鈥淚t feels very bad working in the warehouse when it gets hot,鈥� he says in Spanish, through a translator. 鈥淭he hot air gets stuck, and having to drive the equipment or be around it, it gets really hot.鈥�

Sweating, head pounding, Ramirez operates heavy equipment to ensure that pallets of goods flow steadily through a facility delivering products to Costco and Sam鈥檚 Club. He鈥檚 working under the constant pressure of quotas, aware that supervisory eyes are on him every time he takes a break to get some water.

Approximately work in warehouses like Ramirez. Some 160,000 of those workers are in California, working in what California鈥檚 Division of Occupational Safety and Health, or Cal/OSHA, terms a 鈥溾�� industry.听

In the Inland Empire, the increased emissions caused by the warehouse industry are a direct contributor to climate change, as is the built environment more broadly, which creates a that raises temperatures even more.听

Like Ramirez, most workers dread summers, especially as climate change is increasing the number of high-temperature days. This year, that dread is tinged with frustration: Eight years after the legislature to establish an indoor heat standard to protect workers like Ramirez from hot working conditions by 2019, the agency finally that was almost immediately derailed by protests from another state agency, the . It, along with the state鈥檚 Department of Finance and by heat protections for indoor workers, claimed the standard would be too costly, despite a finding that 鈥渢he anticipated benefits of the proposed regulation, primarily improvements in worker health and productivity, exceed the anticipated costs.鈥� On June 20鈥攖he first day of summer鈥攖he agency to address these objections by exempting prisons from the regulation. It could go into effect as early as August if state regulators agree to fast-track it.

With momentum on indoor heat protections for most workers finally being realized, Ramirez, among others, will be keeping a close eye on Cal/OSHA to see if the agency makes good on its . Heat is hazardous for not just carceral workers, but incarcerated workers鈥攚ho are not necessarily covered by Cal/OSHA in the first place, explains AnaStacia Nicol Wright, policy manager at worker advocacy organization Worksafe. Wright notes that all incarcerated people, including workers, often swelter in conditions that can be. Of Cal/OSHA鈥檚 regulatory exemption for prisons, Wright adds, 鈥渋t always does beg that question of racism and incarceration.鈥�

Nevertheless, California worker-organizers and groups that have been steadily advocating for indoor heat standards and are looking to this landmark moment in heat regulation as a sign of hope. Worksafe is one such group, which has been with testimony and written submissions at state hearings and played an important role in organizing around the state鈥檚 development and implementation of a standard. The worker-led , which engages in education and worker actions, is another example, along with .听

Setting Standards

Indoor heat standards create a framework for regulating workplaces that get dangerously hot, including warehouses, commercial kitchens, and the bowels of sprawling parking structures. Heat illness can cause severe symptoms,. Repeat heat exposures can be especially risky and may cause problems such as.听

At least 436 indoor and outdoor workers nationwide died because of high heat. Those deaths are likely an undercount: Cal/OSHA as well as its federal counterpart depend on companies to report these fatalities, and a 2021 NPR investigation observed that Cal/OSHA鈥檚 recordkeeping on the subject was 鈥�.鈥�

Higher temperatures are also associated with a. For overall health and safety, it鈥檚 critical to protect workers with basic safety measures, including proper ventilation, access to cool water and places to recover from heat, and rest breaks. In the absence of a federal standard on heat for indoor or outdoor workers, only provide guidance for indoor workers. Washington, Oregon, and California have extended protections to outdoor workers, but some states actually go in the opposite direction. Florida just passed a law from setting their own heat standards, for example, following a growing GOP trend to pass state-level preemption laws that block more liberal municipalities and counties from passing ordinances and regulations related to labor,, and, among other issues.听

A national standard would address these issues, protecting workers in every state, . And in 2021, the Biden Administration. The Department of Labor is to issue a federal heat standard, and depending on the outcome of the presidential election in November, a federal standard .

Without formal heat regulation, it can be challenging to hold employers accountable for dangerous conditions, as seen in San Bernardino in July 2023 when Cal/OSHA inspectors were.

鈥淭hese are jobs we go to [in order to] make a living. Nobody should be dying at work. Who wants to go to work and die? Of all the ways you could die, to die at your employer because you were trying to make a living and they couldn鈥檛 be bothered to make sure you were safe鈥︹�� says Worksafe鈥檚 Wright, her voice trailing off as she reflects on the suffering across California鈥檚 sweltering indoor workplaces.

鈥淔or folks who might not know, particularly in the Inland Empire, it鈥檚 very hot,鈥澨� says Tim Shadix of the Warehouse Worker Resource Center. 鈥淚n the worst warehouses there鈥檚 not good climate control or air conditioning. It can get as hot or hotter inside as the temperature outside. In the Inland Empire that鈥檚 easily in the 90s or triple digits.鈥� The Southern California Association of Governments notes that the number of extreme heat days鈥斺�攊n some areas of the region .听

California鈥檚 regulation will require access to drinking water and cool places to recover from heat exposures when indoor temperatures rise above 82 degrees Fahrenheit. Workers wearing restrictive clothing (such as PPE) or working in areas with radiant heat, such as the equipment Ramirez works with, would be entitled to more protections. At 87 degrees or higher, workplaces would also be required to use 鈥渆ngineering controls鈥� (such as ventilation) to lower and control temperatures. Worksafe in arguing that protections should kick in at 75 degrees, or around 71 degrees for workers doing moderate and heavy labor.听

鈥淭he temperatures are high if we鈥檙e just sitting out and having lunch with our family, and high if we鈥檙e at the beach,鈥� UPS employee Robert Moreno told the Department of Industrial Relations at a . 鈥淏ut now think about these temperatures inside of a warehouse that鈥檚 been sitting in the sun all day long. Most of these warehouses are sheet metal鈥攕un radiates inside all day long. You go into these warehouses, there鈥檚 zero to no airflow, very [stifling] heat.鈥�

Outdoor Heat

Indoor workers aren鈥檛 the only ones wilting in the heat. Poor conditions for outdoor workers, especially farmworkers, are a perennial theme of hot summers. California was actually an early trendsetter in adopting an, which mandates access to clean drinking water and requires shaded places to rest when outdoor temperatures exceed 80 degrees. Employers are also required to allow agricultural workers a 10-minute cooldown period at a minimum of every two hours when temperatures soar above 95.

Temperatures are, as seen in 2020 when farms took advantage of their 鈥溾�� to keep workers onsite in the midst of wildfire evacuations, and again this June when agricultural workers were once again 鈥溾�� to enter areas under evacuation to work. Those workers were sent out even when the air was from wildfires with the express goal of bringing in crops before they were smoke-tainted.听

California requires employers to 鈥渙ffer鈥� N-95 masks and other PPE on days with poor air quality, but that requirement isn鈥檛 necessarily honored, and some may not even be aware of this entitlement. And a more robust version of that bill would have included 鈥渟trike team鈥� workplace enforcement that created a framework for inspectors to to enforce protections. That measure was stripped from the final version.

Incentivizing Protections

Although regulation is a key component, it鈥檚 not the only way workers can access protections. The same Florida workers affected by the state鈥檚 ban on local heat standards have found other ways of holding employers accountable. The Coalition of Immokalee Workers鈥�, for example, includes a that growers can follow to achieve certification, with the worker-led organization targeting large corporate clients such as, calling on them to purchase from qualified growers.听

Similarly, the model helps workers across industries, including the warehouse industry through groups like the Warehouse Worker Resource Center, . Similarly, sectoral bargaining such as allows workers in the same industry to collaborate on setting standards that will apply across that industry.

But regulation is not sufficient if it鈥檚 not enforced, or if workers are not provided with the tools to understand it.

鈥淲orkers are asking for employers to train their workers so they know what to look out for, and that also includes the managers,鈥� says Ramirez. 鈥淭he workers and the employers need to be aware of the symptoms to look out for, and prevent them, as they鈥檙e happening. When we feel overheated, we need time to rest so we won鈥檛 get to a point where we faint. To rest, workers need a place to sit, they also need water close and accessible.鈥�  

Training also includes worker engagement and transparency, , including 鈥減osting heat illness risk assessments in work areas [and] ensuring workers鈥� rights to measure temperatures with their own instrument.鈥� Notably, in 2021, the Supreme Court requiring union access to worksites during nonworking hours, which allowed organizations such as United Farmworkers to visit workers onsite for labor organizing and education, critical to ensuring that workers know their rights.听听听

Workers must be protected from reprisal for reporting unsafe conditions, an issue that has . This is particularly critical for who may fear the consequences of speaking out, a valid fear given who say the company threatened and eventually terminated an employee for his organizing work, including efforts to address dangerously hot temperatures in Amazon Air warehouses in the Inland Empire. The Department of Homeland Security recently addressed the chilling effect created when employers to silence immigrant workers, creating legal protections for workers coming forward to report workplace violations, but such protections are only effective if workers are aware of them.

鈥淭hey take more time and more money to protect the products, the things making money for the business,鈥� says Ramirez of industry resistance to regulations. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e not taking time to protect workers.鈥�

Moreno鈥檚 testimony at the Department of Industrial Relations spoke to hopes for a better future: 鈥淲hat I鈥檓 asking from you guys is, 20 years from now, I want someone to look back at what this Board did and say, 鈥淥kay, in 2023 California did it right. They set standards that are above and beyond.鈥� I want other states to look at California and say, 鈥楥alifornia is doing it right. They are putting people over profits.鈥欌��

Last summer, I wound my way to Cherry Beach not to tan, but to dance. The queer event organization  was throwing a sunset rave on a Sunday afternoon. Speakers and a bar were erected on the beach, wires strewn everywhere. My community, the people I had grown accustomed to encountering in dark clubs downtown, looked different in the sun鈥檚 orange glow. The sweet smell of fresh water wafted through the air as the soft rush of waves mingled with the DJ鈥檚 prickly house beats. It felt as if the music had always been there, like the people and the water and the sand and the wires were equally natural. 

Yohomo co-founder Philip Villeneuve makes a point of organizing daytime outdoor events. He wants to get his community out of the city limits and outside and help them access the liberation he experienced growing up by a national park along Georgian Bay. 鈥淒on鈥檛 come here and do your city things,鈥� Villeneuve says. 鈥淲rap yourself up in the forest and the grass and the beach.鈥� 

Clubs and bars are fun, but dancing under an infinite summer sky expands you. Queer people often have to carve out our own spaces to enjoy a temporary version of the freedom we鈥檙e robbed of in our daily lives. Out there, on the beach, the Earth has carved space for us. As Villeneuve puts it, 鈥淣ature鈥檚 not judging us.鈥�

For a long time, queer people gathered outdoors out of necessity. Leaves and bushes and trees provided a shelter where queer people could come together and actualize their sexual desires, away from leering eyes and prejudices. There, in the green, were spaces just as vital as bars鈥攂uilt not from concrete but from the Earth. Cruising was born from persecution but became a powerful statement: If society wouldn鈥檛 have us, then nature would, because what we want and how we feel is as much a gift from her as the bushes.听听听听听听

But the same seclusion that makes outdoor spaces ideal for cruising can also offer cover for homophobic and transphobic violence. And that鈥檚 not the only threat to queer green space: Rising waters are swallowing another quintessential Toronto spot,听, while gentrification is driving us out of what鈥檚 left. Many of us have grown increasingly divorced from the wild world, perhaps听having absorbed the untruth that we鈥檙e not 鈥渘atural鈥� despite the abundant evidence鈥攍ike听,听,听,听and听鈥攖o the contrary.听

If queer people understood our strangeness as an intrinsic quality of nature and not a quirk in the order of things, then we might have a more complete understanding of our place in it鈥攁nd, hopefully, a more rigorous desire to defend it. 

Historic Police Violence at Cherry Beach Said to Be Toronto鈥檚 鈥淲orst-Kept Secret鈥�

鈥淲hen it comes to the queer community, there are very intense histories of collective trauma and violence,鈥� Loren March says. March is a postdoctoral fellow at the faculty of environmental and urban change at York University, whose holistic definition for 鈥渜ueer鈥� encompasses not just people who identify within the LGBTQ2SIA+ acronym, but anybody from a marginalized group.

鈥淭heir connection to natural spaces offers calm and a sense of well-being, which is really important when you鈥檙e wrestling with those kinds of realities.鈥�

March is studying the queer community鈥檚 relationship to urban outdoor spaces in Toronto, including Cherry Beach. It鈥檚 been an important place for decades; hidden away from the city, it鈥檚 the perfect place to express yourself in secret. But the bushes could not protect us. Known cruising spots have long been targeted by cops, and Cherry Beach was no exception.

According to the queer news publication Xtra, in the 1980s and 鈥�90s, it was 鈥溾�� that horrific police violence often took place there鈥攗nlawful, vicious beatings carried out on people framed as criminals. Pukka Orchestra had a local radio hit in 1984 with the song 鈥溾�� which put to music what many already knew: 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why I鈥檓 riding on the Cherry Beach Express / My ribs are broken and my face is in a mess / And a name on my statement鈥檚 under duress.鈥�

Toronto police were said to drive people to the beach to deliver vigilante justice. Xtra quoted a听听in which women named Peanut and Arlene said police queer women there. People without homes also reported being regular victims. In 2000,听听died weeks after claiming cops had beat him at Cherry Beach.听听accused nine police officers of beating him with boots and fists there in 1996: The case was resolved out of court, with the Toronto Police Service not conceding responsibility but reportedly agreeing to pay Kerr听听before one of the accused cops could take the stand.听听

Even those who weren鈥檛 assaulted were often harmed. Men charged with public indecency often saw their reputations demolished and their lives ruined. It was understood that Cherry Beach held great risk, and going there meant you might leave with your life irrevocably changed for the worse. And still they went, because it was in their nature to seek satisfaction and community. 

