“Club Kid Killer” Michael Alig — the famously flamboyant party promoter who ended up busted for murder — has been found dead of a suspected drug overdose in his Manhattan apartment, officials said Friday.
The 54-year-old former scene fixture and convict was discovered by a friend just before midnight Christmas Eve in his Washington Heights pad, authorities said.
Detectives recovered several zip-lock plastic bags, possibly containing heroin, from the home, as well as drug paraphernalia, officials said.
Growing up in a military family in Atlanta, Joshua Gravett said he knew he wanted to follow in the footsteps of his father, Eddie, and older brother, Justin, both sergeants first class in the Army. There was just one problem: He was gay.
Despite the military’s policy at the time of prohibiting gay men and lesbians from serving openly, Gravett, then just 17, enlisted in the Army in 2003 and kept his sexuality a secret for eight years.
Army Sgt. 1st Class Joshua Gravett honored at the Mets’ first Pride Night in 2016.Kathleen Malone-Van Dyke
“You can’t have any type of relationships whatsoever. I wouldn’t be seen with anybody else that could be considered gay,” Gravett said, noting that just being suspected of being gay could get you kicked out.
President Barack Obama signed a bill setting in motion the repeal of “don’t ask, don’t tell” on Dec. 22, 2010, but it wasn’t until after the policy was officially repealed in 2011 that Gravett finally started to come out to his friends and family. He also recalled the relief he felt just being able to put a photo of his partner on his desk at Fort Bragg, North Carolina, and bring a same-sex date to a military formal.
“I could just be myself without risking the loss of my career that I had already put almost a decade into,” Gravett, now 35 and a sergeant first class stationed in Texas, told NBC News. “It was like a huge weight lifted off me.”
Gravett recalled being “happy” the day President Barack Obama signed the repeal bill but said he “still couldn’t be out until it took effect” nine months later.
“It was almost like finding out you are getting promoted, but it isn’t real until it actually happens,” he said.
An estimated 13,000 service members were discharged in the 17 years the policy was in effect, according to data the military provided to The Associated Press.
A decade after the demise of “don’t ask, don’t tell,” much has changed for LGBTQ Americans, but several gay service members and military experts say the policy’s dark shadow still lingers.
A defunct policy’s lingering shadow
When President Bill Clinton signed “don’t ask, don’t tell” into law in 1993, it was a compromise between the White House and Congress to end the existing policy of outright banning gay service members that had dated to World War II. Under the new policy — which passed 77-22, with bipartisan support — gay men, lesbians and bisexuals were in theory permitted to serve in the military, but they would be “separated from the armed forces” if they revealed themselves to be homosexual or bisexual, tried to marry a person of the same sex, or there was evidence they had engaged in same-sex sexual activity.
Gravett said the policy has left a “hurtful” legacy, and he mentioned being a part of several Facebook groups where former service members lament losing their military careers because of “don’t ask, don’t tell” and not being able to serve again.
He also noted that many service members who were ousted under the policy are not aware that they may be able to seek remedies from the military.
“Most people that got out under ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ can get their discharges upgraded from general discharge to honorable discharge,” he said, encouraging those who haven’t tried already to do so.
Jennifer Dane, an Air Force veteran, was investigated under the military’s “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy in 2010.Courtesy Jennifer Dane
Jennifer Dane, a Texas native who joined the military at 22 and served as an intelligence analyst in the Air Force from 2010 to 2016, said that when it comes to “don’t ask, don’t tell,” there are “still unintended consequences that aren’t even explored to the fullest, even 10 years later.”
Dane, now 33, said she was stationed in Tucson, Arizona, when she was investigated under “don’t ask, don’t tell” after reporting that she has been sexually assaulted by an airman. Over the course of the investigation, Dane said her sexuality came to light, which turned the investigation toward her. The investigation stopped after Obama signed the repeal bill, according to Dane.
Now the executive director of the Modern Military Association of America, a nonprofit that advocates for LGBTQ veterans and their families, Dane said she would like to see some of these past “wrongs” caused by the policy “written right,” like a public apology from the government or even just “making sure that we don’t do policies that are harmful” again.
Dane added that some LGBTQ veterans who were discharged under “don’t ask, don’t tell” still do not get access to medical care, the GI Bill and military pensions. This does not include the emotional trauma that service members endured under the policy, she added.
Aaron Belkin is the founder of the Palm Center, an independent research institute in San Francisco that focuses on LGBTQ military issues. His organization helped make the case for the repeal of “don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“We did 10 years of research into that question of whether it’s true that gay lesbians hurt the military, and what our research found was that it’s discrimination that hurts the military, not gays and lesbians,” Belkin said.
