A judge in Texas who refused to marry same-sex couples has had her lawsuit against the state agency that oversees judicial misconduct thrown out of court. She filed the lawsuit in late 2019 after the agency warned her she needed to change her ways or stop officiating weddings.
Justice of the Peace Dianne Hensley works in Waco, McLellan County. A devout Christian, she filed a class-action lawsuit to enable her, and other justices of the peace in the state, to decline to marry same-sex couples.
She was backed by the First Liberty Institute, an organization that has helped others to fight to express their religious beliefs. The lawsuit, against the State Commission on Judicial Conduct, was moved to Travis County last year.
On Monday, the Waco Tribune-Herald reported that Judge Jan Soifer threw the case out of court.
Soifer ruled the State Commission on Judicial Conduct had sovereign and statutory immunity from the claims. She also said Hensley had failed to exhaust other legal avenues before filing her action.
SCOTUS ruled in 2015 that same-sex couples could marry across the US. Some officiants and judges have stepped down from performing marriage ceremonies because they believe having to wed gay couples goes against their religious beliefs.
In fact, it was reported last summer that all but one of the other five McLennan County justices of the peace have stopped doing weddings since the Supreme Court decision.
In Texas, officiating weddings is an optional duty for justices of the peace. Performing them can help those officiating to earn thousands of dollars in extra income.
Between August 2016 and late 2019, Hensley conducted over 300 wedding ceremonies, all for opposite-sex couples. Hensley earned around $25,000 for these duties, according to the Houston Chronicle.
If her office was approached by any same-sex couples, they were given a document explaining her reasoning for declining and providing a list of others who could perform the ceremony.
Hensley made her opposition to marrying gay couples public knowledge. In 2017, she told local news station 25 News KXXV, “I have no desire to offend anybody, but the last person I want to offend is God.”
Hensley’s suit was seeking $10,000 in damages for the money she claims she lost while the commission investigated her. She also wanted a ruling allowing her to continue to refuse to marry same-sex couples. In throwing out the case, Judge Soifer also ordered Hensley to pay court costs associated with her lawsuit.
An investigation has unearthed worrying evidence in the case of Mhelody Bruno, a trans Filipino woman who was strangled to death by a former Royal Australian Air Force corporal.
Bruno died on 21 September, 2019, in Wagga Wagga, Australia after being choked during sex
Her killer, Rian Ross Toyer, 33, initially walked free despite pleading guilty to her death due to a sentencing error.
In March 2021, after outrage from activists that Toyer was allowed to escape a prison term, the judge was forced to reopen the case and ultimately sentenced him to 22 months.
Details about the days before her death, which were not before the judge who sentenced her, reveal that Bruno, 25, was fully clothed when paramedics arrived, had made several out-of-character video calls with an unnamed man the night before she died, and that nurses saw bruises and marks on her body before she died in hospital that were not accounted for or mentioned in the coroners report.
One friend, interviewed by police after Bruno’s death, said that he received a video call from Bruno’s phone the night before she was strangled. A man was “extremely angry and yelling” and saying he would “rape Mhelody and give her AIDS”, the friend told police – but this call, and other messages sent from her phone that night, never made it to the courtroom.
The new information comes from an investigation by ABC News, an Australian media outlet, which also asked a former Supreme Court judge to review the journalists’ findings. He said that in light of the new information, “There is certainly an argument to say that a miscarriage of justice may have occurred here”.
“Unfortunately, we don’t know enough about all the detail, we’re commenting on bits and pieces as it were, but they are all pretty important bits and pieces,” said former Supreme Court Judge Anthony Whealy, who oversaw some of NSW’s most high-profile criminal trials, after reviewing the information gather by ABC.
Whealey continued: “And putting them all together I think at the very least you could say they reveal this was a much more serious manslaughter than the judge envisaged it to be.”
He added: “Has justice been done? Well there must be a question mark over that.”
The court heard during Toyer’s trial that Bruno had not requested to be choked but also that she had not asked for the choking to stop.
oyer lost his job in the air force after Bruno’s death, which Lerve took into account when sentencing him. Toyer also received a 25 per cent discount on his sentence for pleading guilty. In the end, he was sentenced to 22 months’ imprisonment for the manslaughter of Mhelody Bruno, 25, whom he killed while engaging in an act of erotic asphyxia.
Superintendent Noble, who runs the Wagga Wagga police station, says police were interested to learn Bruno was found fully dressed but “ultimately a narrative was presented to the court that they had engaged in sex that morning”.
“Ultimately you can only prove what you can prove and you can’t prove what the evidence doesn’t substantiate,” he said.
“That is OK to do as a lay person but ultimately prosecutors and, in this case, [the judge], had to make a finding and a sentence, and inconvenient pieces of information that may be difficult to reconcile in one’s mind don’t necessarily constitute grounds for a different finding.”
Most people associate microdosing with their artist friend who chews on a minuscule amount of mushrooms before painting or the Silicon Valley tech-bro who lists their LSD-laced coffee as the key to their success. Method aside, people say that enhancing their days with a sprinkling of psychedelics lets them be themselves, just better.
Non-binary and transgender people have also adopted microdosing in pursuit of their most authentic selves. Their drug of choice: hormones.
For decades, transgender people have used gender-affirming hormone therapy (GAHT) to alleviate their gender dysphoria. The most common usage has been for transgender people of binary identity who want to transition from masculine to feminine (MTF) or feminine to masculine (FTM). Up until recently, the health care system rooted in Western binary thinking only supported medical transition from one gender to the opposite, A to B.
In more visual terms, there are as many people who disregard the gender binary as the entire population of Miami (about half a million people). And this doesn’t include the transgender people who weren’t included in the survey because of reasons like homelessness or citizenship status.
