was absolutely right.”
Sure enough, their love blossomed as the couple went to movies or plays or secret parties with friends, always careful to stay under the religious radar to avoid attacks. After a year together Jack came to Michael with a proposal: he wanted someone to grow old with.
The question caught Michael off guard. “OK, I will commit,” he said, “but only on one condition. If we’re going to do this, you must try to find a way for us to get legally married.”
Jack gave him a long look, then said simply: “Well, I guess I’m going to law school.”
The first rule of law school was simple – what’s not forbidden is permitted. Jack seized upon this, realising the statutes only referred to marriage between “two parties”, not man and woman, which meant he could technically apply for a marriage license.
When their first attempt in 1970 was denied they fought it in the Supreme Court, where they lost their case in a one-sentence dismissal: “The appeal is dismissed for want of a substantial federal question.”
Undeterred, the couple simply figured out another loophole.
First Michael legally adopted Jack, which gave them inheritance and other legal protections. Then Jack changed his first name to the gender-neutral “Pat Lyn”, and Michael went to apply for a license alone. And this time, it worked.
The pair were wed before officials could change their mind; unfortunately, when it was revealed that Jack and Michael were both men, those officials declared the license invalid. Jack refused to accept their decision.
“Something as simple and totally obvious to a law student was not that obvious to the rest of the world,” he said. “It was a fight. We’ve been fighting ever since.”
It was years before the homophobic rhetoric of the AIDS crisis; many people were simply curious and peppered them with questions. How exactly did their relationship work, they asked, and what did they want to accomplish?
More often than not, straight couples would shyly approach them after the event for advice about intimacy problems.
“We actually did not encounter any bullying or any harm at all,” Jack recalls.
“Because what we spoke to was love, our commitment and our relationship, almost everyone could understand that,” Michael says, finishing his husband’s thought.
We’ve jerked everybody 45 years into the future
Ultimately though, Jack and Michael McConnell were just a few decades ahead of their time.
As the 70s passed and marriage equality was no closer, Jack says they realised “we’ve jerked everybody 45 years into the future, and it’s gonna take them a while to catch up”.
The couple eventually took a step back to focus on their careers and allow a new generation of LGBT+ activists to continue the fight. But they never lost sight of their goal, and refused to accept their marriage was invalid.
And nearly five decades later, they were finally proven right. The Supreme Court referenced them by name in the momentous marriage equality battle, Obergefell v Hodges, which officially overturned the case against their marriage.
“I saw it as vindication,” Jack said. “I knew from day one we’d followed the letter of the law, and [the Supreme Court] verified that what was intuitively obvious to a second year law student in 1971 was indeed correct. It only took, what, 40 years?”
But even so, they can’t help but draw parallels between their experience and today’s struggle for trans rights.
“These right-wing crazies can’t attack gay marriage anymore, because it means attacking people like Jack and me, or their brother, their uncle, their aunt, their cousin. So now they’re going to try to find other people that they can label and lie about,” Michael said.
“And it’s not going to work. I can tell you, it’s not going to work, because it’s not natural. We’re all human beings. As long as we stand together, they’re not going to win.”
Now they’re leaving the fight to younger generations who are battling for the next round of LGBT+ rights – and it’s for these people that they’ve penned a book about their lives.
“We wanted to leave a story for them about how you can find your way and find the love you want,” Michael said.
“What I see in younger generations now is inspiring: they’re highly intelligent, they’re well connected all around the planet. And they have a vision that I agree with. It’s one that is based on love, not only for one another, wherever we come from, but for this planet that sustains us all.
“You can’t ask for more than that.”
Jack and Michael McConnell’s book, “The Wedding Heard ‘Round The World: America’s First Gay Marriage,” is out now in Paperback Original.
Every year it gets better and worse for the transgender community. March 31 is International Transgender Day of Visibility and the first in four years we’re celebrating under political leadership championing queer and transgender rights.
Politics plays a critical role when it comes to including and empowering transgender people. At the highest level, inclusive laws and protections must be enforced to create equal access to basic human needs like healthcare, housing, and employment.
However, the cis-heteronormative powers that sit in the decision-making chairs have deliberately chosen to exclude and dehumanize transgender and nonbinary folks. This creates inequality that waterfalls into their involvement in society. Just recently, the Arkansas legislature passed HB 1570, which, if signed by the governor, would prevent doctors from providing gender-affirming care to minors.
The challenge of visibility for transgender people is that once seen, they can be targeted. That’s exactly what’s happening to this community, especially people of color. Since the Human Rights Campaign started keeping records in 2013, at least 200 transgender and gender-expansive people have been killed in the United States. This is at minimum considering that many of these violent attacks and homicides go unreported.