I鈥檝e made a pitfall here common to the narrative about queer people and the outdoors鈥攆raming these spaces as most precious to cis gay men who use them to cruise for sex. But Toronto鈥檚 queer parks and beaches are also vital to the rest of the community. And while our old adversaries, the bigots and cops, may , other thorny obstacles lie before us.       

March has identified another major threat to queer people鈥檚 ability to access natural space: gentrification.

When COVID-19 restrictions meant gatherings could only be held outside, precious outdoor spaces with special significance for queer folks became overrun. The sudden increase in traffic made them less safe for queer people, and that safety quotient hasn鈥檛 recovered since, March鈥檚 ongoing research shows.听

Trinity Bellwoods Park, a longtime cruising site, famously attracted thousands during quarantine. The park was notably used as a major encampment by unhoused people鈥攁n encampment viciously cleared by police in July 2021. Toronto听听to uproot people without homes that summer, and the message was clear: These parks aren鈥檛 for undesirables. All of this has left queer folks, who are also losing听听at an alarming rate, with even fewer places to go outside.听

Binary Thought Hurts Nature: For Example, Bugs

The moment calls for queer people to take a more active approach to their relationship with nature. One avenue could be a field of study called听, which considers the natural world through the prism of queerness and centers our special relationships with the outdoors. Emerging over the past half-century, it aims to abolish binary thought from our perspectives on nature.听听听听听

Human beings are cultured to cast judgment about what is truly 鈥渘ormal鈥� or 鈥渘atural鈥� and what鈥檚 not. We want to put things in boxes and binaries; we want to understand by reducing living things to patterns and statistics. But time and again, nature urges us to use our minds expansively, to vibe with the Earth鈥檚 complex rhythm instead of trying to endlessly simplify it.

Think of our cultural stance on bugs; many imagine them as less than living, as pests to be killed without guilt, overlooking whole ecosystems that hinge on the prosperity of insects. Binary thought is a disease heterosexual thinking has wrought on us, and the climate is faltering as a result. The modern way of understanding our living planet has failed us. It鈥檚 time for something queerer.

That鈥檚 what So Sinopoulos-Lloyd was aiming at when they co-founded听, a group in Washington state that teaches survival skills and how to study animal behavior in order to reframe the way queer folks imagine the natural world. 鈥淐uriosity and practicing awareness is something healing that we can give to other animals and to landscapes,鈥� Sinopoulos-Lloyd says. 鈥淏ut we might also be listened to and heard by other beings. We might get something back.鈥�

Sinopoulos-Lloyd became fascinated with the idea of queer ecology while working on a Vermont sheep farm. In Western culture, we often think of sheep as brainless, following the flock, lacking individual personality. That idea shifted for Sinopoulos-Lloyd when they met Sydney, a black sheep in more ways than one. 

Most of the sheep avoided Sinopoulos-Lloyd, preferring to cavort with their flock. They seemed to ostracize Sydney, like there was something about her they couldn鈥檛 understand. 鈥淪ydney was weird鈥�: Like a dog, Sydney would approach Sinopoulos-Lloyd in search of affection.听

One day, as Sinopoulos-Lloyd sat cross-legged in the green field, Sydney came up to them, circled around a few times, and plopped down in their lap. 鈥淚 was totally pinned down by this black-haired Icelandic ewe with these little horns,鈥� they say. 鈥淪he was curious about me in a way that she wasn鈥檛 able to express; that wasn鈥檛 super typical.鈥�

Sinopoulos-Lloyd developed a fondness for Sydney, seeing a lot of themself in the strange ewe. And they began to understand that the way they felt, that out-of-place feeling that comes along with being queer, was part of nature鈥檚 code. 

This story originally appeared in , and is reprinted here under a Creative Commons license.

The pop-up鈥檚 chefs greet a never-ending line of customers who are eager to both taste homemade meals鈥�kabsa, maqluba, chicken musakhan, and other delicacies鈥攁nd express their solidarity with Palestine. Each plate costs up to 150 Philippine pesos (roughly $2.70) per order, with the funds supporting Little Gaza鈥檚 Kitchen, a group of food businesses run by Palestinian refugee families rebuilding their lives in the Philippines because the Israeli government is violently occupying their home.

With nine kitchens shared among 16 families, Little Gaza鈥檚 Kitchen hosts and participates in occasional events, including a held during Ramadan, where their food offerings sold out quickly. Outside of these occasional events, Little Gaza鈥檚 Kitchen operates as a , with all meals cooked in their homes.

As the day slows down, a group of Filipino Muslims and Palestinian refugees make their way to the apartment鈥檚 rooftop to gather for iftar, the meal eaten at sunset to break their fast during Ramadan. They sit cross-legged on carpets, distributing tubs of chicken biryani as they prepare to pray. While the adults pray, the children play, unapologetically loud and alive. Watching them play left me wondering what it鈥檚 like to grow up as a child in Palestine and what it鈥檚 like for these families to be forced to build their lives again.

The Arduous Journey of Repatriation

The Philippines has become a refuge to since November 2023, with 70 of them living in a residential area in Quezon City, now known as Little Gaza.

Since October 2023, Palestinians have been fleeing Gaza to escape Israel鈥檚 genocidal military incursion. Though Egypt is to flee Gaza at this time, the majority of are closed. Only few may enter, like foreign passport holders, the wounded, and those economically resourced to evacuate.

Today, there are nearly . hosts the largest number of this population, with more than 2 million Palestinian refugees, followed by Syria with 584,000 and Lebanon with 491,000. The United Nations Relief and Works Agency operates these refugee camps, including .

The thread between Gazan refugees and the Philippines is tied by the Filipino-Palestinians who uprooted and found a home in Palestine. There are more than , and 137 of them in Gaza. The majority of Filipinos in Gaza are women married to Palestinians and are dependents of them. Since October, they have been urged by the Philippine government to escape Gaza with their families.

Yasmin, a science teacher who fled Gaza with her children in February, has now settled in the Philippines. Yasmin has dual Palestinian-Filipino citizenship since she was born in the Philippines. When she was forced to leave Gaza, the Philippine embassy provided her a path to repatriation.

Although reluctant, Yasmin evacuated Gaza for the sake of her children, a Palestinian-Filipino women married to Palestinian spouses: 鈥淚 didn鈥檛 want to leave. Because my husband and my father [were] still there鈥� they weren鈥檛 approved to be evacuated,鈥� Yasmin shares.

Refugees who only have Palestinian citizenship have to pay $5,000 to the Egyptian government to escape Gaza, with other demanding up to double this cost. The cost is an obstacle for many Gazans, including Yasmin鈥檚 husband and father.

鈥淵ou know, we have a great life in Gaza,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e have beautiful houses. We had a car. We had a beautiful routine. I am a science teacher back there at the United Nations School, and the war began.鈥�

Because the Philippine government鈥檚 initial support was , Gazan refugees relied on community-based assistance to sustain their livelihoods.

The -Palestinian Cooperation Team (MPACT) has been supporting Little Gaza in managing administrative concerns and taking care of monthly bills. Kamilah Dimaporo Manala-o, one of MPACT鈥檚 cofounders, shares that the seven-person organization was birthed out of the need to support the Gazan evacuees.

鈥淢y husband and I鈥攖ogether with five other individuals鈥攑ut up and manage Little Gaza,鈥� says Manala-o. 鈥淲hen we saw how serious this was, the weight of the responsibility and commitment, we agreed that together we are the Moro-Palestinian Cooperation Team.鈥�

The team raises funds to pay $5,090 (or 280,000 Philippine pesos) of monthly rent for 16 families and other bills, like water and electricity. Little Gaza鈥檚 Kitchen then became a viable option to sustain the refugee community.

The Diversity of International Solidarity

Other grassroots organizers in Manila, most of whom are artists, have also come together to support the Palestinian refugee community. When Little Gaza鈥檚 Kitchen needed to use social media and branding to attract customers, artist and grassroots organizer volunteered to design each business鈥檚 logos and menus free of charge.

Nyunyu, who is disabled, finds this act of solidarity more accessible than protests and rallies. Due to chronic radiculopathy, it can be challenging and even dangerous for Nyunyu to participate in public demonstrations for Palestinian solidarity. Since there is an assumption that the real fight is on the streets, Nyunyu says, 鈥淓ven amongst comrades, I feel like an afterthought most of the time.鈥�

Collaborating with Palestinian refugees to brainstorm and design the brands for their food businesses is far more doable for Nyunyu. 鈥淚t is nice to find this tiny place in the movement,鈥� Nyunyu says.

When designing for Little Gaza鈥檚 Kitchen, Nyunyu considered how to make each logo unique. 鈥淲hat if we distinguished each family by color?鈥� Because Little Gaza is starting to build a legacy of bringing Palestinian food to the Philippines, Nyunyu was compelled to move in a more personalized direction: 鈥淟et鈥檚 just draw the faces of these people to draw them closer to Filipinos!鈥�

With their consent, visual sketches of family members ended up in each food business鈥檚 logo, which Nyunyu considers a more humanizing approach: 鈥淸We chose] logos with people鈥檚 faces so that [customers] can identify [the families]鈥� bringing this closer to the [Filipino] people and making the kitchens more identifiable with the people behind them.鈥�

The Hope to Return Home

Most of the Palestinian refugees I spoke with shared a hope for a permanent cease-fire that will allow them to return home.

鈥淧alestinians own the land,鈥� Yasmin says. She added, 鈥淎nd we hope鈥� when the war stops, we leave to go back there. Because we grew up there, we have our memories there. We have our relatives, our loved ones鈥攚e really want to get back there.鈥�

While Yasmin says she is grateful for the Philippines welcoming her and other refugees, she also hopes for a future in Palestine. 鈥淲e are very grateful for the management here. They helped us in so many ways,鈥� she says. 鈥淲e are really grateful for that. But we [are] really homesick.鈥�

As the world continues to witness Israel鈥檚 genocidal assault on Palestine, may the world also see the various expressions of solidarity for a liberated Palestine from all around the world, including the resilient Little Gaza.

To learn more about Little Gaza鈥檚 Kitchen, visit . to Little Gaza鈥檚 Kitchen.

Alongside the white supremacist narrative of gaining legal traction, we鈥檝e seen increased attacks against programs designed to dismantle structural oppression, including gutting (DEIB) initiatives across the tech industry; introducing legislation that about and in ;and proposing in multiple states across the U.S.

In the tech sector, there鈥檚 growing backlash against anti-racist work, including efforts to away from organizations working for racial justice in the tech sector, including , where I serve as executive director.

An unregulated tech industry is an industry driven by systemic racism.鈥�

Over the last year, have disproportionately impacted Black and Latinx talent and entire DEIB departments have been gutted. Moreover, we鈥檝e seen the tech industry embrace while CEOs enact aimed at silencing dissent and bolstering systemic racism. Indeed, industry giants are firing employees for protesting the use of their labor as fodder for genocide: for participating in peaceful protest against the company鈥檚 . An unregulated tech industry is an industry driven by systemic racism.

Universities and workplaces alike are not neutral spaces. They are, in fact, shaped by systems of power, inflected with the history of racial hierarchy and white supremacy that is foundational to the U.S. We need to understand these initiatives as successfully orchestrated attacks on anti-racist work, and we need to stand together, flanking each other through the coming months of what will undoubtedly be marked by increasing attacks on racial equity.

We know the Supreme Court is using the idea of race-neutral policies to uphold systemic racism. We know 鈥渞ace neutral鈥� is coded language for white. We know that ruling is part of a concerted effort to position the work for racial equity as discriminatory. We can even see structural racism at work in the ruling itself: The court ruled that race cannot be considered as a factor in admissions procedures, yet legacy remains part of the admissions process. Legacy operates as affirmative action for the white, class-privileged people who have long been filling elite universities.

Meritocracy is a fiction designed to uphold white supremacy. Sanctifying 鈥渞ace-neutrality鈥� in admissions denies the existence of racism, affirming white supremacy in a cruel denial of structural advantages awarded to whiteness. Associating affirmative action with racial preference, while distancing it from its , is part of a racially motivated strategy to

Years ago, Code2040 had a partnership with a college program called in California. The program primarily serves Latinx community college students who study computer science and helps them transition their coursework to a local four-year college, enabling them to graduate with a computer science degree in three years.

At the time, the vast majority of the participants were children of the migrant farm workers who work in back-breaking conditions for low wages. Those students had no connections in higher education or the tech industry, but they knew a computer-science degree could be a life-changing catalyst into economic security for themselves and their entire families. (CSin3 has a 70% graduation rate within three years and successfully connects 83% of its graduates with internships in the tech industry.)

When I think about the students enrolled in the CSin3 program, I remember how many of them were first-generation college students, English secondary language learners in primary school, working significant hours to help support their families, and caretaking for elders in their multi-generational households. They did not have parents who graduated from Ivy League schools to support their case for . They did not pay for professionals to write their college applications.

Race-conscious college admissions intended to counteract these disparities by affirming that Black and Brown applicants deserve space, historically denied, in prestigious universities.鈥�

These are the gaps affirmative action policies helped bridge by addressing the structural disparities that shape access to higher education, and in turn, economic mobility and security.  Race-conscious college admissions intended to counteract these disparities by affirming that Black and Brown applicants deserve space, historically denied, in prestigious universities. Despite the Supreme Court鈥檚 ruling, those of us who are continuing to find ways to create pathways and bridges into higher education and economic opportunity for low-income students of color.