Belkin, Dane and Gravett all drew parallels between the former ban on gays and lesbians serving openly in the military and the current ban on transgender service members from doing so.
“The Trump administration’s transgender ban is ‘don’t ask, don’t tell for transgender troops, and the similarities are striking,” Belkin said. His organization, using 2016 data from the Department of Defense, estimates there are currently 14,700 transgender service memberson active duty or in the reserves.
‘A new era of LGBTQ rights’
One of the thousands of currently serving transgender service members is Iowa native Samuel Payntr. Now 22, Payntr began serving openly as a transgender man in the Navy at 19 when he got to his ship stationed in Norfolk, Virginia. He began hormone treatment the day before the ban on trans troops serving openly took effect on April 11, 2019. He said that while some were accepting of his transition, others weren’t sure how to respond, because it was seen as a “gray area” at the time.
“I had to really be careful about what I said around some people regarding my personal life and my sexual orientation in my transition, because there were quite a few people that had very negative remarks,” said Paytnr, who is able to serve openly as transgender because he joined the military before the transgender ban was reinstated. “I’ve had some kind of bad things happen, but the good kind of always outweigh the bad with the people that did support me.”
Transgender individuals with no history or diagnosis of gender dysphoria are technically still allowed to join the military and serve under the policy, though they must do so as their birth sex. Payntr explained that some hormone treatments make some service members ineligible to serve, adding he knows both trans service members who were terminated after the ban went into effect and those who were not depending on their diagnosis.
“Luckily, depending on the command we were at or the branch we were in, we had the people who were very knowledgeable in our transition defend us and be like, ‘No, this does not affect your service,’ and that’s literally what happened to me and quite a few other people that I know that are in the Navy who are transitioning,” he said.
In his policy platform, President-elect Joe Biden stated that he will “reverse the transgender military ban.” And since the ban was enforced as a presidential directive, Biden would be able to reverse it unilaterally. Payntr expressed optimism that Biden will make good on this promise.
At the 2020 International LGBTQ Leaders Conference this month, Biden honored Speaker Nancy Pelosi, D-Calif., for her work in repealing “don’t ask, don’t tell” a decade ago and appeared to hint at a future repeal of the current trans military ban.
“I can’t wait to work together with you again and to continue to fight for full equality and usher in a new era of LGBTQ rights and the entire movement,” said Biden, who takes office on Jan. 20.
The newly engaged couple Kasey Mayfield and Brianna May did not expect to ignite an online backlash when they shared on Facebook a recent email exchange that Mayfield had with an employee at a North Carolina wedding venue.
In the exchange, Mayfield mentions potential wedding dates, the estimated number of guests and the “other bride.” In response, the venue informed her that The Warehouse on Ivy in Winston-Salem does “not host same sex marriage ceremonies.”
Brianna May, left, and Kasey Mayfield shortly after their engagement.Chelsea Clayton
“If you’re wondering how wedding planning is going…thanks so much to The Warehouse on Ivy for letting us know we’re not welcome,” May captioned the photo of the exchange, which had over 1,400 shares on Tuesday.
“I was kind of speechless,” Mayfield said of reading the email. “I just had to like hand the phone over to Bri when I got it.”
“I had hoped that this wouldn’t happen in North Carolina, but I thought there was a chance it may. I didn’t expect it from a venue in Winston,” added Mayfield, 25, who has lived in the area for the past 10 years. May, 29, was born and raised in Winston-Salem.
The couple met on the dating app Bumble over two years ago and got engaged last month while listening to their favorite album, “Golden Hour” by Kacey Musgraves. They had only just started planning for their wedding, which they hope to hold in the fall of 2022. Mayfield said she and May first heard of The Warehouse on Ivy through the online wedding resource Wedding Wire.https://www.facebook.com/v2.10/plugins/post.php?app_id=&channel=https%3A%2F%2Fstaticxx.facebook.com%2Fx%2Fconnect%2Fxd_arbiter%2F%3Fversion%3D46%23cb%3Df3dc6d7212d2b2a%26domain%3Dwww.nbcnews.com%26origin%3Dhttps%253A%252F%252Fwww.nbcnews.com%252Ff330e4902461704%26relation%3Dparent.parent&container_width=480&href=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.facebook.com%2Fbrianna.may.395%2Fposts%2F10220437554034235&locale=en_US&sdk=joey&show_text=true&width=auto
‘Christian values’
The venue did not tell May and Mayfield why it does not host same-sex marriage ceremonies. However, in an email exchange with NBC News, the same email account, which lists the sender’s name as Daniel Stanley, confirmed the couple’s assumptions surrounding the decision.
“We will allow anyone of any color, race, religion or belief to use our venue at any given time,” the email stated. “Although we love and respect everyone in our community, their own decision making and beliefs, we also strongly believe in our Christian values.”