Microdosing hormones, also called low-dose GAHT, allows many non-binary-identifying people to achieve more subtle characteristics. Taking estrogen for gender feminization will increase breast growth, reduce body and facial hair growth, and soften the skin. Taking testosterone will emphasize gender masculinization in the form of increased muscle mass, deepening of the voice, and facial and body hair growth.
This slow-and-low approach is what drew 22-year old Reddit user, subspacehipster, to start low-dose testosterone GAHT.
They started researching hormone replacement therapy in middle school and familiarized themselves with the expected changes. But the idea of any sort of change scared them.
“I liked the appeal of starting more slowly so that I could better adjust to the changes,” they said. They also knew that they wouldn’t be on hormones forever, making the microdosing option all the more appealing.
Low-dose GAHT itself is not a new phenomenon. Many binary transgender people who begin their transition will start with lower doses of hormones and slowly build up to a full-dose amount that maximizes the development of secondary sex characteristics.
The doctor that subspacehipster saw knew about this type of binary transition. What she didn’t quite understand was non-binary folks transitioning.
“It was just clear that she didn’t get it,” subspacehipster said. She had worked with several binary transgender people whom subspacehipter knew. They were one of the doctor’s first non-binary trans patients.
She wasn’t able to get past equating non-binary to androgynous, which was not the explanation that subspacehipster used, but it was “close enough I didn’t correct her.”
Despite the gap in understanding, they still see the doctor because she respects the dosage that subspacehipster has chosen and hasn’t tried to change it.
It’s rare to find doctors that will support low-dose GAHT because hormone therapy in itself is built to be an all-or-nothing practice in the U.S. healthcare system. Even for providers offering gender-affirming care, the standard set out by the World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH) is based on binary folks interested in fully transitioning.
But that didn’t fit the path that Reddit user Sarah Valentine wanted in their gender-affirming journey. They began considering GAHT as a way to feel more comfortable in their body and thought that low-dose would be a good place to start.
“I quickly found that the health care system in the U.S. was not amenable to that kind of experimentation, with most prescribers unwilling to follow an informed consent model,” they said.
In the U.S., those looking to start hormone replacement therapy must often obtain a letter from a licensed mental health therapist affirming the patient has gender dysphoria. In other words, that they really are transgender. With an informed consent model, the letter is not needed and the individual can seek out gender-affirming care on their terms. New transgender healthcare startups FOLX Health and Plumeemphasize this way of putting the power back into the patient’s hands. San Francisco AIDS Foundation providers with the TransCare program also prescribe hormones based on an individual’s own goals.
Finding a non-binary-affirming therapist alone was a challenge for Valentine. After numerous phone calls, they finally found the person that would write the letter.
The therapist knew how frustrating this type of medical gatekeeping was and just asked one question of Valentine, “Are you transgender?”
“Yes,” they said and the letter of support was signed, sealed, and delivered to the doctor.
In the meeting with their physician, Valentine explained that they were not a binary trans person and not interested in transitioning. Instead, they wanted to be somewhere in the middle.
“I’m more interested in the psychological changes that GAHT can provide versus the physical effects,” they mentioned.
The mental benefits of GAHT are not as discussed as the physical, given the adjacency of this treatment to gender-affirming surgeries. However, for many non-cisgender folks, hormones can relieve the inner anxiety, depression, and frustrations that constitute gender dysphoria.
The dosage for estrogen and anti-androgens that Valentine started on were low enough where there wouldn’t be much significant anatomical change. But mentally, they felt a clear difference.
“The process of thinking my thoughts felt different. I would still have the same thoughts, but the way they would form and move through my consciousness was different,” they said.
Similarly, for emotions, they found themselves experiencing a feeling more often than before. The emotions were also more ephemeral and vivid at the same time, they said. “They had more immediacy to them like they were closer to me than they were before.”
They liken taking hormones to having that first cup of coffee or tea in the morning or putting premium gasoline in their car after having run on the cheap stuff before.
“It feels right, like this is the hormone level I was always designed to run on,” said Valentine.
There’s also a feeling of empowerment that comes with making a decision to take a step in affirming your own gender. There’s risk involved and some of the changes are irreversible, but taking control of your narrative is one of the most powerful actions to support your own identity.
Ultimately, microdose/low-dose GAHT is unique to each individual and the developments they seek in their gender affirmation. One thing to note: Just because the dosage is low doesn’t mean that certain effects won’t happen.
“Low-dose T isn’t some androgynous, less manly version of T,” said subspacehipster.
Transitioning or exploring the gender binary looks different for everyone. Hormones can be part of this journey, but they shouldn’t dictate how “manly” or “womanly” a person is. Now, with increased accessibility to hormones and more transgender and non-binary-affirming providers, trying out GAHT is easier than ever.
Let’s take a moment to celebrate the pansexuals: the wonderful guys, gals and non-binary pals who love who they love regardless of gender.
Pansexuality is part of the Bisexual+ Umbrella, meaning that it’s one of many identities in which someone is attracted to more than one gender.
But how exactly do you define pansexuality, and how is it different from bisexuality or polysexuality?
What does pansexual mean?
Every pansexual’s understanding of their sexuality is personal to them, but in general it means that they aren’t limited by sex or gender when it comes to those they’re attracted to.
The word comes from the Greek word “pan,” which means “all”. But that doesn’t mean pansexuals are attracted to anybody and everybody, just as heterosexual women aren’t attracted to all men. It simply means that the people they are into might identify anywhere on the LGBT+ spectrum.
This includes people who are gender-fluid, and those who don’t identify with any gender at all (agender).
In fact, some pansexuals describe themselves as “gender-blind”, meaning that gender doesn’t play any part in their sexuality; they’re attracted purely to a person’s energy rather than any other attributes.