Each June, Code2040 launches its annual , offering nine months of racial equity advocacy training, skills-building opportunities, connections with industry leaders, and internships. The majority of our fellows are first-generation college students from low-income households, and many of our fellows are immigrants. The program is designed to create a pathway into the industry while also fostering community.

Despite persistent attacks on racial equity, the 2024 鈥淲e Are the Future: Welcome Weekend鈥� united 75 Black and Latinx computer science majors, industry leaders, program alumni, and Code2040 community members for connection, workshops, and celebration. Welcome Weekend lays the foundation of community that makes the fellows program so impactful. While job skills, networking, and racial equity advocacy tools are central, the space for celebration, joy, creativity, and imagination fosters long-term possibilities for radical change.

Starting with Welcome Weekend and extending through the nine-month program into the workforce, this community supports Black and Latinx technologists in navigating racial inequities in tech, dreaming, creating, and thriving together. 

Black and Latinx college students are the next generation of technologists. They are our future and deserve our full support to flourish. We do what we do because the power of community means standing in the gap for one another, supporting each other as we navigate the inequities and imbalanced power distribution in our industry.

We know how to survive in the hardest of conditions, and we know how to build power. We will continue to make our way into inhospitable spaces, and we will continue to bring others along with us.鈥�

These Black and Latinx students are entering college during a time when affirmative action policies were in place, and will eventually graduate after they have been struck down. They will also vote for the first time in a presidential election, entering the voting booth and the tech industry after spending their formative years watching this country, and the industry where they鈥檒l spend their career, gut protections and support for Black and Latinx people. Yet, our people have always been resilient. We know how to survive in the hardest of conditions, and we know how to build power. We will continue to make our way into inhospitable spaces, and we will continue to bring others along with us. And when we do, we will change the material conditions that have kept us out. 

Working for racial equity is about being a part of a movement for systemic change. . Because the tech sector shapes our world, we view our work for racial equity in tech as part of a movement for racial justice everywhere. Systemic racism is the connection between ongoing police violence, the banning of education, and the overturning of affirmative action.

We will not know racial equity until we live in a world free from police violence. We will not know racial equity without a legislature that protects Black and Brown people. We will not know racial equity until Black and Brown people everywhere are thriving. As long as oppressed communities remain under attack, we will not know racial equity. 

As we inch closer to the November elections, we need to understand the Supreme Court鈥檚 ruling as part of a concerted backlash against the racial justice uprisings of 2020 and prepare to fight for racial equity everywhere, including the tech industry: Our future depends on it.

In the beautiful book , Jos茅 Esteban Mu帽oz writes, 鈥淭he here and now is a prison house.鈥� Our present is in Gaza, live streamed on our phones. Our present is a global imperial order in which President Joe Biden will do anything to maintain his colonial outpost in the Southwest Asian and North African region, including being a party to genocide and alienating who voted for him.

Racialized capitalism ensures that it is far more profitable to drop thousands of bombs, the equivalent of more than , on a trapped population of 2 million people in Gaza, killing more than , than to provide them with sustenance and democracy.

Abolition demands an end to colonialism, so abolitionists must be part of the movement for a free Palestine. As a statement from the coalition notes, 鈥淲e, queer Palestinians, are an integral part of our society, and we are informing you: From the heavily militarized alleys of Jerusalem to Huwara鈥檚 scorched lands, to Jaffa鈥檚 surveilled streets and cutting across Gaza鈥檚 besieging walls, from the river to the sea, Palestine will be free.鈥�

I am an abolitionist, and I wrote Cora, one of the protagonists in , a book I published in 2023, as a character willing to make great personal sacrifices to dismantle the prison-industrial complex.

When I was writing Atoms Never Touch, then president Trump was enforcing a , turning the Islamophobic racism of the U.S. government into policy, making centuries of Orientalism plain as the words on his executive orders. In the book, many of these acts are represented by the fascist president who wins the election in Cora鈥檚 world.

Cora is frustrated and furious about the president in her world being elected despite his record of sexual assault. In her emotional state, she finds the courage to break out of the rules governing her normal life鈥攈er day job, retirement account, and credit score鈥攁nd do something revolutionary.

Cora decides to use her hacking skills to delete criminal records, thus releasing people from prison. Even if her motivations are good, it鈥檚 a misguided attempt at creating social change through an individual, lone action, apparently disconnected from larger social movement strategies.

As Walidah Imarisha and adrienne maree brown write in , 鈥淲henever we try to envision a world without war, without violence, without prisons, without capitalism, we are engaging in speculative fiction. All organizing is science fiction.鈥�

I was profoundly inspired by this idea and moved to write Atoms partly in response to it. Yet Atoms does not imagine a world without fascism, colonialism, or Islamophobia; instead, it depicts the traumatic details of the unfolding of those things even more powerfully across the U.S., in the alternate timeline that Cora lives in.

But Atoms does imagine a possible way out that鈥檚 perhaps utopian and perhaps mere wish fulfillment: In this world, love between two trans Latinx women brings about a scientific discovery that allows everyone to travel between possible universes. This focuses on the many-worlds interpretation of quantum physics, an interpretation of the fact that subatomic particles exist in many locations at once until detected, which posits that all possible universes do exist.

In , Karen Barad refers to the cognitive repression and psychosocial factors that prevent physicists, and the public, from accepting the unruly conclusions of quantum mechanics that point to multiple universes.

In Atoms, Cora and Rea study the equations of quantum physics using an algorithmic visualization tool that allows them to interact with possible outcomes of equations in augmented reality. They do find a way out of the prison house of the present, out of the dystopian timeline that is global neocolonialism and racial capitalism and into somewhere else.

Yes, it is perhaps fantastical and utopian, but I ask us to consider the possibility of a universe where life can be different from the oppressive order that structures our lives today. The way out starts with Cora鈥檚 own rejection of the gender she was assigned at birth, leading her to find solidarity with oppressed people everywhere, and leading her to a relationship worth fighting for.

Mu帽oz wrote: 鈥淨ueerness is not yet here. Queerness is an ideality. Put another way, we are not yet queer. We may never touch queerness, but we can feel it as the warm illumination of a horizon imbued with potentiality.鈥�

While trans liberation is not yet here and a free Palestine is not yet here, we can feel this possible future just as surely as we can feel the warmth of the sun.

We will find each other because we are worth fighting for. We will be free from the policing systems of cis-heteropatriarchy  here and in Palestine, in our lifetimes, or in some possible future timeline.

Editor鈥檚 Note: In the first three chapters of Atoms Never Touch, the reader is introduced to the main characters, Cora, an abolitionist computer hacker, and Rea, who is slipping through alternate universes. Below is an excerpt from the book.

That night, I lay on the couch with tears streaming from my eyes, watching a fascist be elected president of the United States.

I received a text from my dear friend Xandra: 鈥淗ey Rea, come join me downtown at the protest. We鈥檙e at Figueroa and Pico!鈥� I canceled my classes and drove to meet her. I couldn鈥檛 be alone, crying on my couch; I had to be with people. I was grateful to be in a city with so many other Latinx people. It was a city where the election of this man who had associated our people with rapists, when he himself was one, was met with massive outrage. People were flooding the streets en masse, waving Mexican flags, covering their faces with bandannas, driving lowriders alongside the march.

We marched for hours, keeping our chants simple for all the people who were there marching for the first time and didn鈥檛 know the more fun but more elaborate beats of chants from other movements. When Xandra had to leave, I stayed with the march. We marched up and down hills, the march leaders routing around the police whenever they tried to stop our march at an intersection. At one point, deep in downtown, on Flower and Eleventh, we could see the lights of police cars coming from far away, slowly, as we realized another march with hundreds of people in it was marching toward our contingent to join us! Our march was already around a thousand people strong before even stopping to allow them to come down Eleventh and merge with ours.

My voice was hoarse from chanting. The march had been so impulsive that no one had even brought a bullhorn. These were not experienced organizers so much as they were people who had thought that activism was hopeless until now. Maybe they still thought it was hopeless, but there seemed to be a collective need to scream and cry, in public, together.

That鈥檚 when I noticed her also standing just outside the crowd. A Latina woman whose muscular, tattoo-covered arms were revealed by her Black Lives Matter t-shirt, the sleeves of which she had stylishly cut off herself. Flowers trailed down her gorgeous brown arms, connected by curves resembling the traces of particles like pions, the result of high-speed collisions produced in accelerators and supernovas, which exist only briefly when a high-energy proton collides with another particle. I felt myself still in that moment as I looked at her. Her eyes locked on the police; she was wearing ear buds. Her eyes were glassy like she was looking at something I couldn鈥檛 see, and her fingers were twitching busily. It looked like she was using an invisible keyboard鈥攕urely, she had auglenses and was recording this entire scene.

The rays of light and shadow scanning across her body alternated from red to blue and white, creating a cacophony of angles that she seemed unmoved by. Her beauty was unfolding in my consciousness as I noticed how close she was standing to the police, even as they were violently pushing people back with their electric bicycles. She was close enough to see their badge numbers鈥攐r at least those whose badge numbers were not covered with black tape, as most were that night.

The chanting, the sirens, and the helicopter all faded away as she held a stillness that mirrored my own. In the many-worlds interpretation of quantum mechanics, many of the impossibilities that quantum mechanics presents, such as action at a distance and the uncertainty of particle locations, are solved by the idea that in any quantum experiment with multiple possible outcomes, all outcomes exist in different universes. Quantum entanglement is the phenomenon of two particles that can be separated across vast distances and yet the quantum states of one particle still correlate to changes in the other. Einstein referred to this as spooky action at a distance.

Almost any event can be a quantum experiment, such as a flickering lightbulb as evidence that even light exists in packets or quanta. Still, moments like this one have always felt to me like experiments of particular relevance. How can we ever know all the possible outcomes and variables that contributed to the meeting of two people? What quantum effects happen in the moment when the police car鈥檚 red light flashes off her body and sends that image to my brain, resulting in this powerful attraction? What patterns of shape, like the movement of her hair, reach the neural networks in my hippocampus, interact with my memory, and create this feeling of warmth down my body? How does the context of this political moment, and her act of resistance within it, register in that pattern recognition and interact with all the work I鈥檝e done on myself to heal and build healthy relationship patterns in such a way that I decide to walk toward her?

This excerpt from appears by permission of the publisher.

Raeyun, a queer Filipino trans student, was carefully navigating the stairs down and paused midway. He was looking for me. Most lighting work had to be done during blackouts, so often Raeyun did not have much to do during regular rehearsals. Instead, we sat in the tech booth and hung out.

Sometimes he wrote fan fiction, which he referred to as his 鈥済aymances鈥�; other times he drew on his phone. Mostly, we talked.

Up in the booth, Raeyun pulled out his phone and started scrolling through photos of his favorite K-pop artists. He wanted me to see what he saw: beautiful, idolized, masculine men who were wearing skirts, crop tops, and eyeliner.

Raeyun loved K-pop. He had a singer from NCT as the backdrop on his phone. Raeyun鈥檚 adoration was not just about the music. He described K-pop as a world in which men of color could engage with their gender expression and each other in ways that felt distant and not quite possible to him.

As he was flicking through photos of all the fashion styles he admired and limning the possibilities of femme masculinity, I felt acutely aware of my recorder tucked into my backpack downstairs in the auditorium seats, turned off and unhelpful.

Got Trans?

East City High is an imposing building that encompasses a full city block and enrolls around 1,800 students. It has four floors, several outbuildings, an auto shop, a turf field, a track, and tennis courts. A local nonprofit runs a community gardening program from the grounds, and in the spring, local elementary school children regularly gather there, learning about seeds and plants.

East City High occupies the unceded lands of the Tsleil-Waututh, Musqueam, and Squamish Nations. This area, which is now known as the Lower Mainland of British Columbia, has been split into several neighborhoods, though it is often simplified into the east and west side. The west side is associated with wealth and understood as having better schools and opportunities. The east side is positioned as grittier and more politically progressive.

I was at East City High conducting an ethnography on the ways gender-nonconforming youth navigated their genders as they moved through different spaces and relationships at school. In my year at East City High, I accompanied youth to their classes, joined in during their extracurricular activities and clubs, ate lunch with them, attended their performances, and hung out in hallways, in tech booths, and on the peripheries of classrooms.

Sometimes we skipped school together, met up in caf茅s, and just roamed the halls. We texted (often). They taught me how to play Dungeons & Dragons, introduced me to the world of K-pop, schooled me on what TV shows I really should have been watching all along, and read me their writing. 

Many of these young people were nonbinary and genderfluid. Sometimes they used the term 鈥渢rans,鈥� though they also struggled with not feeling 鈥渢rans enough.鈥� They talked about themselves as gay, queer, bisexual, pansexual, trans, gender-nonconforming, genderfluid, and nonbinary. These words overlapped and existed together, in sometimes seamless and other times uneasy ways. 

Therefore, I most often use 鈥済ender-nonconforming鈥� and 鈥渢rans,鈥� an umbrella term for any person whose gender does not align with the one they were designated at birth, to signal how the youth desired to be recognized as trans and, at times, held this desire for recognition in tension.

The Labor of Gender Legibility

Over the year I spent moving alongside six youths in grades 9鈥�12 at East City High, I noticed that youth performed myriad forms of labor throughout a school day to exist as gender-nonconforming. This labor was in response to the people, the physical environment, the curriculum, and the policies that reproduced narrow understandings of trans identity that did not have space for the capaciousness of their relationships to gender. At times, this labor was apparent and perceptible as work.