Multiple attempts to confirm that the statement was sent by Stanley, whose LinkedIn account says he’s the venue’s director, were ignored, as were questions surrounding the venue’s ownership.
According to North Carolina incorporation filings, The Warehouse on Ivy is owned by STC Properties of Forsyth County and lists Thomas Collins and Scott Sechler as the company’s managers. Reporting from The Winston-Salem Monthly, which features interviews with the Sechler family about the recently opened venue, confirms Sechler’s ownership.
Multiple attempts to reach Sechler and Collins were unsuccessful, and by Monday the venue had taken down its Facebook and Instagram pages.
‘Free to discriminate’
The issue of where anti-discrimination laws begin and First Amendment and religious liberty rights end remains something of an open question legally — and much of it depends on state law.
In the high-profile 2018 case Masterpiece Cakeshop v. Colorado Civil Rights Commission, the Supreme Court narrowly ruled in favor of Christian baker Jack Phillips, who refused to make a cake for a same-sex wedding. But instead of answering the fundamental question of whether it is legal to discriminate based on sexual orientation, the high court simply found that Phillips’ concerns weren’t fairly considered by Colorado officials.
In a similar case, the Washington Supreme Court ruled in 2019 that Arlene Stutzman, owner of Arlene’s Flowers, was in violation of that state’s anti-discrimination law for refusing to provide flowers for a gay couple’s wedding ceremony. The shop has appealed, for the second time, to the Supreme Court. Its petition is pending.
With no explicit state protections and no federal legislation banning anti-LGBTQ discrimination in public accommodations, a state like North Carolina leaves little room for legal recourse, according to Paul Smith, a Georgetown Law School professor who argued the landmark 2003 LGBTQ rights case Lawrence v. Texas before the Supreme Court.
“The only shot would seem to be finding a state law that prohibits sex discrimination in the provision of goods and services and then convincing North Carolina to read ‘sex discrimination’ in its law as broadly as the majority did in Bostock [v. Clayton County, Georgia],” Smith said, referring to the landmark ruling this year that found that Title VII of the Civil Rights Act of 1964 offered workplace discrimination protections on the basis of sexual orientation and gender identity.
Rick Su, a law professor at the University of North Carolina, was even less optimistic when it comes to the state.
“North Carolina has no state law on public accommodations not related to disabilities and no anti-discrimination laws protecting LGBT identity,” Su told NBC News. “Given there is no federal law protecting LGBT [people] either, this would mean that the wedding venue is free to discriminate.”
There are, however, two things that could potentially change this in the near future: the Equality Act and Fulton v. City of Philadelphia. The former is proposed federal legislation that would add LGBTQ protections to existing federal civil rights law. It passed in the House last year, and President-elect Joe Biden has said he would like to sign it within his first 100 days in office.
The latter is a case before the Supreme Court that will determine whether a government-funded, religiously affiliated child welfare agency can circumvent local nondiscrimination laws and refuse to work with LGBTQ people. If the justices issue a broad ruling in the case, it could have far-reaching implications, according to legal experts.
A silver lining
Mayfield said she and May “aren’t considering legal action at this time,” but she added that they are “urging our friends to email legislators to help try and pass discrimination laws for LGBTQ people.”
In addition to advocating for legislative action, the couple also wants to get the word out to the local LGBTQ community about The Warehouse on Ivy’s policies.
“We have a lot of gay friends in our circle, so I wanted to hopefully save people the time and, kind of, hurt and energy, from getting rejected based on our sexual orientation,” May said of their decision to go public about the ordeal.
In addition to receiving “kind and encouraging words” in response to her now-viral Facebook post, May said she’s also received some helpful wedding tips and offers.
“We’ve gotten so many wonderful recommendations for other vendors and venues, and we’ve had people offering services,” she said.
Summing up the experience — from the venue’s rejection to the viral social media response to the messages of support — Mayfield said it’s all been “definitely overwhelming, but in a good way.”
More than 40 groups that vehemently oppose LGBT+ rights are fundraising on Amazon, despite the online shopping giant’s pledges to support equality.
An investigation by openDemocracy found that the US AmazonSmile platform – that lets Amazon customers donate to charities as they shop online – has hosted groups that have intervened in court cases opposing equal marriage, described COVID-19 as “the consequential wrath of God” and punishment for sins including society’s “proclivity toward lesbianism and homosexuality”, and attacked TV shows for increasing “social acceptance of homosexuality”.
Among the anti-LGBT+ group hosted on AmazonSmile are Focus on the Family, American Family Association and the Billy Graham Evangelistic Association.