What’s the difference between pansexual and bisexual?
Good question! Sometimes pansexuality is used as a synonym for bisexuality, but they are subtly different.
Bisexual means being attracted to multiple genders, whereas pansexual means being attracted to all genders. Both orientations are valid in their own right and it’s up to the individual to decide which one fits them best.
Some people assume that bisexual people are erasing non-binary people or enforcing a rigid gender binary, because they believe the word bisexual implies that there are only two genders. We’re happy to inform you this isn’t the case!
The vast majority of bisexual people love and support the non-binary community, and many non-binary people are bisexuals themselves.
The reality is that bi people simply have “the potential to be attracted – romantically and/or sexually – to people of more than one sex and/or gender, not necessarily at the same time, not necessarily in the same way, and not necessarily to the same degree,” as advocate Robyn Ochs describes.
What’s the difference between pansexual and polysexual?
The word polysexual comes from the Greek prefix “poly“ meaning “many”, and the term has been around since the 1920s or 30s, if not earlier.
There’s some overlap between pansexual and polysexual, as both appear under the Bisexual+ Umbrella. The key difference is that someone identifying as polysexual is not necessarily attracted to all genders, but many genders.
A good analogy to describe it is how you feel about your favourite colours: a pansexual person might like every colour of the rainbow, whereas a polysexual person might say they like all the colours except blue and green.
But more often than not, those who identify as polysexual tend to ignore gender binaries altogether, especially when it comes to who they are and aren’t attracted to.
It’s worth noting that polysexuality also has nothing to do with polyamory, which is style of consensual relationship, not a sexuality.
What pansexual celebrities are there?
Pansexuality has been around for as long as humans have, but the term is becoming more mainstream as more celebrities publicly identify as pansexual themselves.
Just a few of the big pansexual names out there are Lizzo, Cara Delevigne, Miley Cyrus, Janelle Monae, Angel Haze, Jazz Jennings, Brendan Urie, Yungblud, Nico Tortorella, Courtney Act, Bella Thorne, Joe Lycett, Tess Holliday and Christine and the Queens.
“Pansexuality, to me, means it doesn’t matter about the physical attributions of the person you fall in love with, it’s about the person themselves,” she told PinkNews.
“It doesn’t matter if they’re a man or a woman or gender non-conforming, it doesn’t matter if they identify as gay or not. In the end, these are all things that don’t matter – the thing that matters is the person, and that you love the person.”
What does the pansexual Pride flag look like?
We’re glad you asked. It looks like this:
The pansexual pride flag (Wikimedia Commons)
When is pansexual Pride day?
Pansexual & Panromantic Awareness Day falls on 24 May. It’s a day to celebrate the pan community and educate others on what it means – so you can start by telling your friends it’s got absolutely nothing to do with saucepans.
Miami and Baltimore– Urban Health Media Project reporter Vanessa Falcon, a high school student in Miami, interviewed Arin Jayes, 30, of Baltimore, about his gender identity journey and experience transitioning to a non-binary trans man. Jayes, a behavioral health therapist, is also an urban farmer and embroidery artist.
Q: How was your transitioning process? Was it overall very difficult? Why? How long did it last?
A: As a non binary person, I have a flexible view of how individuals develop their gender identity. It’s something that may evolve throughout a person’s lifetime, based on experiences; changes in personal values and relationships; bodily changes; and other factors. Gender identity also intersects and interacts with many other identities, such as race, ethnicity, physical ability or disability, sexual orientation and class.
For many trans folks, the gender transition process is lifelong and never-ending! Pronouns can change multiple times (hence the “pronoun check” posts we see on Facebook). Similarly, physical changes or adjustments may happen over years, instead of all at once. I mention this before bringing up my own story because it is important to normalize the idea of flexible, changing genders. After all, gender is a social construct designed to categorize people. When we view gender on a continuum, we can recognize a galaxy of gender journeys that a person can take.
My own transition is a prime example. I came out as genderqueer in 2012, and used “they/them” pronouns exclusively. In 2015, after further introspection, I realized that I wanted to live in a more masculine body. I came out to my family and friends as a non-binary trans man, using “he” pronouns and physically transitioning. I made this decision with the understanding that I wasn’t transitioning because I identified as a “man” per se, but that I felt more comfortable in a body that had more masculine characteristics. Since physically transitioning seven years ago, I’ve passed as male about 90% of the time. (Masks can sometimes make passing complicated for trans folks!) When people ask me nowadays what my gender is, I just say “non-binary,” and that my pronouns are “he or they — either as fine.” I am leaning into presenting as femme or as masc as I want on any given day, and being as gay as I want. It can be tempting to present in a way that is more conventionally masculine or feminine, because sometimes it is just easier (fewer questions, comments, or worse). But if COVID-19 has taught me anything, it is that time is not guaranteed, and we must consider what makes life worth living, and embrace it. Every time Pride Month rolls around, I recommit to my true self. But this year it feels all the more important.
Q: Throughout the transitioning journey, many clients are informed of possible negative side effects. Despite hearing about them, you still decided to transition. Why?
A: Deciding to transition was one of the most important and difficult decisions I have ever made. Like many trans people, I didn’t initially know what being transgender meant. I had to do a lot of research, introspection and support group work before I realized that being transgender described how I felt. When deciding whether to physically transition, a person can do research about the changes that they may experience, talk to other people that have gone through similar changes, and seek individual or group therapy for support. I decided to physically transition after weighing my options based on the information that I gathered, the changes that I wanted, and my financial budget.