Youth corrected adults when they were misgendered and deadnamed or spoke to teachers and administrators to secure accommodations in their classes. Other times, this labor was unnoticed and devalued, as with Raeyun鈥檚 sharing of K-pop photos in the tech booth.

Though youth regularly engaged in small acts of resistance and rebellion by escaping into their own spaces or disappearing into their writing during classes, this behavior was not acknowledged as important, as valuable, or as a form of intervention.

I take seriously their daily acts of trans life as forms of labor. I consider how in the tech booth, for instance, Raeyun was engaged in not only the labor of survival but also the work of utopic world-building. He was creating another world to exist in while at East City High through the work of caring鈥攆or himself, for his gender, and, ultimately, for the burgeoning trans community he was cultivating through this labor.

During my year at East City High, I observed many teachers respond with care and concern to the idea of trans youth and to the trans youth they were aware existed. This response aligns with recent scholarship on the privileging of visibility as a metric when working with and supporting trans students in schools.

Overwhelmingly, when East City High teachers were aware of a trans student, they endeavored to support this young person. This support was framed within an accommodations approach, which has become the dominant strategy for pursuing trans-inclusivity in Canadian schools. 

Teachers assisted students in accessing workarounds in physical education classes or changing their names and pronouns. At times, this support was seamless and useful. At other times, it was awkward and halting. However, it was always reactive, compelled either by adults鈥� awareness of a trans student in their class or by a student making themselves explicitly known as trans to an adult.

The administrators, teachers, and staff promoted this progressive version of the school in part through visuals. As one entered, one of the first visible images was a painted land acknowledgment expressing awareness of the Indigenous peoples on whose land the school was built. Throughout the school, there were poster campaigns denouncing racism and homophobia. 

The narrow hallway leading into East City High鈥檚 theater studio was lined with posters from old productions, potted plants, and a couple of couches. In this hallway, there was also a queer and trans visibility campaign, mostly obscured by the plants, that featured photos of celebrities and asked, 鈥淕ot Pansexual? Got Trans? Got Two-Spirited? Got Femme?鈥�

Scarecrow Jones, a mixed-race, nonbinary grade 9 student, abhorred this campaign. On many occasions, they ranted about the wording of this display: 鈥淲hat, like, I mean, have I got the disease, do you mean? Oh man, are you coming down with the bug?鈥� Scarecrow Jones offered, 鈥淎t least it鈥檚 not blatant homophobia… They鈥檙e trying, which I guess is nice, but at the same time, it鈥檚 the bare minimum form of representation that鈥檚 not accurate at all.鈥� 

Scarecrow Jones did not see themself in these posters, but they reckoned that it was a nice attempt by East City High to recognize that trans people might exist.

Frequently unnoticed was the labor that youth performed to construct ways of existing that were unrecognizable to the adults at the school. At times alone and at times collaboratively, gender-nonconforming youth at East City High worked not just to understand and resign themselves to the circumstances and limitations of the school but to create trap doors鈥攕paces that did not require them to show up the same way from hour to hour or day to day.

These were spaces where they could be flamboyantly gay trans men who gushed about wearing halter tops, or long-haired, nonbinary, mixed kids who sometimes did not know if they were having a boy day until they went to bed that night. Gender-nonconforming youth created both physical and fantastical trapdoors where they could exist in relation to their genders in ways that adults in the school either did not notice or could not understand. 

Their practices of world-making were often undetected because they were intentionally happening in spaces that were tucked away, peripheral, and, at times, imaginary.

Theorizing Gender Nonconformity

At East City High, adults were quick to express care and concern for known trans youth because they believed that being trans makes a young person vulnerable, especially in a school. While educators accepted recognizable trans youth, they did not want youth to be trans.

When trans identity is associated with risk, then wanting a young person to be trans is analogous to wishing a young person a hard life. Therefore, despite adults鈥� care and support, no one ever expressed desire for a young person to be or grow up queer and trans.

As a result of the concern of adults at East City High, they were invested in helping visible trans students. I argue that this approach to trans-inclusivity both relied on and reproduced narrow terms of gender legibility that tethered gender nonconformity to risk, harm, and danger. It is critical to emphasize that most of the youth I worked with were not visible as trans. They were not recognized as trans because of the ways they were racialized, their fatness, their neurodivergence, and the many ways their genders did not align with societal expectations for what it 鈥渕eans鈥� and 鈥渓ooks鈥� like to be trans.

Many youth wanted to be understood as gender-nonconforming based on the ways they transgressed societal gender norms. However, youth also desired gender nonconformity precisely because it was confusing and uncategorizable. Being gender-nonconforming, therefore, meant that adults in the school would not be able to place them because they were intentionally unplaceable.

At times, their resistance was grounded in a fierce intention to disrupt cisheteronormative assumptions; at other times, it was others who resisted knowing them, unable to recognize the complexities of their genders.

I am not interested in making these youth and their genders stable and knowable. Rather, I ask: When educators respond to trans youth from places of risk and concern, how do youth work daily to create space to exist as gender-nonconforming young people? Though the youth I worked with regularly confronted transphobic, racist, and ableist ideas and narratives from adults, other students, the curriculum, and the physical space of the school, they intervened at East City High through their labor.

In North America, we are currently witnessing a heightened conversation regarding the bodies, experiences, and lives of queer and trans youth. There is a proliferation of fearmongering about their existence, leading to district-wide book bans, the blocking of gender-affirming health care, and legislation that criminalizes discussions of gender and sexuality in schools.

Often, this condemnation of queer and trans issues in schools is happening alongside the denouncing of antiracist teaching and learning. These intertwined denunciations are mired in widespread understandings of adolescence as a risky period of life and the belief that youth need adult protection to be safely guided toward adulthood.

However, the six youth I spent a year moving alongside did not predominantly understand themselves and their genders through discourses of risk and harm. Rather, they worked hard to build worlds at East City High where gender nonconformity was not defined by suffering. Their thinking illustrates the potential of a pedagogy of trans desire in schools, and I call on educators to turn away from concern and instead cultivate desire for trans and gender-nonconforming youth.

This adapted excerpt from by LJ Slovin (NYU Press, 2024) appears by permission of the publisher.

So here are the numbers: The American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) is currently tracking in the 2024 legislative session alone. In 2023, more than鈥攎aking it the worst year on record for anti-LGBTQ legislation. The tangle of discriminatory laws included bans on gender-affirming care for trans youth, policies that require the misgendering of trans students, and the legal censorship of books and educational curriculum. Many of these laws target and their access to basic needs like health care, as well as common childhood activities like school and athletics. The surge in anti-LGBTQ legislation was so significant that, for the first time in its history, the Human Rights Campaign for LGBTQ Americans in 2023.听

鈥淭he rise in anti-LGBTQ legislation can be tracked back to 2016 with the introduction of ,鈥欌�� says Mariah Moore, co-director of policy and programs for the . House Bill 2鈥攚hich prevented trans people from using bathrooms that aligned with their gender identity in public buildings鈥攓uickly thrust trans people, and their rights, to the and inspired a .鈥�

But the spread of this legislation is not coincidental鈥攊t鈥檚 coordinated.

Trans journalist Imara Jones has reported widely on what she calls the 鈥攁 shadowy, well-funded, and well-organized network of , , and . Jones鈥� comprehensive reporting documents how this machine works to , limit bodily autonomy, and infuse political discourse with anti-trans rhetoric. Perhaps unsurprisingly, then, Moore says 鈥淭hese pieces of legislation are often fueled by far-right Christian extremist politicians who spread mis- [and] disinformation.鈥�

Now in 2024鈥攁nd rapidly approaching the 10-year anniversary of that first North Carolina 鈥渂athroom bill鈥濃�攖he LGBTQ community and our allies must not only navigate the hundreds of harmful bills at the local and state level, but also a national moral and cultural panic around our very existence.

Begin in Your Backyard

Since the vast majority of anti-queer and trans bills are , effective intervention often requires engaging directly with local and state government鈥攕ometimes with surprising success. 

Samira Burnside, a 17-year-old community organizing fellow for , said she and her team just came out of one of the most successful legislative sessions they鈥檝e had in terms of LGBTQ rights. 鈥淟ast year, as you know, we had a lot of anti-trans bills,鈥� says Burnside. 鈥淭his year, out of the 22 proposed anti-LGBTQ bills, we defeated 21. We even that allows over-the-counter access for pre-exposure prophylaxis [PrEP] which helps prevent the spread of HIV/AIDS.鈥�

Burnside says Equality Florida is focused on finding common ground with their opposition鈥攅ither to 鈥減in them down鈥� into doing better, expose the hypocrisy of their stance, or find the overlap between their different positions. 

鈥淎nd in doing so,鈥� Burnside continues, 鈥渨e actually saw this year a couple of Republicans vote with us on things like abortion and the [PrEP] bill.鈥� 

While cynics may dismiss this bipartisan approach, there鈥檚 no denying its effectiveness. The GOP-dominated Kansas State Legislature, for example, failed to ban gender-affirming care when a . She said her conversations with hospital staff, therapists, medical providers, and the parents of transgender kids changed her mind.

Bigotry鈥檚 Testing Ground 

Despite its prevalence, this type of legislation fails to pass more often than not. , out of the nearly 2,000 pieces of anti-LGBTQ legislation introduced between 2015 and 2023, only 194 were passed by state legislators. In other words, 90% of bills introduced were defeated. Some of these defeats are undoubtedly the efforts of grassroots activists and organizations like Equality Florida, but many bills also lack the internal support needed to pass within a legislative session. 

But the experimental nature of this legislation, and the sheer volume, is part of its efficacy. 鈥淓xtremist politicians use the South as a testing ground for some of the worst legislation,鈥� says Ivy Hill, the director of gender justice for . 鈥淭hey test things [in the South], like throwing spaghetti against the wall to see what sticks, then replicate it across the country from there.鈥�

So even when defeated, every piece of anti-LGBTQ legislation retains its teeth. Through their mere existence, these bills arm extremists with the information they need to become more effective, all while normalizing the 鈥攖o say nothing of the harm caused by legislation that does pass.

But quashing the anti-LGBTQ movement isn鈥檛 just about playing defense, or managing a frantic whack-a-mole game against hundreds of bills. 

Out in Office

Moving beyond defense requires LGBTQ people and our allies in office to introduce and pass proactive, protective laws鈥攁nd that requires more seats at the table for LGBTQ politicians and candidates.

Annise Parker, president and CEO of the nonpartisan action committee , believes one of the most direct avenues for change is to put LGBTQ leaders into office, both elected and appointed. Parker herself was the first openly gay mayor of a major city, having served three terms from 2010 to 2016 as the mayor of Houston. 鈥淒emocracy only functions when everyone is present and our community has long been underrepresented,鈥� Parker says. 

In practice, this often looks like training LGBTQ candidates on the nuts and bolts of campaigning and teaching them to weave their identities into their platform. A strong LGBTQ candidate, Parker explains, is able to link their life experiences to the experiences of their constituents. This can be especially important for trans candidates, who must transform themselves from 鈥渙ther鈥� to 鈥渁dvocate鈥� in the eyes of voters鈥攎any of whom may not actually know an out trans person in real life.

Once elected, LGBTQ politicians can not only kill harmful bills in committee through voting, building allies, and caucuses鈥攖hey can also defeat them through what Parker calls 鈥渜uiet conversations in hallways.鈥� 

It doesn鈥檛 take a huge number of officials to make an impact, either. With only a small (but ) number of out representatives in the Texas State Legislature, Parker says a queer cohort was able to stop all but three of the . And every so often, the combined efforts of grassroots organizers, advocacy groups, politicians, and judges are able to usher in big wins for the LGBTQ community, like state prison reforms for trans inmates in Colorado, a , and .听

Yet even with these successes, the truth is that getting into office doesn鈥檛 guarantee equal power, nor safety, for marginalized communities or their representatives. Across the country, Republican-held state legislatures, for example, are 鈥攐ften for the simple act of acknowledging their own existence and the impact of the harmful bills their colleagues are promoting. 

But it鈥檚 also worth noting that the vast majority of voters simply aren鈥檛 that interested in the anti-LGBTQ culture wars. , the vast majority of LGBTQ voters, registered voters, and swing voters agree that 鈥淩epublicans should stop focusing on restricting women鈥檚 rights and banning medical care for transgender youth鈥� and instead focus on economic issues. Even the stronghold in Florida鈥攇round zero for Republican Gov. Ron DeSantis鈥� self-proclaimed culture war against 鈥渨oke鈥� ideology鈥� as anti-queer bills languish. 鈥淒on鈥檛 Say Gay鈥� was , and DeSantis himself . 

Clearly, representation in government makes a difference. But the American political process is slow. Not only do bills and laws live long lives and enjoy slow deaths, but it would take generations to elect enough officials who truly represent the beliefs and diversity of the American people鈥攅ven before accounting for how powerfully voter-suppression tactics impact Black and Brown communities, incarcerated people, immigrant, and working-class communities. 

Queer and trans people can鈥檛 wait decades until an election finally swings our way; our people are suffering now. After all, the Stonewall riots of 1969, an urgent, spontaneous response against police raids, were led not by politicians but by a group of Black and Brown trans women, sex workers, butch lesbians, and drag queens who refused to accept brutality against their community. In other words, the modern gay rights movement was started by an uprising, not a 鈥済et out the vote鈥� mixer.

We Keep Us Safe

Community care鈥攔anging from grassroots initiatives and organized spaces for resource-sharing to informal networks of love and resiliency鈥攊s often what truly protects people and helps them cultivate the strength to keep fighting.