Amazon has made record profits this year amid the coronavirus pandemic, with profits 50 per cent up on last year. It is unclear how much money the groups have raised using AmazonSmile, but Amazon says the programme has facilitated $215 million in such donations since its launch in 2013.
Human rights activists are now calling on Amazon to immediately take down the anti-LGBT+ groups.
Evelyne Paradis, executive director of the LGBT+ advocacy group ILGA-Europe, told openDemocracy: “Companies, if they really walk the talk, shouldn’t be giving their platform to organisations that are working to limit the rights of other people.”
It’s good that Amazon has a diversity of groups on its platform, she said, but “they shouldn’t be giving space to any organisation […] that is actively fuelling hatred and/or working against the rights of other people”.
“It’s disappointing to see organisations that campaign against LGBT equality platformed on AmazonSmile,” said Robbie de Santos, associate director of campaigns and communications at Stonewall. “We have raised our concerns with Amazon and will continue our work until every LGBT+ person is free to be themselves worldwide.”
An Amazon spokesperson said: “Charitable organisations must meet the requirements outlined in our participation agreement to be eligible for AmazonSmile. Organisations that engage in, support, encourage, or promote intolerance, hate, terrorism, violence, money laundering, or other illegal activities are not eligible.
“If at any point an organisation violates this agreement, its eligibility will be revoked.”
A council in Canada has unanimously agreed to introduce a non-binary gender option on citizenship cards for its residents – at no extra cost.
Announcing the news on 18 December, Manitoba Metis Federation president David Chartrand said: “We want our citizens to be themselves and not have to hide or be denied their identity.”
“We want this resolution to remind all our LGBTQ2+ citizens that you are embraced in our community and your Métis government, and we are proud of who you are,” Chartrand added.
The Manitoba Metis Federation cabinet, which governs the region of Manitoba in Canada, passed a unanimous resolution to introduce non-binary options and said that citizens who want to get new official documentation with the new non-binary gender option will be able to do so for free.
“The MMF has always encouraged our people to believe in themselves, and be proud to be themselves,” Chartrand said in a statement.
“The MMF has been on the leading edge of this topic for a number of years among Indigenous peoples,” Chartrand said. “All Canadians must have their basic human rights respected.”
Manitoba already introduced non-binary gender marker for birth and death certificates.
The new, inclusive policy for citizenship cards follows a Manitoba Human Rights Commission ruling that led to a non-binary gender option being introduced on birth and death certificates. In December 2019, Manitoba was ordered to pay $50,000 to a transgender person who was denied the right to have the gender marker on their birth certificate replaced with an “X” in.
The independent Manitoba Human Rights Commission ruled that the government’s position was discriminatory and there was nothing under the law that would prevent a third designation from being offered.
“Gender identity is a part of our concept of selfhood,” stated adjudicator Daniel Manning in the ruling.
“The practice to not allow non-binary designations of sex designation and only permit male or female designations was effectively the government refusing to acknowledge T.A.’s agency and personhood.”
He added: “The difficulties faced by trans and non-binary individuals in our society are many. Human rights tribunals have long recognised the disadvantages faced by trans people and non-binary individuals in society.”
Several other provinces already have the option to select a gender neutral marker on identity documents, including Ontario, Alberta, and Newfoundland Nova Scotia and Labrador.
My wife began hormone replacement therapy just before quarantine started in March. Although my mother-in-law has known about my wife’s gender identity since early childhood, she previously discouraged her from transitioning. She recently called the family’s pediatrician to see what could have caused her daughter to be trans — treating her identity as if it were a malady. Over the past nine months, my wife and I have had limited contact with her and other conservative relatives in our less-than-supportive families.
Queer people are reclaiming space for ourselves this season, establishing new ways to observe holidays or practicing the same traditions with festivities that feel more affirming.
As the holidays approached, I dreaded the negative interactions sure to come at the annual family gatherings. Would everyone stare and ask invasive questions or just avoid and ignore my wife now? I wasn’t sure which would be worse. Thankfully, this year’s social distancing offers my family and other queer people a unique gift: a much-needed and hard-earned break from toxic family members and obligations.
I first sighed with relief when my mother-in-law had to cancel her usual trip to stay with us in November and December because of pandemic travel restrictions. Even before my wife’s transition, my mother-in-law depleted our energy during the holidays. The last visit had included a barrage of passive-aggressive remarks about our failure to observe her preferred traditions, unkind comments about my body and objections to our child’s nonbinary pronouns.
My relatives bring their own seasonal strain. After I spent years attending all of my family’s gatherings, my siblings quickly abandoned the large Christmas meal I cooked last year, showing up late and leaving after just an hour. Later that day, my mom pressured us to attend church despite knowing that it’s triggering for me due to a trauma my wife and I experienced in a religious community.