Luckily, there is a lot of information and help available. Trans folks are resourceful, and do a lot to support and inform our communities. For example, there are numerous databases developed by trans people for trans people that allow you to review different surgeons or healthcare providers; compare photos or results of surgeries; and share resources and educational information about physically transitioning. Many community mental health centers have legal clinics that help people navigate the name and gender marker change process.
One side effect that I didn’t entirely understand until after I transitioned was the significant impact that being transgender has on how we navigate the world. It affects where we go to school and receive healthcare, even which streets we choose to walk down late at night. On a job interview, we often feel the need to consider, “Will people here be accepting of me? Will there be a restroom that I can safely use?” As a white and masculine-adjacent person, my navigation of the world is privileged based on systems of white supremacy. I will not for a second forget the trans women of color who paved the way for us to demand justice; their leadership — and that of their successors in our movements — must be recognized.
Q: Did you have, or do you currently have, any regrets about transitioning?
A: What I think this question is getting at is, “How do you know you’re sure?” This was a question that I asked myself many times as I considered making irreversible (or at least, not easily reversible) changes to my body. My answer to that is: I didn’t truly know it was right until after I did it. That may seem radical or scary. One may ask, “Why on earth would you do something so permanent if you weren’t sure?” But It took a leap of faith. And, as someone who has been there, I can say that if it doesn’t feel right, you know. It is important to trust yourself and your bodily autonomy. Also, if you decide to stop your physical transition, you don’t need to think of it as “de-transitioning.” The path of your gender journey is unique to you. You call the shots.
Q: How has transitioning helped you and your image of yourself? How has it affected your self-esteem and mental health?
A: Much of what is written about trans people focuses on the challenges of being trans. While I said that deciding to transition was one of the most important and difficult decisions I ever made, it was also one of the best ones I ever made. I love being trans! Trans people are unique, creative, and resilient. Trans culture is rooted in grassroots community organizing. It is humbling to think of all the amazing thinkers, writers, and artists who walked this journey. I have had the privilege to meet a lot of amazing trans people who remind me of the power of our community.
Q: What advice would you give to other people who want to follow the path you did?
A: Despite what society tells you about bodies and gender, there are no rules! You don’t have to justify or explain to anyone your decision to transition. You’re in the driver’s seat. Your body belongs to you and no one else. You will live in your body for the rest of your life. Therefore, you get to decide on what terms you will occupy it.
This article is part of our 2021 Youth Pride Issue in partnership with Urban Health Media.
A landmark NHS report has laid bare the concerning health inequalitiesfaced by lesbian, gay and bisexual adults in the UK.
The first-of-its-kind report, published today (6 July) by NHS Digital, is based on data from 1,132 LGB adults who participated in the Health Survey for England between 2011–2018.
The research found that LGB adults are more likely to drink more, smoke more and have worse mental health than the straight population, with worse health outcomes as a result.
Despite LGB adults being 12 per cent less likely to be overweight or obese than straight people, a higher proportion of LGB people (7 per cent) reported “bad” or “very bad” health, compared with heterosexual adults (6 per cent).
The prevalence of limiting longstanding illness was also higher at 26 per cent compared to 22 per cent.
When asked about alcohol consumption, 32 per cent of LGB adults reported drinking levels which put them at increased or higher risk of alcohol-related harm (more than 14 units per week) compared to 24 per cent of heterosexual adults.
A similar trend was found with smoking, with more LGB adults (27 per cent) than heterosexual adults (18 per cent) saying they are current smokers. The proportion of adults who currently smoked cigarettes was highest among LGB women at 31 per cent, and lowest among heterosexual women at 16 per cent.
LGB adults also had lower average mental wellbeing scores on the Warwick-Edinburgh Mental Wellbeing Scale (48.9) compared with heterosexual adults (51.4), with LGB women reporting the lowest wellbeing scores (47.3).
Sixteen per cent of LGB adults said they had a mental, behavioural or neurodevelopmental disorder as a longstanding condition; the proportion of heterosexual adults reporting the same was significantly lower at 6 per cent.
LGBT+ people continue to face barriers to healthcare in NHS
The NHS Digital’s Chief Statistician Chris Roebuck said: “One of the biggest benefits to collecting and publishing health data is the ability to highlight health inequalities.
“We’re pleased to be able to publish these LGB statistics for the first time, which show important differences in health status and behaviours.”
Campaigners have long highlighted the prevailing gap in healthcare provision for the LGBT+ community, who commonly face barriers not experienced by the straight population.
Back in 2019 a leading advisor on UK public health committee warned a parliamentary committee that the NHS is “absolutely” prejudiced against LGBT+ people, saying that problems largely stem from lack of funding and reporting, improper training and ingrained prejudice.
Queer women in particular often struggle to be heard in healthcare settings, with lesbian and bisexual women’s health said to be “invisible” in the UK discourse.
Last year the LBT Women’s Health Week reported that lesbian, bi and trans women are more likely to experience inappropriate questions or curiosityfrom healthcare professionals, with 8.1 per cent of lesbians, 5.9 per cent of bisexuals, 12.1 per cent of queer cis women and 15.4 per cent of trans women reporting this happening to them in the past year.
LBT+ women are also more likely to experience difficulties accessing mental-health services, with more than half of lesbian, bisexual, queer and trans women saying they found it “not easy” or “not easy at all” to access mental healthcare in the past year.
The same year, a major NHS England report disturbingly appeared to characterise being LGBT+ as a disability, highlighting the continuing ignorance and insensitivity LGBT+ people often endure from health professionals – which in turn leads to fewer doctors’ visits and poorer health outcomes.
Wilter Gómez was 12 years old when his stepfather took him from his hometown in Gracias a Dios, Honduras, to the jungle. After walking for hours on remote trails, the man began to beat him repeatedly.