In 2019, Jasmine McKenzie, a Black trans woman living openly with HIV, saw a need in her own Miami community. 鈥淪outh Florida has historically lacked brave spaces for Black people of trans, gender nonconforming, and nonbinary (TGNCNB+) experience, especially those that are run by our own community,鈥� McKenzie says. In response, she founded 鈥攖he only Black, trans-led organization in Miami-Dade County鈥攖o create affirming spaces for the community to heal, build self-determination, and develop solutions around structural racism and transphobia.

The project鈥檚 services range from providing drop-in resources like a food pantry, clothing, laundry, and needle exchanges, to direct services like case management, access to hormone replacement therapy, HIV testing, and mental health support. Together, these services work to address the immediate needs of Miami鈥檚 queer and trans community. At the same time, the McKenzie Project challenges Florida鈥檚 legislative environment with youth-focused programs like The Black Unicorn Party, which not only creates spaces for support and collaboration for Black trans youth, but also develops their advocacy skills with public speaking, organizing, and lobbying training. 

Taken together, McKenzie says the organization has been able to not only mitigate the challenges posed by the legislative environment, but also to build a stronger, more resilient community.

鈥淭o counter anti-LGBT legislation and policies, it is imperative to engage with a diverse range of queer and trans individuals working at the local, state, and national levels,鈥� McKenzie explains. 

The McKenzie Project may be unique in Miami-Dade County, but similar efforts pepper the country. These programs, gathering spaces, education and political trainings, and mutual aid efforts all work together to provide more opportunities for LGBTQ people to not just weather the storm鈥攂ut to experience enough safety and dignity to finally enjoy our place in the sun.

So opens the first 鈥淟esbian Health鈥� segment on , a lesbian feminist television series that aired on New York鈥檚 public access stations from 1993 to 2006.

The half-hour program focused on lesbian activism, community issues, art and film, news, health, sports, and culture. Created by three artist-activists鈥擟uban playwright Ana Simo, theater director and producer Linda Chapman, and independent filmmaker Mary Patierno鈥�Dyke TV was one of the first TV shows made by and for LGBTQ women.

While many people might think LGBTQ representation on TV began in the 1990s on shows like and , LGBTQ people had already been producing their own television programming for decades.

In fact hundreds of LGBTQ public access series produced across the country.

In a media environment historically hostile to LGBTQ people and issues, LGBTQ people created their own local programming to shine a spotlight on their lives, communities, and concerns.

Experimentation and Advocacy

On this particular health segment on Dyke TV, a woman proceeds to give herself a cervical exam in front of the camera using a mirror, a flashlight, and .

Close-up shots of this woman鈥檚 genitalia show her vulva, vagina, and cervix as she narrates the exam in a matter-of-fact tone, explaining how viewers can use these tools on their own to check for vaginal abnormalities. Recalling the ethos of , Dyke TV instructs audiences to empower themselves in a world where women鈥檚 health care is marginalized.

Because public access TV in New York was relatively unregulated, the show鈥檚 hosts could openly discuss sexual health and air segments that would otherwise be censored on broadcast networks.

, many of the producers of LGBTQ public access series experimented with genre, form, and content in entertaining and imaginative ways.

LGBTQ actors, entertainers, activists, and artists鈥斺�攁ppeared on these series to publicize and discuss their work. Iconic drag queen , where The American Music Show gave him a platform to promote his burgeoning drag persona in the mid-1980s:

The producers often saw their series as a blend of entertainment, art, and media activism.

Shows like and were tongue-in-cheek satires of 1950s game shows. News programs such as , which broadcast its first episode in 1985, reported on local and national LGBTQ news and health issues.

Variety shows like in the 1970s, in the 1980s, and in the 1990s combined interviews, musical performances, comedy skits, and news programming. Scripted soap operas, like , starred amateur gay actors. And on-the-street interview programs like used drag and street theater to spark discussions about LGBTQ issues.

Other programs featured racier content. In the 1980s and 鈥�90s, , , and incorporated interviews with porn stars, clips from porn videos, and footage of sex at nightclubs and parties.

Skirting the Censors

The regulation of sex on cable television has long been .

But regulatory loopholes inadvertently allowed sexual content on public access. This allowed hosts and guests to talk openly about gay sex and safer sex practices on these shows鈥攁nd even demonstrate them on camera.

The impetus for public access television was similar to the ethos of public broadcasting, which sought to create noncommercial and educational television programming .

In 1972, the requiring cable television systems in the country鈥檚 top 100 markets to offer access channels for public use. The FCC mandated that cable companies make airtime, equipment, and studio space to individuals and community groups to use for their own programming on a first-come, first-serve basis.

The FCC鈥檚 regulatory authority does not extend to editorial control over public access content. For this reason, repeated attempts to block, regulate, and censor programming throughout the , , and were .

The that attempt to censor cable access programming on First Amendment grounds. that contains 鈥渙bscenity,鈥� but what counts as obscenity is up for interpretation.

Over the years, producers of LGBTQ-themed shows have fiercely defended their programming from calls for censorship, and the law has consistently been on their side.

Airing the AIDS Crisis

As the AIDS crisis began to devastate LGBTQ communities in the 1980s, public access television grew increasingly important.

Many of the aforementioned series devoted multiple segments and episodes to discussing the devastating impact of HIV/AIDS on their personal lives, relationships, and communities. Series like , , and were specifically designed to educate and galvanize viewers around HIV/AIDS activism. With HIV/AIDS receiving 鈥攁nd a 鈥攖hese programs were some of the few places where LGBTQ people could learn the latest information about the epidemic and efforts to combat it.

The long-running program is one of the few remaining LGBTQ public access series; new episodes air locally in New York and nationally via Free Speech TV each week. While public access stations , production has waned since the advent of cheaper digital media technologies and streaming video services in the mid-2000s.

And yet during this media era鈥攍et鈥檚 call it 鈥減eak public access TV鈥濃�攖hese scrappy, experimental, sexual, campy, and powerful series offered remarkable glimpses into LGBTQ culture, history, and activism.

This article is republished from under a Creative Commons license. Read the .

Yo era una ni帽a peque帽a en el norte 
en el extremo m谩s alejado de una zona 
donde la oscuridad del verano comenzaba 
mucho despu茅s de la hora de acostarse 

Donde los ni帽os jugaban 
afuera con el atardecer azul 
los pies descalzos y las pijamas de Batman 

Yo he aprendido 

Que una luna de sustancia
gira en el vientre de nuestra tierra 
donde nacen los d铆as 

Que el rel谩mpago 
crea olas 
de latidos globales 

Que cada puesta de sol 
Cada horizonte 
depende de d贸nde estemos parados 

Que cada d铆a 
contamos un cuento 
de luz

I was a little girl in the north
at the far edge of a zone
where summer darkness began
long after bedtime 

Where children played outside 
in hours of blue twilight
bare feet and Batman pajamas

I鈥檝e learned

that a moon-sized core spins听
in earth鈥檚 belly
where days are born

that lightning
creates waves
of global heartbeat

that every sunset
every horizon
depends on where we stand 

that every day 
our hearts
beat into space

that every day 
we tell a story 
of light

Chris Harris, policy director at the , explains that the 2020听demands were rooted in a vision of public safety that ensures communities have access to 鈥渄ifferent means by which people get their needs met, [and] that people鈥檚 needs are actually being met, and they鈥檙e not just being sent police because that is the only public service that the community has invested in or that鈥檚 available.鈥� By the time the general election rolled around that November, however, establishment figures, including soon-to-be President Joe Biden, were from the demand to defund the police. Cities such as , , Austin, and Los Angeles that took initial steps to cut police funding in response to protesters鈥� demands soon faced challenges.听

Today, the struggle to realize the movement鈥檚 central goal of reimagining public safety continues in the streets, the conference rooms of community justice organizations, and in discussions around government budgets despite roadblocks and a lack of mainstream support. 

鈥淭he importance of this work is to see public dollars invested in and meeting the needs of people in our community and prioritizing those who have been historically marginalized,鈥� says Harris.

Following the George Floyd protests, some cities initially made big changes, shifting hundreds of millions of dollars of city funds away from law enforcement. In August 2020, the city council in Austin, Texas, to the city鈥檚 police department budget totaling about $150 million over a year and to reallocate those funds to violence prevention, food access, and abortion access programs. That November in Los Angeles, California, , requiring that 10% of the county鈥檚 unrestricted general funds, totaling between $360 million and $900 million per year, be invested in social services and prohibiting the county from using the money on prisons, jails, or law enforcement agencies.

These wins soon faced establishment opposition. A superior court judge in Los Angeles issued a tentative ruling just months after voters approved it, claiming it improperly restricted the L.A. County Board of Supervisors from deciding how and where to spend county funds (an appellate court and upheld the measure last year). Meanwhile, the Texas state legislature passed , which levied penalties against cities that reduced police budgets. This legislation forced Austin to halt plans to reallocate police department funds and restore funds it had cut from its police budget the previous year. Similar legislation is being to ensure that even in cases of a city budget shortfall, 鈥渢he police department will be the last department that would be defunded,鈥� according to Representative David Marshall, one of the bill鈥檚 Republican sponsors.

Democratic politicians on Capitol Hill have also rejected calls to defund the police, even condemning Republican-led moves that would in federal budget appropriations using the talking point that 鈥渄efund[ing] law enforcement hurts communities.鈥� During his 2022 , President Joe Biden declared that when faced with questions about safety and justice, 鈥淲e should all agree the answer is not to defund the police.鈥� During Biden鈥檚 tenure, in 2023, by U.S. law enforcement than in any other year in the past decade. Since 2020, state and local governments in have also green-lit militarized police training facilities, some with federal funding.听

Research shows that the growing militarization of police forces nationwide communities and disproportionately worsens law enforcement outcomes for marginalized groups, such as disabled people and people of color. Claims that funding police training could help better protect communities fall flat, too, with research showing that even training programs designed against marginalized groups do not improve police interactions with those communities.听

Communities of color have led the movement against police violence for decades, recognizing that the institution of policing is rooted in racism. 鈥淗istorically, those who were involved in lynching people in our community were local judges and sheriffs up into the 1950s and 鈥�60s. We have continued to have similar incidents with police departments and abuse,鈥� says April Albright, legal director of .听

With stubborn opposition from both sides of the aisle to reducing police budgets, organizers have shifted tactics. Harris says community leaders in Austin are now focused on preventing the city鈥檚 police budget from growing. They are also working on allocating funding from the city鈥檚 general fund in ways that align with some of the aims of movements to defund the police through a .

鈥淭his is a community-built and collaborated-upon set of budget recommendations at the city level, designed to invest in the community with a focus on equity, meaning particularly folks who have historically had their neighborhoods and communities disinvested by the city,鈥� explains Harris. 鈥淲e鈥檙e pushing forward for recommendations to see services, programs, and direct dollars given to people in those communities.鈥� A similar budget-focused initiative is .

Starting the struggle with budget allocations is practical. 鈥淢ost budgets鈥攚hether at the municipal level, county level, state, or national level鈥攁lmost a lion鈥檚 share of these budgets are committed to public safety. And what safety looks like, traditionally, is law enforcement,鈥� says Albright. Most cities dedicate of their budgets to policing.

Recommendations in Austin鈥檚 annual community investment budget include funding harm-reduction services, homeless services for Black youth and adults, emergency rental assistance, and alternative forms of first response to reduce police interactions with community members in crisis. 鈥淲e have community health paramedics and community health workers [who] have proved pivotal in responding to both health and mental health issues in the community, particularly among unhoused folks, and connecting folks with services rather than pushing them into the criminal legal system,鈥� explains Harris.听

When armed police are dispatched to an individual in crisis, especially those experiencing a mental health crisis, results can be deadly: According to at least 20% of those killed in a police shooting since 2015 were experiencing a mental health crisis at the time.听

Austin is one of dozens of cities to non-police first-response programs since 2020. Early research on these programs suggests that not only do they improve outcomes for people in crisis but they also . The public agrees: According to a recent national survey, think 鈥渟ending behavioral health care workers to certain calls related to mental health, substance use and homelessness鈥� would help improve public safety.

Efforts like those in Austin have also garnered some institutional support, with organizations such as the American Civil Liberties Union (ACLU) backing them as evidence-based approaches to community safety. 鈥淲e鈥檙e looking at shifting the paradigm in community safety to more front-end, solutions-driven approaches,鈥� explains Cynthia W. Roseberry, director of the Justice Division at the ACLU.听

The ACLU recently held its on Capitol Hill to brief Congress and the White House on research showing the success of non-police first-response programs and investments in solutions to prevent crime, including addressing rising housing costs and improving access to mental health care. One of the ACLU鈥檚 asks to Congress was for $100 million to be earmarked for mobile crisis response in the appropriations process, which Roseberry says was well received by lawmakers.

There are legislative efforts already underway to reimagine public safety and first responses. Arguably, none is more promising than . This legislation, introduced by U.S. Representative Cori Bush in 2021, would establish a Division on Community Safety within the Department of Health and Human Services and provide funding for noncarceral first responders, restorative justice, and harm-reduction-based mental health and substance use treatment programs for communities nationwide.

Albright says that recent actions to stop Cop City in Atlanta, Georgia, and high-profile brutal crackdowns on pro-Palestine protests on college campuses have brought the demand to defund police back into the national spotlight and could help spur change. 鈥淐op City and the movement against cop cities around the country, as well as what we see happening on campuses鈥� is renewing the cry for folks to find a way to redirect the funds that are normally given to law enforcement to other areas,鈥� she says.