If it weren’t for quarantine, we would be making the same stressful end-of-year attempt to accommodate everyone’s needs except our own. Before transitioning, my wife spent every get-together censoring her behavior — monitoring her speech patterns, mannerisms, posture and other subtleties because she wasn’t out to most family members.
The recent queer-centered holiday flick “Happiest Season” shows how some queer people still feel they need to be closeted when returning home. In the movie, a woman brings her girlfriend to her parents’ house for Christmas but pretends the two are just friends — denying her sexuality to appease her family’s expectations. The fear of family rejection and pressure to conform isolates her partner and jeopardizes the mental health of both women.
Family rejection is a leading cause of negative mental health outcomes for queer people. A 2018 survey of LGBT people in the U.K. found that 28 percent of respondents were not out to family members who lived outside their homes. In addition, 38 percent of negative incidents they experienced were caused by parents or guardians — highlighting the risks of coming out to unsupportive family. According to the 2015 U.S. Transgender Survey, 1 in 10 trans and gender-nonconforming people experienced violence from a family member because of their gender identity; 8 percent were kicked out of their homes.
Queer youth are especially at risk because they need financial support and shelter from guardians. The Trevor Project reported that 6 in 10 queer youth had someone try to persuade them to change their sexual orientation or gender identity, with 35 percent of those noting it was a parent or caregiver. Meanwhile, 29 percent have been kicked out of their homes or run away.
Recommended
Family members can also harm each other in less overt ways, such as misgendering trans and gender-nonconforming people or refusing to talk about queer identity at home. In the U.S. trans survey, 18 percent of respondents said they lived in families that were unsupportive of their gender identities, while 60 percent had families that were generally supportive and 22 percent had families that took a more neutral approach.
Even supportive family members aren’t always good allies and can unintentionally cause emotional trauma. Some of my wife’s and my family seem to be accepting — but they have prodded us with inquiries and concerns about my wife’s genitals, our sex life and what our kids think. We’ve smiled and gently noted that commentary and questions aren’t welcome.
Here again, social distancing is saving us from what could have been unpleasant confrontations: Texts, video chats and phone calls offer the ability to simply hang up or not respond when this line of conversation begins. I’m grateful these moments haven’t occurred while sharing a meal around a holiday table.https://compass.pressekompass.net/compasses/think/will-this-be-your-first-holiday-season-w-eTyb9L?embed=embed&paywall=anonymous
Historian and archivist Lenn Keller died of cancer on December 16, according to an announcement posted by the Bay Area Lesbian Archives, an organization that she founded in 2014 to preserve the region’s diverse lesbian history. In a separate post, her friend Sharon Davenport noted that Lenn “was loved and cared for when she passed at home.”
Keller, who described herself as “a proud butch lesbian,” lived a life of what she would later refer to as “prefigurative politics”—creating the world one wishes to see. Throughout the 1970s and 80s, she played a leading role in the Bay Area’s thriving community of Black lesbian activists. In more recent years, she devoted herself to preserving the often-overlooked stories of these women.
Her story of rebellion began when she was growing up in the 1950s.
“Some of my earliest memories have to do with being in kindergarten, and noticing the whole gender setup,” Keller recalled in a 2017 interview. “All the boys’ toys were in one section and the girls’ toys were in another. There was the expectation that you only played with the toys in your section. Even as a five-year-old, I thought that was utterly ridiculous.”
Keller bucked the unspoken rules and played with whatever toys she wanted. Throughout the rest of her life, she challenged and broke down oppressive gender norms and racism. The Bay Area Lesbian Archives, an organization Keller co-founded, will ensure that her legacy of photography, advocacy, and rebellion will live on.
Explaining the motivation to catalogue and share her massive collection of event flyers, meeting notes, newsletters, videotapes, and photographs, Keller said “what happened back then was so important. People were driven by a vision, not just to be accepted as lesbian and gay. We were trying to literally change the world.” Keller and her friends manifested this vision by instituting standards for their own events, like providing sign language interpretation and free childcare, that are now adopted (or should be) at mainstream events far beyond collective meetings in Berkeley basements.
Their approach to social justice was intersectional long before that term was coined. The emergence of Black Lives Matter, the #MeToo movement, and LGBTQI equality legislation all have roots in gatherings like the 1980 “Becoming Visible: First Black Lesbian Conference,” held at The Women’s Building in San Francisco, which Keller attended with her ever-present camera.