“He wanted me to disappear,” Gómez said bitterly. His stepfather threw him and left him in a ditch full of water, but the intense pain from the beatings caused Gómez to wake up, saving him from drowning. He never returned to his Gracias a Dios home.
“My only sin was being who I am, a gay person. My people are very discriminated against because we don’t speak Spanish well, and we only live off the sea and the mountains. But inside, among the Indigenous people, there is a lot of machismo. It’s like living a curse because they cut us, they beat us, that’s why I had to leave,” said Gómez, 22, speaking from a shelter in Tijuana, Mexico, in the country he now calls home.
Yet there are dangers in his adopted home. In 2020, at least 79 LGBTQ people were killed in Mexico, about 6.5 per month, according to Letra S, Sida, Cultura y Vida Cotidiana, a civil organization dedicated to the defense of LGBTQ people that has been registering cases since 1998.
The most recent report by Letra S states that in the last five years there have been 459 violent deaths of LGBTQ people, although the 2020 figures show a 32 percent decrease compared to 2019, when 117 were registered.
“What state governments did not achieve, the pandemic did. But locking ourselves in our homes and not going to recreational places is by no means an option,” said Alejandro Brito, executive director of the organization. “It is very likely that the figures will skyrocket as activities in the country are re-established.”
LGBTQ Mexicans like Gómez say they are battling multiple layers of discrimination, in many cases facing greater danger in their own Indigenous communities.
Jorge Mercado Mondragón, a sociologist and academic at the Autonomous Metropolitan University, has studied the internal migration of the LGBTQ population in Mexico and said that the moment a young Indigenous person “dares to manifest their diverse sexuality,” it begins a process of aggression, large and small, which often mark the family and culminate with the departure of young people from their hometowns.
“Forced internal displacement not only occurs due to generalized violence, natural disasters or religious conflicts, it also responds to discrimination on the basis of gender identity. There are many Indigenous people who flee their communities because of their sexual orientation,” Mercado Mondragón said.
Gómez lived on the streets of Tegucigalpa for several years until 2019, when the house he shared with some friends was broken into and one of them was killed. That was the trigger to walk out of his country and cross the borders to Mexico where, in his words, he has not had much luck. He said he’s been exploited in various jobs, he’s been drugged and abused, and fell into a deep depression. He spent several months in a psychiatric institution last year.
“When they put me in the hospital, I was dying inside. Sometimes this country is very scary,” Gómez said.
Official crime and violence figures do not differentiate victims according to characteristics such as sexual orientation and gender identity, which makes it difficult to make the problem visible. Prosecutors have not incorporated these variables into their records, and LGBTQ victims of homicidal violence are included in other categories such as robbery, assault and simple homicide, among others.
Of the 32 states of Mexico, only 14 consider hate crimes due to “sexual orientation” as an aggravating factor to the crime of qualified homicide, but the Mexican Federal Criminal Code still does not include it, nor does it mention the term “gender identity.”
“Minority within a minority”
For Marven, an Indigenous trans woman who recently unsuccessfully ran as a candidate for Mexico City’s Congress, the vulnerability of the sexually diverse community is a fundamental political issue. When she was a child, her father beat her incessantly for her gender identity and family members made fun of her.
In the case of the Indigenous, she said they’re a minority within a minority. “Inclusion is not seen. I got into politics to fight for our health,” said Marven, better known as “Lady Tacos de Canasta.” She gained great popularity in 2019 when she appeared in a Netflix documentary that showed her selling tacos from her bicycle, dressed in colorful traditional dresses and her braided headdresses.
“Mexico has to change. It is not possible that one has to get used to living with that hatred and mistreatment,” Marven said. “I have tough skin, like a crocodile, because if you don’t they’ll destroy you.”
A recent scandal illustrates the uphill fight for the rights of sexual diversity in politics. LGBTQ groups have denounced that 18 male candidates for office registered as trans women in the state of Tlaxcala to circumvent the conditions of sexual parity imposed by election laws.
Despite the crudeness of the maneuver, it’s not the first time that it has happened. In 2018, 17 men posed as trans women to meet gender quotas in Oaxaca, but the electoral authorities managed to suspend those candidacies.
Almost 27 percent of people said they have faced physical aggression in school due to their sexual orientation or gender identity. In addition, 9 percent said they have suffered some kind of abuse or sexual violence by those in their own community, including school and family.
“This data is brutal,” said César Flores Mancilla, from Conapred. “The population was asked if the environment of hostility and discrimination that comes with assuming their sexual orientation and gender identity has led to suicidal ideas, and the response was positive in 73 percent of trans men, 58 percent of trans women, 51 percent of bisexual women, 48 percent of bisexual men, 43 percent of gay men and 42 percent of lesbian women.”
Compounding discrimination
In these investigations, the term “accumulation of disadvantages” is often used to describe the structural discrimination that people suffer based on their identity. An Indigenous woman may experience discrimination accessing education, health and other public services, but if they also belong to the LGBTQ community, those disadvantages increase.
“The issue of being Indigenous and being women puts us in a guardianship role all the time,” said Yadira López Velasco, a Zapotec poet and sociologist. “They have always told us that we are incomplete beings, that as Indigenous we need the tutelage of the state, that as women we need the tutelage of a man and, in that sense, we are invisible. Furthermore, it is not believed anywhere that an Indigenous woman can feel desire and love for another woman.”
López is part of the National Coordinating Committee of Indigenous Women, one of the groups fighting for the rights of Indigenous people in Mexico, where 25 million identify as Indigenous and more than 7 million speak an Indigenous language.
Several experts pointed out that there was an awareness of gender fluidity in Indigenous ancestral traditions. The patriarchal machismo and gender discrimination rooted in many Indigenous communities today — a determining factor in the physical and psychological abuse of LGBTQ people — is often seen as an inheritance from the colonization process.