While the demand to defund the police may not have the sort of establishment lip service it got four years ago, organizers say the issue remains top-of-mind in communities nationwide and will be on the ballot this fall. 鈥淲e have to join forces and use every tool that we have available鈥攆rom voting to protests to boycotts, whatever it is,鈥� Albright says. 鈥淗istory shows us that when we do that, we win.鈥�

Her latest film, Origin, calls on all the storytelling tools in her filmography. Based on Isabel Wilkerson鈥檚 best-selling book , Origin unearths unnerving truths about the connection between power and subjugation. DuVernay casts Aunjanue Ellis-Taylor as Wilkerson, the narrative hero inspired to embark on an intensive sociological study after Trayvon Martin鈥檚 murder by George Zimmerman.

鈥淭his is a film that asks people to center a woman鈥檚 interiority and her intellect,鈥� the director told . 鈥淲e are offered those films with men at the center often.鈥� Origin鈥檚 theme鈥攔adical intellectual discovery鈥攁lso applies to DuVernay鈥檚 journey to adapt the book.

Independently funded, the making of Origin is a testament to the director鈥檚 creative integrity and agility, delivering a multidisciplinary experience that circumvents Hollywood鈥檚 traditional hierarchical system.

After , the streamer planned to begin shooting in 2024. DuVernay pushed for an earlier timeline that would enable the film to galvanize audiences with a sense of urgency and spark political and cultural discourse.

鈥淢y hope is that it instigates some conversation about things we should be focusing on in this country as we head toward an election鈥攈ey, anybody see we鈥檙e taking books off shelves? Women can鈥檛 control their own bodies? Are we going to do something? I felt an urgency around getting it out there,鈥� she told . 鈥淭hat timeline was a little more escalated than [Netflix] had the appetite for, and they were good enough to let it go.鈥�

When Netflix declined to expedite the film鈥檚 production, DuVernay and the company parted ways, prompting the filmmaker and her producing partner, Paul Garnes, to obtain independent financing through philanthropic sources including the Ford Foundation and Melinda French Gates鈥� Pivotal Ventures.

The pivot allowed DuVernay鈥檚 team to embrace an unprecedented filmmaking model鈥攐ne rooted in sociopolitical reform and untethered from white capitalist interests.

The Risk Pays Off

Investors like the Ford Foundation typically provide funds for documentaries, but DuVernay鈥檚 new financial backers were aligned with her vision. The director was given a full budget that granted her the final say on vital decisions, including and the film鈥檚 final cut.

For marginalized filmmakers working within the studio system, limited creative autonomy follows a larger pattern of sexist, racist, and ableist industry beliefs about marketability, profitability, and . By taking the indie route, Origin resists the need to meet studio demands historically rooted in discrimination, bigotry, and the white gaze.

This new framework can also help filmmakers鈥攑articularly marginalized creatives鈥攕urvive within an industry that鈥檚 increasingly vulnerable to , , and .

鈥淲e鈥檙e all flailing, trying to figure out what the next steps are for a healthy industry,鈥� DuVernay told . 鈥淎nd I think that is an opportunity for folks to come in with fresh ideas and try to make new systems鈥攏ot just exist within and act differently within the old system.鈥�

While taking an uncharted route resulted in multiple benefits, the absence of major studio backing brought unforeseen challenges, such as coordinating the talent鈥檚 filming schedules (Niecy Nash-Betts, who plays Wilkerson鈥檚 cousin, was filming ABC鈥檚 The Rookie: Feds in Los Angeles at the same time) and working out the logistics of shooting on location for scenes like a Nazi book burning. 

DuVernay filmed on Berlin鈥檚 Bebelplatz, where German university students gathered in 1933 with lit torches to by authors such as Albert Einstein and Helen Keller. The public square is now the site of a memorial. For the scene, the flying of Nazis swastikas, a symbol that has been . 

There was also the challenge of an expedited timeline; typically, a scene like this, featuring a few thousand extras, takes three days to film, but .

Retaining Authenticity

Switching to an indie-funding method allowed DuVernay to take other risks she may not have been able to. She cast Ellis-Taylor in her first leading role in a major movie and depicts Wilkerson as a scholar and visionary intellectual鈥攁 role typically reserved for white men, e.g., Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones, Tom Hanks as Robert Langdon (The Da Vinci Code), Cillian Murphy as J. Robert Oppenheimer. 

By both casting Ellis-Taylor and centering Wilkerson as the main character, DuVernay defied studio conventions dictated by Hollywood鈥檚 version of a caste system: a hierarchy determined by factors like social media popularity, age, gender, and physical appearance.

Other choices, like wardrobe and narrative structure, were rooted in DuVernay鈥檚 artistic vision, which aimed to transform historical moments and obscure figures into fully realized people. In the later half of the movie, Wilkerson travels to India to research the country鈥檚 caste system, focusing on the group known as the Dalits.

DuVernay shows a Dalit man cleaning human excrement from a public latrine by hand. It was essential for Origin to retain its sense of authenticity, so with the help of an advocacy group, the director . It鈥檚 an effectively heart-wrenching manifestation of Wilkerson鈥檚 impressive research, personifying the degradation that Caste describes.

This attention to character interiority rings especially true in the on-screen portrayal of Wilkerson, who grappled with the loss of her mother, cousin, and husband while writing Caste. Wilkerson鈥檚 grief is captured through understated moments of reflection that connect her to the subjects of her book.

In one powerful scene, Wilkerson interviews a white man who recalls a painful childhood memory. In 1951, the man was on a Little League baseball team in Youngstown, Ohio. His teammate, Al Bright, was the only Black child on the team. After winning the city championship, the team is treated to a pool party, but Bright is ordered to sit on the grass behind a chain-link fence while the other children enjoy the water.

Bright鈥檚 coach eventually convinces the pool attendants to let him swim, but the workers force everyone out of the pool before Bright can join.

As Bright is pulled around on an inflatable pool float, the white lifeguard warns him that if he touches the water, the entire pool will have to be drained. It鈥檚 an emotionally harrowing moment that depicts a loss of childhood innocence鈥擝right and his teammates may not have had the elevated language to describe this injustice, but they鈥檙e all impacted by the dehumanizing sanctions imposed by the U.S. version of caste.

The man鈥檚 story resonates with Wilkerson; she imagines herself lying next to Bright on the ground, attempting to provide reassurance that this trauma will not define his identity.

The scene was originally structured around a voice-over by Wilkerson, but when DuVernay discovered the actor playing Bright鈥檚 teammate had a personal connection to the scene, she allowed him to improvise the narration. These sorts of creative redirections wouldn鈥檛 have been as warmly encouraged by studio executives, though these tweaks are ultimately pivotal to the film鈥檚 visceral storytelling and characterization.

A New Way to Humanize History

Origin also rejects strictly chronological storytelling to weave biographical narrative and nonfiction research together. The film introduces the photograph of a German man, believed to be , refusing to perform the Nazi salute in a crowd of people in 1936. Wilkerson travels to Germany to further explore how chattel slavery and segregation in the U.S. influenced the ideologies of Hitler鈥檚 Nazi regime. 

While pouring through German historical archives, Wilkerson learns about the groundbreaking research of Allison and Elizabeth Davis, two married Black anthropologists whose landmark work in Depression-era Mississippi, Deep South, detailed how race and class inform the concept of caste in the U.S. In 1933, the couple travels to Berlin, where they witness a frenzied crowd burn piles of books.

Then, in the present, Wilkerson attends a dinner with friends, and they discuss the similarities and differences between Nazi Germany and the cultural and political history of white supremacy in the U.S. One of the women argues the Holocaust was 鈥渨orse鈥� than the enslavement of Black people in the U.S., which further motivates Wilkerson to excavate and document the pieces of 鈥渃ollective tissue鈥� that form the concept of the caste system.

Moving fluidly through the past and present, Wilkerson鈥檚 research follows a line of pioneering scholars before her, who sought to understand how caste perpetuates individual and collective trauma. DuVernay鈥檚 directorial choices support Wilkerson鈥檚 thesis: Oppression in the past provides the blueprint for the brutality of the present, and these forces feed off one another.

In a striking sequence near the end of the film, enslaved Africans are trapped on a ship during the Middle Passage while a voice-over by Wilkerson laments how slavery caused the erasure of entire communities. Then, we flash to a concentration camp, where a Jewish mother is tearfully separated from her son.

There are also images of Trayvon Martin in his final moments, further underscoring the connection between anti-Black racism in the present and the antisemitism that fueled the Holocaust. Both moments in time are stitched together by violence: The Jewish mother is shot in the head by a Nazi guard, while Martin is fatally shot by Zimmerman. 

Wilkerson ties together the seemingly disconnected topics of white supremacy in America, the rise of the Third Reich in Nazi Germany, and the 鈥渦ntouchables鈥� of the caste system in India. In the film, Wilkerson鈥檚 international trips allow her to better understand the caste system and how it fuels global oppression.

DuVernay鈥檚 decision to prioritize narrative authenticity and shoot on location further emphasized the lack of hierarchy during the creative process. Matthew J. Lloyd, who worked as the film鈥檚 director of photography, labeled completed footage by their geographical location rather than the traditional method of letters and numbers.

This contributed to the idea of filmmaking as a collective endeavor that gives creatives equal rank and respect, as opposed to the standard protocol of clear-cut title rankings.

鈥淲hen the playing field is open, everybody鈥檚 contribution elevates,鈥� Lloyd told The Hollywood Reporter. 鈥淵ou feel the freedom to contribute.鈥� DuVernay鈥檚 on-set environment offers a sharp contrast to how Hollywood typically operates, continuously leaving marginalized people from directing and acting to writing and producing. 

While Barbie, , , and other box-office successes proved audiences desire on-screen , women and minority groups still lack the their white male counterparts are routinely given. This is particularly true behind the camera: According to by the Center for the Study of Women in Television and Film at San Diego State University, only four directors (3.4%) of the top 100 films in 2023 were women of color.

Origin鈥檚 unconventional approach to filmmaking proves Black creatives can still reach creative heights without major studio backing. DuVernay鈥檚 film prioritizes the power of lived experiences and the spirit of Wilkerson鈥檚 research; the final product wouldn鈥檛 exist if left to the demands of white executives who obey algorithms and buy into social media hype. Though DuVernay didn鈥檛 intend to follow the indie route, Origin excels because it鈥檚 a true labor of egalitarian artistry.  

Like many people, I spent most of 2020 to 2022 indoors. The global pandemic halted most air travel in those early days and, once flights were available, I was far too concerned that people would be traveling unmasked, risking spreading the virus to those of us who had properly masked and practiced preventative measures for years. My concerns were valid. After years of no vacations, many Americans were engaging in 鈥�,鈥� or booking all the vacations they felt they had missed out on for years. COVID cases , producing new, highly contagious variants that were less likely to cause hospitalizations but were nonetheless concerning. While saw an overall decrease in hospitalizations and deaths from COVID-19, the surges in rates still followed the general trend: When people are outside, so is Corona.

There is a part of me that yearns for community. I grew up in Oakland, California鈥攁 lovely place to be young and queer. Pride parades were regular occurrences both in my hometown and across the Bay in San Francisco. Even beyond June, I often saw visibly out and proud queer people of all races, ethnicities, colors, shapes, and creeds. I鈥檇 seen breasts and chests with sticky stars over the nipples at least a dozen times by the time I was in middle school. The rainbow flag was raised in doorways, windows, and planter boxes all over my town. I鈥檓 pretty sure that鈥檚 where I first learned to take Pride for granted.  

In fact, I never actually attended a Pride celebration as an out queer person until I was in my mid-30s. A few trips to New York鈥攎ost of them ruined by exes鈥攁re all I really have to remember the season. My social anxiety has always been a deterrent for me as I often avoid large crowds, loud music, or spaces where I will have to be seen. After years of therapy and healing, I鈥檓 hoping to find safe queer spaces where even I can be fully 鈥渙utside.鈥� 

For queers like me, who likely haven鈥檛 had many Pride experiences, this year is special. I鈥檓 turning 40 this year, a milestone for a neurodivergent heart patient who was told I would be lucky to make it to this age. Not only that, but as a professor at a private university, I am among the many people in academia navigating the political atmospheres of our college campuses, as pro-Palestinian students and faculty have been by university leadership. Meanwhile, I am watching people sit silently as Palestinians are , seeing our state governments , and witnessing an impending that offers us a vote for 鈥溾�� or no vote at all. So many of us queer and trans folks live in isolated communities, existing as 鈥渢he only鈥� at our jobs, in our classrooms, or in our neighborhoods. Pride has long been an opportunity to be one of the many. 

We have to remember, though, that Pride was a rebellion against police brutality. As I write in my book, , 鈥淚t was a Black butch lesbian and drag king named Storm茅 DeLarverie who ignited the confrontation between police and onlookers when she allegedly punched police who were arresting her.鈥� Meanwhile, it was trans icon Marsha P. Johnson who is said to have thrown the first brick that started the Stonewall Rebellion. Johnson and her longtime comrade, Sylvia Rivera, were critical in organizing protests in those early hours, helping many white gay men see the struggle for freedom from oppression as their own. On June 28, 1970, the first Pride parade鈥攖hen known as the 鈥攚as held, on the first anniversary of the Stonewall Rebellion. We come from this rich queer and trans history. Pride is the result of this struggle.

For our Pride events to live up to the benchmarks set by our queer and trans forefolks, today鈥檚 events must consider the fullness of our identities. Pride has to be accessible and cop-free. Wheelchair ramps, hand sanitizer stations, free masks, and outdoor venues seem like the most basic accommodations. For folks who are sound- and sight-sensitive, we should have more events with sensory considerations and places where we can find quiet. We can no longer accept Pride events that only make room for one type of queer person鈥攐r that cater primarily to the corporations more invested in than collective liberation. 