Lenn Keller was born on September 29, 1950 in Evanston, Illinois. Her father, who she described as “functionally illiterate,” came from a family of sharecroppers and worked as a gravedigger. Her family lost their house to foreclosure around the same time her mother died, when Lenn was eight years old. Following this tragedy, her father was able to secure low-income housing for the family in an affluent Chicago suburb, which gave Lenn access to a top-ranking public education. Reminiscing about her nearly all-white high school gave Lenn an opportunity to share her dagger-sharp dark humor. “I was basically exempted from having to date, because it was at a period in time when white boys didn’t date black girls. Racism saved me from compulsory heterosexuality.”
Looking for an escape from suburbia (“I never bought into that value system”), Lenn and her best friend took a bus to New York City shortly after high school graduation in 1968, with little to guide them outside of the street wisdom they’d picked up in Malcolm X’s autobiography and Claude Brown’s Manchild in the Promised Land. The girls were initially taken in by a group of “radical squatters,” but after Lenn was sexually assaulted, they found safer accommodations in Harlem with a crew of older Black artists. These poets and filmmakers looked after Lenn like a little sister and one of the men gave Lenn her first camera, which sparked a lifelong love of the lens.
“If I didn’t have my camera, people would often remark,” she told KQED in a 2019 interview.
In 1975, Lenn was drawn to the West Coast by tales of liberated lesbians in Santa Cruz. “The dykes there were into everything,” she said. “They were mechanics, they were doing construction. It was during this time when women were all about doing things we’ve been told our whole lives that we can’t do.”
However, with her daughter approaching kindergarten age, Lenn wanted to live somewhere with more racial diversity, so after a short stay in San Francisco’s Haight-Ashbury neighborhood, she found a home among a group of like-minded women in Berkeley, where the rent for their “really big” five-bedroom flat was less than $200. This arrangement gave Lenn the courage to come out as a lesbian, which made her feel “ecstatic,” even though the revelation came at the expense of some of her closest relationships back in the Midwest.
“Everybody had a story about being rejected, which is what made our communities very tight,” she said. “By living in collective households, we created surrogate families. We took a lot of care, especially around holidays, to make sure everybody had a place to go.”
As the Bay Area’s concentration of queer women reached a critical mass in the 1970s, this spirit of mutual aid extended well beyond tight-knit circles.
“We were coming out of an era when people were being electroshocked,” Lenn said, referring to pseudoscience “treatments” of LGBTQI people. “So we were very committed to supporting women in as many ways as we could.”
Lesbian activists helped launch California’s first domestic violence shelters and early rape crisis centers, as well as feminist book stores and cafes. During these fervent years, Lenn supported herself with a job at Berkeley Recycling while volunteering at Pacific Center, the Bay Area’s oldest LGBTQI+ community center, and earning a degree in visual communications from Mills College. On top of all this, whenever a major threat to LGBTQI rights emerged, such as 1978’s Briggs Initiative, which sought to ban queer people from teaching in public schools, Lenn was at the protests, documenting a nascent movement’s first footsteps into the national spotlight.
Sometimes the injustice that Lenn challenged came from within this movement itself. One of the many photos in her archive shows Lenn and her housemate at SF Pride, holding a sign that reads: “No more power to white supremacists, straight or gay.” Explaining how lesbians, especially lesbians of color, had to struggle for recognition even within liberal political spaces helps explain their inclusive praxis. She said, “It’s not that lesbians were better people or had more integrity. It’s that we had more fights. We had more layers of oppression to deal with.”
Lenn also managed to have a lot of fun. She was on a softball team, directed an award-winning short film, played tenor sax in a salsa band, and loved to dance at the Bay Area’s many lesbian bars like Ollie’s and The Jubilee, an East Oakland joint that featured a peephole in the door, a throwback to the days when police raids at gay bars were a regular occurance.
As Bay Area rents rose throughout the 1990s, lesbian bars began disappearing from the local landscape, and so did the women who caroused in them. Many of Lenn’s friends fled for more affordable accomodations and Lenn was displaced from her home “several times, when the place where I was living was sold out from underneath us.”
Despite her precarious housing, Lenn managed to hang onto her archives, which she amassed informally. “I just started collecting little things here and there. We lived in a collective household and we were all involved in things and we’d go to events. There were always flyers and posters and postcards and buttons, so I just thought… this stuff feels important. I guess I’ll just hang onto it.”
In 2004 he founded The Inner Circle, a human rights organisation based in Cape Town which helps “Muslims who are queer to reconcile Islam with their sexuality” and gender identity.
He also runs workshops for imams across Africa, helping them to develop an inclusive understanding of gender and sexuality within Islam.
He explained: “It involves a re-examining of what it means to be Muslim…I focus on compassion, values, faith more than the rituals and sects that divide us.
“A lot of unlearning needs to be done [but] it is amazing what the imams come up with.
“They bring in research and context and match it with the religious text, and there are these ‘aha!’ moments.”