“Before the conquest we had a greater permissiveness to be and to show ourselves — the Indigenous cosmogony had to do with this idea that the masculine and the feminine were intertwined, there was no distinction,” said Gloria Careaga Pérez, a scholar at the National Autonomous University of Mexico and founder of the National Observatory of Hate Crimes against LGBT people. “The conquest came to impose a religion and already delegitimized a series of things that used to be part of daily life.”
Deadly violence in Veracruz
For several years, the Mexican state of Veracruz has been considered the deadliest entity for LGBTQ people in the country. Letra S registered 27 murders in that state during 2020 and, so far in 2021, the observatory has recorded six murders and one disappearance.
The region has also been singled out for the cruelty of the attacks against people from the LGBTQ community. Alaska Contreras Ponce, a 25-year-old trans woman and beauty queen, was tortured to death in 2018. Miguel Ángel Medina, 21, was stoned in a pantheon in 2019; Jesusa Ventura Reyes, 35, was beheaded and her head was left in an ice chest in front of the city hall of Fortín de las Flores, a city in Veracruz, in 2019. Getsemaní Santos Luna, a trans woman, was shot in February.
“The authorities always say that they are crimes of passion, or that they were related to drug trafficking, but they do not investigate, they do not make expert opinions,” said Jazz Bustamante, a trans woman and political candidate in Veracruz.
Bustamante, who is part of the civil association Soy Humano, said more than 40 percent of LGBTQ people who are killed in the region end up in mass graves because the authorities only give their remains to blood relatives.
“Many are from other states such as Guerrero, Oaxaca, Tabasco, and they leave those regions because of the abuses they suffer. They do sex work, because they don’t let us study or practice professions, they have no other option,” Bustamante said. “So they cut ties with their family and we cannot bury them because no one comes to claim them.”
Sofía Sánchez García, a 25-year-old trans woman, had to leave Papantla, her Indigenous town in Veracruz due to extreme violence against the LGBTQ community and the lack of work and academic opportunities.
“I had to leave there because there is no branch of work for someone like myself. People do not understand that you were born with a name and an identity different from how you see yourself. That’s why I had to leave my studies, and now I dedicate myself to sex work,” Sánchez said with a hint of sadness.
The psychological abuse she suffered throughout her life has taken a toll, Sánchez said, because “strange thoughts enter her.”
“You have to fight depression because the mind betrays you many times,” she asserts.
A place in the world
They are overflowing silhouettes, shades of lights and characters that unfold. Pedro Miranda’s photographs are suggestive, not precise. They seem like something out of a dream. In a world obsessed with sharpness and brightness, Miranda opts for the mist, for the dreamlike universe and the textures that turn his work into an experience.
Plastic artist Pedro Miranda who is an LGBTQ indigenous person.Courtesy Pedro Miranda
“Sometimes my friends joke with me, because they say that I am part of the minority, of the minority, of the minority,” he said with a laugh, looking up at the sky. Miranda is a blind plastic artist and an LGBTQ Indigenous person, but he says that none of that defines him.
“I think the most important thing is to know where you are in the world. The fact of being Indigenous does not detract from me. On the contrary, it adds to me because I am from a region that has survived a great number of terrible things,” said Miranda, who says he is aware that he is privileged by being part of the artistic community.
“It’s supposedly a more open world, and I understand that it is. Although they have come to accuse me of overexploiting my Indigenous image, can you believe it?” he said, laughing.
This year Miranda did the Perfect Disabled Handbook, a project of in-depth interviews with other creators who share their experiences living with various types of disabilities.
“You don’t have to look at your limitations, even if that is difficult. There are things worth dying for, worth losing privileges for, and that is knowing who you are, living by your own personality, and that includes sexual orientation,” he said. “That is why you came into the world.”
“Unless we fight for our lives, we shall die,” wrote Larry Kramer in the New York Native in March 1983. Before Kramer’s article “1,112 and Counting,” gay people were doing what they could to care for the sick and mourn their dead with quiet dignity.
After the article appeared in gay papers across the country, gay people grew increasingly unwilling to be quiet about the deaths of gay men and the preternatural silence about the epidemic from elected officials.
In San Francisco, the momentum generated by a July 1984 political march spiraled into support for an independent gay AIDS activist group in San Francisco. Gay community leaders tapped Paul Boneberg, then 31 and president of the Stonewall Democratic Club, to head the new group.
Mobilization Against AIDS came into existence in the fall of 1984 with the express goal of organizing street demonstrations, a goal it accomplished by staging monthly protests. Besides its street demos, Mobilization, beginning in 1985, took on the task of organizing the annual AIDS candlelight vigil that the San Francisco People with AIDS Coalition had started in 1983.
As the 1980s wore on, and tens of thousands of gay men died with still no effective treatment for AIDS, Larry Kramer’s nerves were shot.
In a March 10, 1987, speech Kramer gave at the New York Lesbian and Gay Community Services Center, today known as the LGBT Center of New York, he laid into the gay community as only Larry Kramer could. “If my speech tonight doesn’t scare the shit out of you, we’re in real trouble,” he told the group.
By then, 32,000 AIDS cases had been reported across the country—nearly a third of them in New York. President Reagan still hadn’t spoken about AIDS to frightened Americans.
“If what you’re hearing doesn’t rouse you to anger, fury, rage, and action, gay men will have no future here on earth,” said Kramer. “How long does it take before you get angry and fight back?” The crux of the speech was Kramer’s simple question: “Do we want to start a new organization devoted solely to political action?”