Then what does visibility mean if it comes at the cost of potentially losing one’s life? And what does it mean to move beyond visibility?
Last Friday, five transgender activists came together to answer these questions in an event called “Beyond Visibility” hosted by FOLX Health, Trans Guy Supply, and HER app.
The event took place on Zoom, naturally. Chris Mosier, the first transgender athlete to represent the U.S. at the Olympics, moderated the event along with four panelists, all people of color.
Over 60 attendees were in the digital room at one point. Despite my acquired Zoom fatigue over the past year, this event felt different. Unlike a corporate-sponsored justice and equity workshop or an all-access Instagram live, this semi-private Zoom room was the closest to a safe and large queer space we could have in these times.
Mosier, wearing a red and blue flannel, bikes hanging on the wall behind him, opened the discussion with what each panelist thought of visibility.
Rej Joo, an activist, self-defense teacher, and 1.5 generation Korean-American started. His challenge with the question was that it touched on his Asian American identity. “Culturally, a lot of information is encouraged to be private,” he said. Intersecting his ethnic background is his trans experience of being a man, he continued.
Ultimately, he hopes to see a future where we’re not even talking about visibility because “being trans and non-binary is boring.”
This is a loaded question for these panelists. Race and ethnic background add multiple layers of complexity to the simple act of being seen.
Dr. Kameryn Lee, vice president of medical affairs and equity at FOLX Health, added that visibility works both ways. It’s not about just being seen, but also how well others can see you, she said in her yellow tee with “Protect Black Trans Women” written across the front. A transgender flag hung on the wall behind her.
“For most people, their visibility will improve if they are willing to turn on a light, and open their eyes a little wider,” she said.
Marquise Vilsón Balenciaga, activist and actor, nods his heads in agreement.
“I love that response,” Vilsón said. An activist, actor, and member of the House of Balenciaga, he knows a thing or two about being seen. He famously said, “To be both Black and Trans is to be hunted in this country”.
Visibility’s proximity to violence is why this is still an issue for the transgender community. Living life as their authentic selves costs them their lives. While mainstream representation through television shows like Pose and the movie Disclosure added new transgender narratives to the screen, the problem isn’t solved.
The United States has seen a skyrocketing of anti-trans bills in 2021. Already, there have been 65 anti-trans bills targeted at youth. In 2020 there were 41. The main focus of the bills this year has been on regulating school sports, a topic close to Mosier’s heart.
“In sports, 30 states have laws that prevent trans folks from competing from elementary to college,” said Mosier. “That’s a huge loss to young people.”
Transgender people have been invited to the table for media, entertainment, and glossy magazine covers, but they’re still discriminated against politically. This ripples into bigger society and creates more dangerous waves as it travels out.
“I myself am a survivor of multiple ways of violence both on the streets and in person. Violence specifically towards trans women has always been present,” said Bamby Salcedo through tears. She is the president and CEO of TransLatin@ Coalition, an organization that specifically helps immigrant transgender women.
On March 17, Rayanna Pardo, a 26-year old transgender woman, was hit and killed by a car in Los Angeles. TransLatin@ Coalition along with Pardo’s friends and family held a candlelight vigil on March 20. This marks at least 12 transgender or non-binary people killed in 2021.
“There’s a seductive narrative to visibility,” added Joo. “But it depends on the various intersectional identities.”
Visibility isn’t as dangerous for someone of privilege like Caitlin Jenner as it is to an immigrant transgender sex worker, said Joo. This is proven by the cold, lifeless numbers of who’s getting killed.
Even then, people like Dr. Lee are willing to be visible.
“I’m not going to be invisible because of fear,” she said. It’s the same thing with her Blackness. By being more visible, others can be inspired to do the same, she added. For her, multiplying visibility is more important than moving beyond it.
Salcedo disagreed and argued that the community needed to move beyond visibility.
“Many people think our social issues have been addressed. That is a lie,” she said in regards to increased media representation.
After visibility comes education, and after that comes acceptance. Eventually, the utopia is a place where these things don’t matter at all.
“We’re so visible that we’re invisible,” added Joo. “I hope all the colors existing in society is not a big deal.”
At the end of the event, audience members submitted their questions. One person was experiencing difficulty in explaining their transition to others. Salcedo swiftly responded that, “You don’t need to explain anything to anybody,” and the rest of the panelists nodded in agreement.
Another was looking for mental health help and Dr. Lee recommended Violet and Euphoria as apps she had tried with success. Joo recommended community Facebook groups.