This work is vital in Africa, where homosexuality is still illegal in 32 out of 54 nations, and South Africa is the only country in the continent that allows same-sex marriage.
But when the coronavirus pandemic began, Hendricks feared that his workshops would have to stop.
He said: “It is such a challenge to give hope when people are experiencing loneliness, financial loss and low self-esteem in the time of COVID. But we had to pull it off.”
Hendricks managed to alter the workshops, running online sessions for imams in other countries and socially distanced meetings for those in South Africa.
The experience has taught him, he said, the importance of continuing dialogue while remaining safe.
He said: “Lets be safe, wash hands, wear masks, but let’s not stop engaging. If we continue to do what we need to do, we will make it.”
The 23-year-old joined the human resources department of Banco Nación, Argentina’s leading state bank, this year. In September, President Alberto Fernández signed a decree establishing a 1 percent employment quota for transgender people in the public sector.
Only neighboring Uruguay has a comparable quota law promoting the labor inclusion of transgender people, who face discrimination in the region. According to Argentina’s LGBTQ community, 95 percent of transgender people do not have formal employment, with many forced to work in the sex industry where they face violence.
Transgender woman Angeles Rojas poses for a photo as she walks down a corridor of the National Bank where she works in Buenos Aires on Nov. 5, 2020.Natacha Pisarenko / AP
“If all the institutions implemented the trans quota, it would change a lot for many of my colleagues. It would change the quality of their lives and they would not die at 34, or 40, which is their life expectancy today,“ said Rojas, who has long, black hair and intense dark eyes.
There are no official figures on the size of the transgender community in Argentina, since it was not included in the last 2010 census. But LGBTQ organizations estimate there are 12,000 to 13,000 transgender adults in Argentina, which has a population topping 44 million.
Argentina, a pioneer in transgender rights, in 2010 enacted a marriage equality law and in 2012 it adopted an unprecedented gender identity law allowing transgender people to choose their self-perceived identity regardless of their biological sex. The law also guarantees free access to sex-reassignment surgeries and hormonal treatments without prior legal or medical consent.
Rojas’ life story is similar to that faced by many other transgender people.
She came to Buenos Aires three years ago from a small town in northern Argentina, fleeing intolerance, but things were still tough in the capital and she was forced to prostitute herself.
One morning, a client invited her into his car to go to a hotel. But he strayed from the route to the hotel, took out a gun and told her “give me your wallet.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” Rojas said. “I grabbed the steering wheel and he hit me. I woke up three days later in the hospital with a facial fracture, facial reconstruction and the loss of hearing in one ear.”
After spending three months in the hospital, Rojas left sex work and became an activist for the transgender community.
She says she “feels comfortable, happy with the treatment they give me” at the bank.
Transgender woman Guadalupe Olivares, who earns money as a sex worker, poses for a photo at the hotel where she lives in Buenos Aires on Nov. 16, 2020.Natacha Pisarenko / AP
Many transgender people live in the Gondolín, a building in the Buenos Aires’ Palermo neighborhood with a blue front and painted mural of a mermaid and colored hearts. Transgender women come and go from the shared bathrooms to their rooms.
Guadalupe Olivares dons the pants, black shirt and briefcase she chose for an earlier job interview at the Ministry of Social Development.
“I think almost 100 percent of us have never had a registered job. You don’t know what a paycheck is. It’s a totally new world,” said Olivares, 33, who comes from San Juan province.
Smoking a cigarette and drinking a soda, Olivares said she submitted a lot of resumés. “When they called, I felt there was discrimination,” she said. “They didn’t tell you: ‘we’re not going to hire you as a ‘trava’ (transvestite),’ but they had that look asking why was I there.”
A report by the Latin American and Caribbean Network of Trans People published in December said “the vast majority of trans women in the region have sex work as their sole economic and subsistence livelihood.”
Transgender man Ese Montenegro, an activist hired as an adviser to the Chamber of Deputies’ women’s and diversity commission, at his home in Buenos Aires, on Nov. 25, 2020.Natacha Pisarenko / AP
It goes on to say: In Latin America and the Caribbean transgender people have their right to work violated along with all their human rights, and this takes place “in a context of extreme violence.”
There have been advances in Argentina. This year, Diana Zurco became the first transgender presenter of Argentine television news, Mara Gómez was authorized by the Argentine Football Association to play in the professional women’s league and soprano María Castillo de Lima was the first transgender artist to go on stage at Teatro Colón.
However, the gap between the equality established by law and the real one remains large, warned Ese Montenegro, a male transgender activist hired as an adviser to the Chamber of Deputies’ women’s and diversity commission.
“We lack a lot, we lack education and political decision. We lack material and symbolic resources. There is a violence that is structural,” he said.