The answer was a resounding “Yes!” Two days later, about 300 people again showed up at the center where they formed ACT UP, the AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power. The group’s first demonstration—a protest on Wall Street against the exorbitant price of just-approved AZT, the most expensive drug ever to that point—introduced what became the group’s distinctive brand of street theater. ACT UP took the camp humor and theatricality of the Gay Liberation Front “zaps” to a whole new level.
As Kramer told me in our interview for “Victory Deferred,” “The fact that everybody responded to ACT UP, I think was more just a question of time, and moment, and frustration. It was the right time for it to happen.”
As in every catastrophe humans have faced throughout history, there were only two options for gay men when the viral cluster bomb erupted in the community: fight or flight.
“AIDS made us choose,” said Paul Boneberg, in our interview in San Francisco for “Stonewall Strong.” “Most chose to stay and fight.” In his characteristically understated manner, Boneberg added, “It is my experience that our community is heroic.”
Larry Kramer put it a little differently in our 1995 interview. We talked in the living room of his Fifth Avenue apartment, the setting for some of gay America’s most historic moments, including the world’s first AIDS fundraiser in 1981 and, in 1982, the formation of GMHC, the world’s first AIDS service organization. Reflecting in particular on ACT UP, Kramer said, “Singlehandedly, we changed the image of gay people from limp-wristed fairies to guerrilla warriors.”
John-Manuel Andriote has reported on HIV-AIDS as a journalist since 1986. His most recent book, which he calls a bookend for acclaimed debut book ‘Victory Deferred’, is ‘Stonewall Strong: Gay Men’s Heroic Fight for Resilience, Good Health, and a Strong Community.’ The research materials and recorded interviews for Victory Deferred comprise a special collection curated by the Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History.
With one in ten young LGBT+ people now identifying on the asexual spectrum, many are questioning what asexuality is and how they can be an ally to asexual people.
Put simply, asexuals experience a lack of sexual attraction towards others, but there are many forms of asexuality and it can mean different things to different people.
Sadly asexuals are often overlooked both in and outside the LGBT+ community, and according to a 2019 survey, most British adults can’t even define the term.
But the first thing you need to know is that asexuals are valid – and they’re far more common than you might expect.
What does asexual mean?
Asexuals or “ace” people experience little or no sexual attraction to others and often don’t want any sexual contact at all. It’s not the same as celibacy or abstinence and it’s not a dysfunction either: it’s simply a natural human variation.
Sexual attraction is not necessary for a person to be healthy, and just because asexuals don’t experience sexual desire doesn’t mean they can’t be in relationships or non-sexual partnerships.
The term “asexual” covers a range of subcategories to describe varying levels of sexual and romantic attraction, and many asexuals will have more than one label to describe themselves.
What does the asexual spectrum look like?
Asexuality is a broad spectrum on which many other identities fall. For example, demisexuals only feel physically attracted to someone if they have an emotional bond, while greysexuals are people who do feel sexual attraction but only very rarely, or with very low intensity.
Some asexuals do masturbate and have sex. Their level of attraction can range from sex-averse, meaning they find the thought of sex unappealing, to sex-indifferent, meaning they don’t feel strongly either way, or sex-favourable, meaning they enjoy some aspects of sex even if they don’t experience that sort of attraction.
Many asexuals feel romantic attraction, which is the desire for a romantic relationship with someone, or aesthetic attraction, which is the feeling of being attracted to someone based on how they look.
Some asexuals simply want to touch, hold or cuddle a partner, otherwise known as sensual or physical attraction, while others feel platonic or emotional attraction, which is the desire for an emotional connection or friendship.
What does aromantic mean?
Aromantic people don’t experience romantic attraction toward individuals of any gender and have little or no desire for romantic relationships with others.
Being aromantic is different from being asexual but the two terms can and often do overlap, with many asexuals describing themselves as aromantic as well.
But don’t make the mistake of assuming that aromantic people are unfeeling or uncaring, or that they can’t have relationships. Lots of aromantic people have thriving social lives, and some form special “queerplatonic relationships” for emotional support.
A queerplatonic relationship could involve living together, co-parenting, and sharing finances and responsibilities.
Myths and misconceptions about asexuality
No, they’re not missing out, they’re not broken, and they’re not “waiting for the one”.
In a world dominated by narratives of sex and romance, being asexual can be isolating – especially when you constantly find yourself having to educate others on your sexuality.
“When you’re asexual, people immediately think that you don’t love anyone because what’s the point in a relationship unless you have sex with another person?” asexual Eleanor Wilkinson told PinkNews.
“That really gets me because there are lots of different attractions: sensual attractions, aesthetic attraction, romantic attraction. They all play a part when it comes to your relationships.
“A lot of people would say: ‘Oh everyone feels like that before they’ve had sex,’ almost comparing it to being a virgin or celibacy,” she continued. “People think along those lines. Those are choices but it’s a misconception to think asexuality must be a choice.”
The best way to be an ace ally is to simply believe and accept asexuals when they tell you they’re asexual. Don’t ask intrusive questions about their sex life, and don’t forget to call out ace-erasure and acephobia where you see it.
How is the US doing in its battle to end the HIV epidemic? It’s heading in the right direction but at a slower-than-desired pace, according to a major report issued by the CDC at the end of May. Its conclusion could be summed up in one line: “Hopeful signs of progress in HIV prevention, but gains remain uneven.”
The encouraging news is that HIV infections fell 8% from 2015 to 2019. This is partly due to a big increase in the number of gay men taking PrEP and more HIV-positive people being diagnosed and put on to treatment.
However, to put that in perspective, in the United Kingdom, HIV infections fell by 29% between 2014 and 2018 – and that was before PrEP being made available on its national health service.
In other areas, progress in the U.S. remains slow. Black Americans and Hispanic/Latino Americans remain eight times and four times as likely to be HIV positive than white Americans.