The overpacked clubs, skin-to-skin dance halls, seedy bars, and sweaty festivals are emblematic of Pride. And I want all of it. I want to touch grass and dance until my knees hurt. I want to find glitter in my hair with no clear explanation of how it got there. I want to feel comfortable and safe meeting new people in intentionally created venues, given that there are so few places for us to really just be. I want to feel as though no one is watching me because I鈥檓 gay but they are watching me because I鈥檓 fabulous. I want to feel free.

Though I am firmly of the belief that I am way too old to be in 鈥渋n the club,鈥� I am confident that there are places for us queer aunties seeking community and fellowship with our comrades. Spaces centered on us and our fellowship are spaces that take away the unease and overwhelm we typically feel outside. Spaces like these help prevent us anxious gaybies, femme and butch queens, androgynous goddexes, and broken-wristed twinks from feeling the isolation we feel most everywhere else.听

So, this year, instead of worrying about my mental and physical health at Pride, I just want to be focused on asking, 鈥淲ho all gon鈥� be there?鈥�

By Tamela Gordon

鈥淚鈥檓 telling you right now, Tamela! Make me take another step, and I鈥檓a punch you in your fuckin鈥� gut!鈥� 

Shevone Torres and I were on her second day at Casa de Tami. It had been going great鈥攁t first. But the moment we hit the sand, she started getting weird. 

鈥淚鈥檓 not gettin鈥� in that water,鈥� she kept repeating as we searched for the ideal spot to spread out our blankets and beach bags. Her hair, jet black and super curly, was pushed back with a headband, and she was rocking a really cute blue-and-pink bathing suit. 

鈥淩elax. You鈥檙e going to love it,鈥� I assured her. Looking back, I probably should have taken her declaration more seriously. However, she checked the 鈥淵es, I鈥檇 like to add beach and swimming to my wellness itinerary鈥� box on her assessment form. She was also from Jersey, so I assumed she鈥檇 spent a weekend or two at the Jersey Shore. 

I couldn鈥檛 have been more wrong. It took 15 minutes just to convince her to get knee-deep in the water. 

鈥淟et鈥檚 just take a breath and a step at a time,鈥� I kept encouraging. I lightly held onto her fingertips, slowly taking baby steps so tiny I was sure she wouldn鈥檛 notice. She noticed. 

鈥淣igga, you can breathe all you want! I, Shevone, am not gettin鈥� deeper in this water! Hoe.鈥� 

It would have been hard to tell at this moment, but Shevone and I were, and still are, very good friends. We met on social media, but our friendship evolved into an in-person dynamic soon after. If I wasn鈥檛 going to Jersey to check in with her, she was coming to New York to see me. She even helped moderate several online spaces I facilitated, helping me navigate the nuances of holding equitable and safe spaces for people. 

Through her, I learned the importance of being self-aware of the privileges and energy I bring into a room. Despite being a person who navigates a marginalized intersection, I embody a unique combination of privileges, such as two supportive parents who have always provided shelter and resources when I lacked, as well as the societal perk of assimilating, moving through mainstream and white spaces that are more abundant with access to valuable resources. Understanding these privileges doesn鈥檛 invalidate my life experience or make me less. 

For as long as I鈥檇 known her, Shevone鈥檚 life was centered around two things: her two sons and activism. And not the keyboard activism that takes place in the comment section. The real frontline shit鈥攖he dangerous part of the movement that leads to direct interaction with the pigs, getting doxxed, and incarceration. 

When she wasn鈥檛 flying around the country for random protests or injustices that any given Black person faced, she was collaborating with a local Black organization that regularly held protests against their county鈥檚 police force as well as state officials. She鈥檇 been arrested in the four years that I鈥檇 known her.

I have been a staunch believer that Black people should stay as far away from anybody鈥檚 鈥渇ront lines鈥� as humanly possible鈥攎ost especially Black marginalized genders. I believe that the dangers we face on a regular basis, the perpetual fear of murder and incarceration, has put too much strain on our already compromised well-beings. 

This couldn鈥檛 be truer for Shevone, who lives with sickle cell anemia and idiopathic chronic pancreatitis. When she wasn鈥檛 fighting for justice in the streets, she was fighting for her life in the emergency room.

In February 2019, after a series of complications and medical neglect, Shevone was hospitalized and in need of expensive medication along with financial assistance to help cover her bills, as she was immobile to hustle as she normally did. I, along with a collective of other Black marginalized genders, fundraised the money through social media. It was a small action as far as we were concerned, but it was also the kind that helped people like Shevone get the medical treatment and resources she needed, as well as people like me maintain housing.

I鈥檝e never been the kind of person who references the acts of kindness I鈥檝e done for someone else. However, when scrolling through my Facebook feed and seeing a video of Shevone screaming through a bullhorn while marching down the street less than one week after getting discharged from the hospital, I felt some kind of way.

鈥淲as that a throwback video of you protesting in the street?鈥� I intentionally Facetimed instead of our normal text message mode, knowing it would throw her off.

鈥淵eah.鈥� She sighed. She went on to explain the situation that led to the protest.

鈥淒o you feel like being there for those people, for that situation that鈥檚 going to exist whether you鈥檙e dead or alive was more important than your health?鈥� 

As I look back, a small flash of guilt comes over me for being so harsh with my friend. But, also, the memories of praying for her life at my altar touch me too.

Years later, the two of us stood in the water, face-to-face with a fear Shevone didn鈥檛 even know she had.

鈥淲e could just … stand here and let the water splash on our legs!鈥� I suggested. 

When somebody forewarns that they鈥檒l resort to bodily harm, I believe them. I was still determined for Shevone to experience a proper dip in the Atlantic, but I knew not to push too hard.

We stood there in silence. I figured Shevone was still contemplating if she was going to punch me. But then, her vibe shifted from raw fear. Her chin quivered, and the puddles in her eyes grew. The gentle splashes of warm water against her bare skin sent her over the edge.

鈥淵ou know what? Let鈥檚 not even focus on the step part!鈥� I encouraged. 鈥淟et鈥檚 just breathe, girl!鈥�

A gasp of air passed through her mouth, and her shoulders collapsed. I considered walking her back to our beach blanket and calling it a day. Water therapy does wonders for a stressed body, but nothing is therapeutic about being scared to death. I was still debating, and Shevone was still quivering, when two small brown children splashed their way between us. They couldn鈥檛 have been older than 6 or 7. The same waves that splashed against our knees delighted the kids as it practically swallowed them.

鈥淪ee.鈥� I grinned, pointing at the children. 鈥淔un! Swimming is fun. I promise!鈥� 

It would take another 10 minutes of 鈥渁 breath and a step,鈥� but eventually, Shevone was waist-deep in the water. And then, breast-deep. Each time she got a little deeper, it was as if she had amazed herself.

鈥淚 feel like I could float if I wanted to,鈥� she said, bobbing up and down, taking huge gasps of breath before plunging her body to the ocean floor. Soon enough, she was wading around, her head barely poking above the water. 

For hours, we jumped. Swayed. Floated. Splashed. Exhaled. We laughed at nothing at all. We surrendered to the current, allowing us to do the one thing that was too dangerous to do on dry land: Let go. 

Hours later, over mojitos and Cuban food, we reflected on how necessary it was to exist in moments not reliant on our sacrifice. We didn鈥檛 have to campaign to have a good time; we could go and have one. Like me, Shevone had been programmed to believe that joy, rest, and adventure had to be 鈥渆arned.鈥� 

Societal and cultural standards expect us to appear as Mammies, mules, and fixers. These tropes have such a significant impact on the lives we live that we inhabit their characteristics without even realizing it. By enjoying nature, air, and life, we鈥檙e resisting in the most radical way possible.

As the mojitos kicked in and our coils bounced back, Shevone opened up about the stress she鈥檇 been carrying from intense community organizing. The never-ending conflicts from a male-led organization constantly challenged her boundaries, skills, and needs.

I told her there was more than one way to pursue liberation and that it should never involve us showing up as a sacrifice. I also reminded her about how many Black marginalized genders have died giving to movements that have yet to protect or even respect them. Marsha Johnson. Erica Garner. Venida Browder. Sandra Bland. Korryn Gaines. Oluwatoyin Salau. To their last breath, each one of them sacrificed all they had for a movement that cost them their life. 

I didn鈥檛 want that for Shevone or anyone. I don鈥檛 need bloodshed to be free.

鈥淭he thing is that I don鈥檛 have a lot of time left,鈥� Shevone responded. 鈥淚t鈥檚 important that I do as much work toward my mission as possible to continue to create change, even when I鈥檓 not here.鈥�

鈥淲hat is your mission?鈥� I asked.

鈥淚 want to open up a space called Imperfect Village that provides resources and aids in building community by collecting its fractured parts.鈥� She started perking up, and her eyes widened as she spoke. She had so many ideas for Imperfect Village, so many resources she was ready to organize and provide for her community.

For the remainder of Shevone鈥檚 stay, we had a really good time. I showed her around Miami, specifically Little Havana. We did some light shopping and sightseeing, but most of our time was spent at the one place where she wanted to be: the beach.

Part 2: I Made a Way

by Shevone Torres

I鈥檓 not one who got into activism because it was cool. I fight for my rights. Literally, it鈥檚 something I鈥檝e had to do my entire life as a Black woman, so there鈥檚 nothing new or strange about doing it now regularly.

Activism is essential to me because there are so many racist, ableist, queer-hating systems of oppression that need to be dismantled, and we don鈥檛 all have the capacity to stand up against them. I鈥檓 one of the people with the capacity, so I rarely stay seated.

Before I got to Casa de Tami, I knew the problems I had with leadership at the organization I was a member of were severe, but I didn鈥檛 want to admit how bad it was. A lot of infighting, patriarchal bullshit, and toxic dynamics made it hard to focus on the work and center liberation. How can we get liberated if we鈥檙e constantly coming at each other?

I know how serious Tami is about self-care and mindfulness, so I was ready for meditation and hydration. I needed it, so it was welcome. But I wasn鈥檛 expecting to have my comfort level pushed the way it was at the beach. I said I was interested in the ocean but didn鈥檛 realize how uninterested I thought I was until the plane started flying over Florida and I saw all that blue water. No thank you was my first thought. It looked pretty, but that鈥檚 because you can鈥檛 see the sharks and undercurrent.

Looking at that body of water reminded me of when I was a kid and went swimming with friends and family. At one point, I almost drowned. Thankfully, there was someone around who could swim, and they saved me. I must have buried that memory deep in the back of my mind because I didn鈥檛 remember it until I was on that plane.

By the time we reached the beach, I was in full PTSD mode from that near-drowning. I love Tam to death, but I was serious when I said I wasn鈥檛 taking another step. It wasn鈥檛 until those kids started splashing around and Tam said, 鈥淐ome on, let鈥檚 live!鈥� that I realized something. 

I get emotional admitting this, but I鈥檇 been so consumed with death that living was just happening before death for most of my life. When you鈥檝e got a severe and life-threatening illness, you are not thinking about where you鈥檙e going to be when you鈥檙e 80; you get to work on what you want from life right now. 

When I finally let go and went into the deep part of the ocean, I let go of all those fears and thoughts of death. I was alive, and I was well. The high I got from being in that water was unlike anything I had ever hit off a blunt. My body felt healthy too!

I鈥檝e always had someone push me into leading something, taking over something. I never really had anyone push me to do something fun for me. It was such a thrill. 

When I returned to Jersey, I could only think about the beach. I started Googling all these different cities and countries with amazing beaches鈥攖he Caribbean, Mexico, Central America. I wanted more of that experience. The thought of going somewhere exotic and tropical excited me for a while, but life got in the way. I went back to protesting and organizing and the same old routine. 

But then, about three months after I returned home, something changed. There was a conflict in the organization I was a part of. It wasn鈥檛 even a big deal, but it was something that proved to me that their objective and mine had become totally different. So when somebody asked me to do something, I said, 鈥淣ah, I鈥檓 out.鈥� 

Just like that! I didn鈥檛 even feel sorry about it. I felt like, seeing as I don鈥檛 know how much time I have left, I can鈥檛 be playing around in spaces that take up time but don鈥檛 offer any real change. I need to be a part of communities serious about caring for each other. I realize now that my time and my spirit are best served in spaces where I am offering direct care and support to my people. 

I will always be Shevone, an activist. But I will also be Shevone, the human. I understand now that my activism can change and expand over the years and shouldn鈥檛 come at the expense of my happiness or livelihood.

That鈥檚 what inspired me to get Imperfect Village Org finally started. I finally did it鈥擨 am the proud founder and president of a nonprofit that provides for the community everything from holiday meals to book bags and school supplies. 

I also work as a drug outreach volunteer helping people who struggle with substance abuse. It鈥檚 not easy, and even when I can help someone off the brink of death, I still worry about them and hope they鈥檒l be OK. But, at least in that moment, I鈥檓 there for them, and it鈥檚 help that I know they need, whether they want to take it or not.

Since I鈥檝e taken a big step back from frontline activism, my health has stabilized. I haven鈥檛 been in the hospital in almost a year, and for the most part, I feel healthy. Of course, my illnesses aren鈥檛 curable, but at least, at this point, they鈥檙e managed, which is the most I can ask.

Life still isn鈥檛 easy, but at least I鈥檓 not afraid to live anymore.

This excerpt from  (Simon & Schuster, 2024) appears by permission of the publisher.