Bisexual men are more likely to experience eating disorders than either heterosexual or gay men, according to a new report from the University of California San Francisco.
Numerous studies have indicated that gay men are at increased risk for disordered eating — including fasting, excessive exercise and preoccupation with weight and body shape. But the findings, published this month in the journal Eating and Weight Disorders, suggest that bisexual men are even more susceptible to some unhealthy habits.
In a sampling of over 4,500 LGBTQ adults, a quarter of bisexual men reported having fasted for more than eight hours to influence their weight or appearance, compared to 20 percent of gay men. Eighty percent of bisexual men reported that they “felt fat,” and 77 percent had a strong desire to lose weight, compared to 79 percent and 75 percent of gay men, respectively.
Not everyone who diets or feels fat has an eating disorder, said a co-author of the study, Dr. Jason Nagata, a professor of pediatric medicine at UCSF. “It’s a spectrum — from some amount of concern to a tipping point where it becomes a pathological obsession about body weight and appearance,” Nagata said.
Of all the respondents, 3.2 percent of bi males had been clinically diagnosed with eating disorders, compared to 2.9 percent of gay men. That stacks up to 0.6 percent of heterosexual men, according to research from the Yale University School of Medicine.
Nagata said the discrepancies highlight the need to conduct eating disorder research on various sexual identities independently. “Prior studies on eating disorders in sexual minority men have grouped gay and bisexual men together, so it was difficult to understand the unique characteristics in bisexual men.”
Several factors may be at play, he said, including “minority stress,” the concept that the heightened anxiety faced by marginalized groups can manifest as poor mental and physical health outcomes.
“LGBTQ people experience stigma and discrimination, and stressors can definitely lead to disordered eating,” Nagata said. “For bi men, they’re not just facing stigma from the straight community but from the gay community, as well.”
The bisexual advocate and author Zachary Zane said this “double discrimination” often leads to loneliness, depression and a fear of coming out.
“We face ostracization from both sides, or if we’re embraced by the LGBTQ world, it’s because we’re hiding our authentic selves,” Zane said. “When you feel everything is out of control, [food] is something you can have control over. I can understand how that would be appealing.”
Thirty percent of bi men in the survey reported being afraid of losing control of their eating, and nearly a third said they had difficulty focusing on work or other activities because they were thinking about food, eating or calories.
While binge eating was similar among gay and bi men in this report, a 2018 American Psychiatric Association study of university students found that bisexual men were three times as likely to binge eat as their gay classmates and five times as likely as heterosexual male students.
Subjects for the report were chosen from the Pride Study, the first large-scale, long-term national health study of sexual and gender minorities, sponsored by UCSF and other institutions.
It relies on self-identification for sexual orientation and allows respondents to choose multiple identities or even write in their own. For the sake of the report, Nagata’s team categorized cisgender men who identify as bisexual, pansexual, polysexual or otherwise attracted to more than one gender as “bisexual-plus.”
Bisexuals, the largest demographic in the LGBTQ community, face numerous health disparities, including higher rates of obesity, substance abuse, binge drinking, sexually transmitted illnesses, cardiovascular disease and even some forms of cancers. Thirty-nine percent of bisexual men say they have never told a doctor about their sexual orientation, three times the percentage of gay men, according to a 2012 study by the Williams Institute.
A recent study in JAMA Pediatrics found that, in the first three years after having come out, bisexuals were twice as likely to start smoking as lesbians or gay men.
Bisexual youth are at an elevated risk for self-harm: Forty-four percent of bi high schoolers have seriously considered suicide, compared to a quarter of gay teens and less than 10 percent of heterosexual students, according to a 2011 study from the University of IllinoisCollege of Education. And a 2013 report in the Journal of Adolescent Health found that suicidal thoughts did not decrease as they entered adulthood, as they did for gay and straight people.
But few diagnostic tools or treatment programs make adequate distinctions, Nagata said, even for gender: Most assessment tools for eating disorders, for example, were devised for cisgender women, and they can overlook behaviors more common among men, like eating more to gain mass. While only 3 percent of the bisexual male study subjects had been diagnosed with eating disorders by clinicians, nearly a quarter met the criteria based on their answers.
“Raising awareness of these differences is the first step,” he said. “Having tailored interventions for LGBTQ people, for bisexual people, is just common sense. It’s not a one-size-fits-all treatment program.”
Zane said that if researchers want to help bi men with eating disorders, they need to address the unique roots of bi men’s depression, anxiety and need for control.
“When researchers lump bi and gay men together, it not only contributes to bi erasure — implying that bi men have the same struggles and identity as gay men — it also leads to ineffective treatments,” he said. “If the goal is to actually help bisexual men, then all research needs to parse them out from gay men, period.”