The incidence of HIV dropped for those under 24 and over 45 but remained stable for those between those ages. Clearly, much work remains to be done.
On the campaign trail in 2020, Joe Biden vowed to better President Trump’s aim of ending the HIV epidemic by 2030, saying he wanted to bring it to an end by 2025. In March, Queerty asked several HIV experts whether they thought that was realistic.
Most said it was possible but would take a Herculean amount of effort. Carl Schmid, Executive Director of the HIV + Hepatitis Policy Institute in Washington DC, is less hesitant about dismissing such campaign talk.
“[2025] was unrealistic then and it’s unrealistic now,” he states bluntly during a Zoom call. “Sticking to the original 2030 plan is still … that would be a major achievement and it’s going to be very difficult.
“We’ve had Covid, too, since then. But that’s not the only factor. It’s just going to take a long time to find the people, get them into care, keep them on care and treatment and also to ramp up PrEP, but I have to say, we’re on the right path.”
Schmid is gay. He lives in Washington DC with his husband, Alejandro Barrera. He’s been working in the field of HIV for the past 20 years. This includes as a member of the Presidential Advisory Council on HIV/AIDS from 2007-09 and chairing its Domestic Subcommittee. He spent 16 years as a senior figure within the AIDS Institute and was co-chair of the Presidential Advisory Council on HIV/AIDS under President Trump.
Schmid highlights promising signs among the latest CDC report, including an increase in the number of HIV-positive people in the US who are now undetectable (up from 60% to 66%). This means they cannot pass the virus on to others. He also says the falling number of young people acquiring HIV is a significant step in the right direction.
“I do think the younger generation knows more [and] hears more about HIV, and particularly PrEP. I think a couple of years ago, fewer younger people were aware of PrEP, and now more and more are.”
What’s without a doubt is that more money is needed to help continue the battle: particularly when it comes to tackling health inequalities.
Schmid points out that President Trump wanted Congress to approve a budget last year of $761million to help bring HIV in the US to an end. Congress rejected it.
“Biden’s numbers for this year don’t even meet what Trump proposed last year. We need the continued funding to make sure we reach those goals. So … we’ll see.”
Although Trump wanted to spend more money, many would argue as to whether that equates with him doing more to end HIV. Advocates in the field – including Democrat lawmakers – were highly critical of Trump’s budget plans to cut billions of dollars from programs such as Medicaid, food stamps, and Medicare.
Biden’s plan, on the other hand, includes a $46 million increase for the Ryan White CARE Act, which helps low-income and uninsured people access HIV medications, and a $20 million boost for the Housing Opportunities for Persons with HIV/AIDS (HOPWA).
Schmid knows that tackling inequality will be a major hurdle in bringing HIV under control.
“We need to make sure that more of the funding is targeted at these communities who are impacted,” he says. “It is not just an HIV problem. It is a race and equity problem, and I have to say, that issomething that’s a priority for President Biden and his administration. In fact, one of his first executive orders was to direct government agencies to look at those issues and how they can be improved.”
Schmid says the reasons for those inequalities are multifold and cover everything from sex education to health providers.
“Why is PrEP lower in certain communities?’ Schmid asks aloud. “Well, maybe those doctors, who may be Black and Latino, are not offering PrEP. They don’t discuss PrEP.”
Schmid says that when providers discuss HIV testing and PrEP, they should be treating everyone the same.
“Here in the United States, we have routine HIV testing. It should be color blind. It should be everythingblind. Everyone should be offered it and we’re missing a lot of cases because doctors are not offering it. So it’s a workforce issue as well.”
Posed by models (Photo: Shutterstock)
If there’s one silver lining to the Covid pandemic, it’s helped health providers explore new ways of delivering healthcare. Some of these may help when it comes to HIV. There’s already been talk of the Moderna coronavirus jab being used to help develop a vaccine for HIV.
Schmid also points to the way members of the public have been prompted into self-testing. Because of this, they may be more willing to order mailing HIV kits or make use of tele-PrEP services.
“Certain states, you can get PrEP without a doctor’s prescription for the first 30-60 days. Three states have already passed that,” says Schmid, highlighting another innovation that might help if rolled out nationally. He also thinks the introduction of long-acting treatments – HIV medications and PrEP (both of which are undergoing trials or pending FDA approval) – will also help.
“Persistence adherence are problems both with treatment and PrEP. Particularly for PrEP.
“When you have HIV, you’re living with an infectious disease and so you’re conscious about it and conscious of how it impacts other people and your own health, and so there’s a stronger desire, perhaps, [to take the medication]. But for PrEP, you’re taking a drug to prevent a potential infectious disease, and if you have to take it every single day … we’re seeing a lack of persistence.”
He believes a long-acting form of PrEP, such as an injection once every two months, would be a “game-changer”.
June marks the 40th anniversary of the first cases of AIDS being reported by the CDC. Schmid, who was born in 1960, says he started to hear about HIV in his 20s, and “lost a lot of friends, lovers and over that time.”
He says it is amazing how things have changed for the better, and how it is now possible to live a normal lifespan with HIV. However, he acknowledges that “people still die”, and one thing that remains is the stigma.
Schmid praises Billy Porter who recently revealed he was living with HIV: Information he’d kept secret for 14 years. “He is a well-known celebrity. He exudes confidence, but inside, couldn’t share this very important [information] … It just shows there’s still so much stigma and shame.”
“Lots of friends of mine didn’t tell their family members,” he remembers. “They were ashamed. They didn’t tell their friends that they were living with HIV. There was so much stigma and shame back then, but there’s still so much stigma and shame. I think it’s less, with people talking about PrEP these days, but a lot of people I know are still not talking about their HIV status.”