It’s clear that the community is great at taking care of each other, and now the work must come from outside. It’s up to the rest of the LGBTQ+ community and allies to keep fighting for transgender people until they’re treated fairly. Donating to BIPOC organizations, calling senators, and redistributing wealth all go a long way in protecting these trailblazers of history and culture. Although Transgender Day of Visibility is one day, every day is Transgender Day of Pride.
A former foster child adopted by two fathers after being abandoned for his sexuality has urged Congress not to stand in the way of loving LGBT+ families like his.
On Wednesday Weston Charles-Gallo, a former youth ambassador for the Human Rights Campaign, bravely testified in support of the bipartisan Every Child Deserves a Family Act (ECDF).
he bill would prohibit any federally-funded child welfare services from discriminating against prospective parents based solely on their sexual orientation, gender identity or marital status, as well as the sexuality or gender identity of the child involved.
This law is critical for young people like Weston, who entered the foster care system at 14 when his parents neglected him for coming out as gay. He experienced a year of hospitalisations, shelters and foster home placements before finally, at 15, he received the amazing news: “I was going to be adopted.”
“I have since learned that many, many LGBT+ foster youth never get that news,” he told lawmakers.
Weston was lucky: he found a loving home with two fathers and six siblings, who gave him the love and support he needed to grow into his authentic self.
“My dads showed me what it was like to witness a true marriage and live a normal life, expressing the meaning of family,” he said. “Before I lived with them I never pictured myself marrying someone or even having a family, but they proved to me that anything is possible.
“Without them in my life constantly supporting and encouraging me I don’t know where I would be, or even if I would be alive today. I finally found a home where I can live my authentic self.”
He stressed that in the conversation about same-sex couples fostering and adopting, all too often the message of giving needy children “safety, stability and love” is forgotten.
Why keep qualified parents from giving children the lives they deserve but never imagined?
“I urge committee member to focus on that mission, not on the personal beliefs of adults,” Weston said.
“If it wasn’t for my two dads taking a chance on me and helping me embrace my sexual orientation, the colour of my skin and who Weston is, I wouldn’t be here to share my story.
“When a child enters the foster care system they just want to find a family that loves them unconditionally and supports them continuously. Why keep qualified parents from giving children the lives they deserve but never imagined? Because that is exactly what my fathers did for me.”
Many states like Florida, Utah, Mississippi, Nebraska and Utah have policies that directly disadvantage LGBT+ and unmarried parents, leaving children vulnerable to the individual biases of agencies and case workers.
As well as increasing adoption rates, proponents of the ECDF bill say it would decrease risk factors for youth in foster care, yielding an annual cost savings of $3-$6 billion.
But most importantly, the legislation is about putting the needs of the child before all else.
“We should find more loving families like my dads that can be affirming of all kids in care,” Weston told members of Congress. “I want to ask all policy makers, foster care parents and social workers to take the time to put yourself in our shoes and think about what you wanted as a child.
“LGBT+ youth aren’t going anywhere, we’re here, and we’re asking to be heard and loved for who we are.”
An estimated 476,000 transgender adults in the U.S. are without any form of identification with the correct gender marker, according to a new report by the Williams Institute at the University of California Los Angeles School of Law. Michigan has the highest percentage of transgender adults without an ID that lists the correct gender (78%), and Delaware has the lowest (31%).
Using data from the 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey (USTS), researchers estimated the number of transgender people nationally and by state without accurate IDs and examined the relationship between state-level policies and having accurate IDs.
Findings show that transgender people in states with the fewest policy barriers to updating their gender marker are significantly more likely to have accurate birth certificates and driver’s licenses than those in states with the most barriers. States with the most burdensome requirements may require proof of gender-affirming surgical care to update a gender maker. States with less burdensome requirements may require individuals to fill out specified forms or submit an affidavit.
“Having inaccurate IDs can lead to harassment and discrimination for transgender people, which can negatively impact mental health,” said lead author Jody L. Herman, Scholar of Public Policy at the Williams Institute. “State and federal policymakers should enact policies that make gender marker changes on IDs less burdensome and more accessible for transgender people.”
KEY FINDINGS
55% of respondents to the 2015 USTS did not have any IDs with the correct gender marker.
In states with the fewest policy barriers, 47% of transgender people have corrected the gender markers on their driver’s licenses, compared to 26% of those living in states with the most policy barriers.
In states with the fewest policy barriers, 16% of transgender people have corrected the gender markers on their birth certificates, compared to 8% of those in states with the most policy barriers.
26% of transgender people with an incorrect gender marker on their driver’s license had the name or gender on their ID questioned by TSA officers, compared to 9% of those with the correct gender marker.
18% of those with an incorrect gender marker on their passport had the name or gender on their ID questioned by TSA officers, compared to 6% of those with the correct gender marker.
Currently, 20 states and the District of Columbia allow a gender marker of “X” on driver’s licenses, and 13 states allow an “X” gender marker on birth certificates.
If the traditional gender categories of “male” and “female” feel too restrictive to you, there’s a chance you could be genderfluid or genderqueer.
Gender is a spectrum, not a binary, and the words we use to describe it are constantly changing as our language evolves to encompass identities that have always existed, but were previously hidden under the burden of shame.
We now have a wider range of gender expression than ever before, which is great! But it’s OK to ask questions. Here’s a breakdown of what it means to be genderqueer and genderfluid, and how the two are different.
What is genderqueer?
Genderqueer is an umbrella term to describe someone whose gender identity doesn’t fit within socially constructed norms, whether that’s in terms of their thoughts, feelings, behaviours or presentation.
According to a history of the term published in them, “genderqueer” originated in activist circles in the 1990s and grew in commonality over the last three decades.
Every genderqueer person experiences their gender in a way that is unique to them and the label can mean different things to different people.
For example, some genderqueer people fall under the banner of non-binary, and these two categories can sometimes overlap. Others may feel that they don’t identify with any gender at all, and this is called agender.
“To me, ‘genderqueer’ represents a queering of gender, so to speak,” Laura A Jacobs, a psychotherapist who specialises in trans and gender non-binary issues, told Vice.
“It’s a deliberate playing with gender in a very political sense, and being provocative around gender norms to highlight the gender stereotypes of our culture. It is also how I identify.”
Many genderqueer people will use gender-neutral pronouns such as the singular “they”, while others are comfortable using “she/her/hers” or “he/him/his”. It’s important to ask someone what pronouns they use if you’re not sure.
What is genderfluid?
Unlike genderqueer people, those who identify as genderfluid have a gender that is not fixed, and their gender identity may shift over long or short periods of time.
Some people might identify strongly with a particular gender one day, and another gender the next – it all depends on how they’re feeling in the moment.
“I would be equally comfortable with a male or female body. My male personality is more outgoing than my female one. It’s like having both male and female energies and some days a mix of both,” explained Daniela Esquivel Asturias in the Guardian.
Genderfluidity is often tied into personal expression and presentation. For some it may be a way to explore gender before landing on a more stable gender expression or identity, while others may fluctuate all their lives.
Some genderfluid people are transgender, but not everyone who experiences changes in their gender expression or identity identifies as genderfluid. Nor does everyone want gender-affirming medical treatment to change their body to better align with their gender identity.
As with people who identify as genderqueer, it’s important to ask what pronouns they use rather than assuming.
Genderfluid and genderqueer celebrities
A growing number of celebrities are embracing gender non-conformity and fluidity in their lives.
The stand-up comedian Eddie Izzard, who’s long identified as trans, recently announced she is genderfluid and now uses she/her pronouns.
Australian model and actor Ruby Rose has long been open about her identity, alternately describing herself as “genderfluid” and “gender neutral”. The Walking Dead‘s Nico Tortorella is also genderfluid, as is their spouse Bethany C Meyers.
JD Samson of the lesbian synthpop group Le Tigre uses a range of different labels. “I think my identity, or the words that I choose, vary a bit – but I would identify as a woman, as a lesbian and as a queer person, and also as genderqueer,” she told Archer magazine in 2016.
Game of Thrones star Maisie Williams is also exploring genderfluidity while retaining feminine pronouns. “I like that I don’t need to label that, I guess, and can just express myself that way and still feel, and identify, as female,” she said.
And Queer Eye‘s Jonathan Van Ness described his experience with gender in a 2019 interview with Out. “The older I get, the more I think that I’m non-binary — I’m gender non-conforming. Like, some days I feel like a man, but then other days I feel like a woman,” he said.
“I think my energies are really all over the place. Any opportunity I have to break down stereotypes of the binary, I am down for it, I’m here for it.”
How to be a genderqueer ally
Listen to genderqueer youth and validate their experience of their gender. Don’t make assumptions or project expectations based on their gender – just have patience and allow them to explore without fear of judgement.
If a genderqueer person is struggling with their identity, offer to connect them to appropriate resources so they can talk to others with similar experiences. Gender Spectrum is a great resource for both gender-fluid youth and the adults in their lives.
Use their correct pronouns, but don’t worry if you mess up every now and then, just apologise and move forward.
Finally, don’t pressure them to identify with any particular label. Many people try out a label for a while to see if it fits, and if they change their mind later on that’s fine! Everyone is the expert on their own gender, so let them choose the descriptors that suit them.