The constitution is one of many in a new database created by Beth Redbird (Oglala Lakota and Oklahoma Choctaw), a sociologist at Northwestern University, as part of the. The effort aims to find, preserve, and catalog the documents written by various tribal governments from 1820 on. The database contains constitutions from more than 350 of the now 574 federally recognized tribes, documents that serve as written records of the many ways tribal governments have asserted independence within a colonial system. They also detail how the tribes address problems inherent in governing bodies, like who has rights, what rights might exist for people who are displaced, and the potential rights of natural places.

One of things missing in our history, Redbird says, 鈥渋s access to this whole story of what these are, how they came to be, and how they work to structure modern tribes today.鈥� Whether it鈥檚 engaging in national policymaking or constitution-making, or asserting tribal rights in courts, Redbird says, 鈥淭hese constitutions can and do matter.鈥�

Redbird started the project four years ago when she asked a researcher to search for tribal constitutions so they could analyze the documents. How many were there, and how many survived? had a limited database, and the Library of Congress had a fraction of those passed by federally recognized tribes.

To find more, the team Googled, called up tribal offices, and phoned regional Bureau of Indian Affairs offices. They searched law libraries. They discovered constitutions in appropriations bills from the 1940s and others attached to court cases.  

Redbird employed the expertise of Erin Delaney, a law professor at Northwestern University, to help analyze the documents. The pair got a National Science Foundation grant to code the documents鈥攁 process that allows someone reading documents to search the text鈥攁nd they continued looking. Eventually, the team compiled more than 1,000 constitutions into a database that now includes both originals and updated versions.

The database shows how tribes have reacted to U.S. federal policy over time. It tells a different tribal history than the one told by lawmakers of their time or explained in textbooks. It could also give tribal governments more information about how different tribes have governed themselves; how that resulted in different social outcomes, like access to education or housing; and what that might mean for tribal governance in the future.

鈥淚t鈥檚 the first time that this has been done comprehensively,鈥� says Maggie Blackhawk (Fond du Lac Band Ojibwe), a law professor at New York University and partner of the project through the NYU-Yale Sovereignty Project. 

The tribes in what is now the U.S. wrote constitutions under a variety of circumstances and histories. Some tribes have treaties, some have reservations, and some exist in a state where laws have been applied to them, making each document unique and different.

The bulk of the tribal constitutions in the Tribal Constitutions Project database were passed in response to the Indian Reorganization Act of 1934, often called the Indian New Deal. The purpose of the law is contested; according to some accounts, it was an attempt to decrease federal control of Native peoples and increase self-governance. Others saw the Indian Reorganization Act as a continuation of a typical government policy toward Indigenous people.

The Act鈥檚 passage marks the first time in decades of federal policy that a tribe could have a legal government in the open. That鈥檚 not to say that tribes didn鈥檛 have governments between then and the passage of the Dawes Act in 1887, says Redbird. It just means that Native people didn鈥檛 share them with U.S. government entities for fear of arrest.

Individual tribes voted on whether to adopt the Indian Reorganization Act. If they did, the Secretary of the Interior approved or denied those constitutions and any subsequent amendments.

The Bureau of Indian Affairs created a template for tribes, which should have opened the door to millions of dollars in loans from the federal government. But the government spent $38 million in the 1920s on Native people, and that number had not budged two decades later. At first, it only took a couple of months for the federal government to approve a constitution, but by the end of the decade, it took an average of two years.

鈥淚f you鈥檙e a tribe, and you鈥檙e hoping to do the kinds of things that the government does, like offer assistance to people who are in need, and manage your own land and your own affairs, then two years is a long time to wait,鈥� Redbird says.

The rate of approved constitutions slowed over time, and the ones that were approved were simpler and more standardized. These documents may not have represented the values and interests of tribes wary of the federal government.

Still, the Indian Reorganization Act, according to Blackhawk, 鈥渋s the legal framework that continues to structure the government-to-government relationship between the United States and Native nations today.鈥� In short, she says, 鈥淚t was a very different way of doing colonialism that empowered Native people to form governments and establish a formal relationship with the United States beyond the treaty process.鈥�

Many of the constitutions followed the guidance to include a branch of government called a business council, showing how the Indian Reorganization Act may have been an effort to mold tribes into businesses that cost the federal government less money to administer than tribal states.

There鈥檚 some evidence to suggest that the federal government wanted to turn听tribes into private corporations that could make a profit and go away, Redbird says. She sums up the government stance like this: 鈥淚f we can teach them to work, they鈥檒l become white, because the secret to being white is to engage in capitalism. 鈥ike, the biggest problem of Indians is they haven鈥檛 learned to be selfish yet,鈥� she says.

In 1953, the federal government passed a resolution approving a measure that allowed states to make tribes illegal, essentially terminating them. At that point tribal constitutional amendments dropped off as tribes kept their policies close to their chests, Redbird says. 

Many tribes have since revised their constitutions and continue to do so, particularly those that address current issues like climate change and the rights of non-human relatives, like rivers. This is where the database could prove particularly useful today: providing references, inspiration, and solidarity among tribes to set the course of their own futures. 

鈥淭here鈥檚 lots of pragmatic and hopefully beneficial knowledge to help tribes in their constitutional processes achieve their goals, whatever those goals may be,鈥� Delaney says.

Redbird and her collaborators plan to eventually make the database public and include introductions from the tribes. That way, she says, they could narrate the history of their documents. Though there is inherent risk, considering the tribal and federal government relationship, there is also value, Redbird says.

鈥淭ransparency does a lot for you, even if there鈥檚 not a direct, immediate, obvious benefit to it,鈥� she says. 鈥淭he ability to have civil society depends on the ability of people to see the actions of a government, and that means a government both at the tribal level and a state and national level.鈥�

For Murphy, starting her gender transition helped her focus on her education as she developed her career鈥攂ut she faced near-impossible barriers at every turn. She started her transition while incarcerated with the Colorado Department of Corrections (CDOC), which repeatedly denied her gender-affirming care. She had to make multiple appeals before she could access hormone replacement therapy, she recalls, and she experienced severe depression because she was unable to treat her gender dysphoria. Even a recommendation by a CDOC psychiatrist wasn鈥檛 enough to qualify her for surgery. 

Her safety was also compromised, she told The 19th. Murphy was denied transfer to a women鈥檚 prison, she said, and constantly harassed and misgendered by staff and inmates while housed in men鈥檚 facilities. She endured sexual advances from other inmates and was punished through solitary confinement for speaking out when faced with threats against her life. Survival was exhausting. 

鈥淎t one point for me, if I wasn鈥檛 at my job assignment, I didn鈥檛 really come out of my room a lot,鈥� Murphy said. 鈥淚 just wanted to stay away from the drama and any type of attempt to try to victimize me.鈥� 

Murphy is one of hundreds of transgender women with similar experiences in the state. Her story is included in filed in 2019 by the law firm King & Greisen, LLP and the Transgender Law Center. According to the lawsuit, these women were frequently subjected to sexual and physical violence, and their requests for medical care were routinely ignored, in violation of the state constitution and Colorado Anti-Discrimination Act. 

This March, that suit resulted in a groundbreaking that requires Colorado to overhaul how it houses incarcerated transgender women and provides medical care to all trans people behind bars. Now, Colorado鈥檚 prison system must provide the same gender-affirming health care covered by state Medicaid, and trans women must have the option to be housed with other women.

While other settlements may mandate specific changes without any input from the government agency involved, in this case lawyers worked with Colorado officials to outline a legally binding agreement. Experts hope it will serve as a model for comprehensive change for other states. Transgender women across the country face life-threatening circumstances behind bars鈥攁nd the majority of them are forced to live with men. 

The roots of the case trace back to 2018 when a Black trans woman named Lindsay Saunders-Velez after she was . She later worked with attorney Paula Greisen and the Transgender Law Center to file her case. During the legal team鈥檚 investigation into Saunders-Velez鈥檚 experiences, the attorneys learned that many others in Colorado shared similar problems.

鈥淲e started going to the prisons to meet witnesses and we were shocked at that time to learn that there were about 150 women living in men鈥檚 facilities,鈥� said Greisen, who is now a partner with Greisen Medlock, LLC, a civil rights and employment law firm. Over time, that number more than doubled to about 350 women, resulting in that Greisen鈥檚 previous firm filed in November 2019 against Colorado鈥檚 governor and the state鈥檚 corrections department, in which Murphy is named as a plaintiff. 

Saunders-Velez鈥檚 own case was settled in July of that year for $170,000. It did not allow her to transfer to a women鈥檚 facility, which she preferred, but she was allowed to serve the rest of her sentence in the men鈥檚 facility where she felt the safest. It also did not require broader changes to the state鈥檚 treatment of incarcerated transgender people. 

The new consent decree, however, mandates systemic changes aimed at addressing trans women鈥檚 health and safety needs. These must be implemented in full by January 2025, although it allows for some flexibility if the Colorado Department of Corrections experiences staffing or budget shortages. 

This agreement is unique because of the ways it addresses housing and care for incarcerated trans women.

Since 2003, the federal Prison Rape Elimination Act (PREA) has required that transgender, nonbinary, and intersex people be assessed on an individual, case-by-case basis to determine the appropriate housing for them. But the ambiguity of the law鈥檚 language gives corrections departments broad discretion to make housing assignments for transgender people. Many prisons require trans people to undergo gender-affirming surgery before they can be placed in a facility that aligns with their identity, yet accessing gender-affirming care within prison at all is often impossible or involves long wait times. 

The World Professional Association for Transgender Health (WPATH) publishes internationally recognized for transgender and gender-diverse people. Frequently, however, prison facilities, including those in Colorado, deny trans people鈥檚 requests for care and housing that aligns with their gender identity.

To address these concerns, the CDOC has agreed to house transgender women in one of three areas, including two new units, depending on what the person wants. These can include living in the general population at one of the state鈥檚 women鈥檚 facilities or the integration unit at the Denver Women鈥檚 Correctional Facility, which would help an incarcerated trans woman adapt before moving into the women鈥檚 general population. Another option is living in the voluntary transgender unit at the men鈥檚 Sterling Correctional Facility, the largest prison in the state鈥檚 system. 

Julie Abbate, a lawyer and advocate, said it is clear that a lot of thought and attention to detail was put into the Colorado agreement. 鈥淭his consent decree seems to have drawn on lessons learned in the field that if you just throw a bunch of people who have lived in a facility designated for men into a facility for women鈥攚ithout any kind of transition period or warning鈥攖hen it can really be an awful situation,鈥� she said. Abbate worked for 15 years in the civil rights division of the Department of Justice and is now the national advocacy director for Just Detention International.

Shawn Meerkamper, managing attorney at Transgender Law Center, who worked closely on the Colorado lawsuit, said that the housing options laid out in the consent decree should help both transgender and cisgender incarcerated people adjust to new living situations. The integration unit is meant to be a temporary place to ease the transition for everyone involved, they said鈥攚hile the voluntary unit is meant for trans women who don鈥檛 want to leave the only prison system that they know and have experience navigating. 

Having so many options for transgender women is unique, and is a significant achievement for state advocates, said A.D. Lewis, attorney and project manager for Trans Beyond Bars at the nonprofit Prison Law Office. Although PREA requires prison officials to ask transgender people how they want to be housed, none of his clients have ever been asked, he said. 

鈥淚n the vast majority of prison systems, they will be housed by the external appearance of their genitals at the time of booking,鈥� he said. Some trans women are placed into women鈥檚 facilities based simply on that criteria, while others are placed into solitary confinement or isolated from the general population鈥攐ften because they are such a target for violence. 

The Colorado consent decree outlines a process for making housing placement requests for transgender inmates and it sets deadlines for when the CDOC must respond. Any of the placement requests that are denied for the integration unit, voluntary transgender unit or women鈥檚 general population must be reviewed every six months. 

The agreement also directs the CDOC to update its clinical standards for medical care and to work with an independent medical and mental health consultant to provide training for staff. It allows for flexibility depending on the type of medical care an incarcerated trans woman may want, Abbate said.

The policy provisions of the consent decree apply to 鈥減ersons who have been, are, or will be incarcerated in the CDOC and who have, at any time, identified themselves to CDOC during their incarceration as transgender women,鈥� according to the consent decree.

These changes will make transgender women behind bars safer, experts told The 19th鈥攚hich is sorely needed, as the problems in Colorado are part of a pattern throughout the country. D Dangaran, director of gender justice at Rights Behind Bars, a nonprofit legal advocacy organization, takes on legal cases for incarcerated transgender people who are being denied gender-affirming care and other needs. Trans people behind bars are misgendered, deadnamed, forced to endure strip searches, they said鈥攁nd these everyday violations of bodily autonomy are torturous. 

鈥淰iolence occurs behind bars on a daily basis for all trans people, especially trans femme people,鈥� they said. 

Transgender people behind bars鈥攑articularly women housed with cisgender men鈥攅xperience a of sexual violence, harassment, and assault in prisons. It is still rare for transgender women to be housed in women鈥檚 facilities, Dangaran said.

Researchers are in the early stages of understanding the outcomes of policies that aim to support incarcerated transgender people, since there are so few examples of inclusive policies to learn from, said Elana Redfield, federal policy director at the Williams Institute at the UCLA School of Law. 鈥淭here鈥檚 a huge need for more information,鈥� she said. 鈥淥n their experiences and particularly what policy changes actually make a real, concrete, measurable improvement for them.鈥� 

In California, such an experiment is currently underway. In 2020, the state that requires transgender women to be placed in a women鈥檚 facility if they ask to be. The law went into effect in 2021. Yet Lewis, who works closely with trans clients in California, said that in the three years since then, only 44 people have been approved for transfer out of hundreds who have requested it. There is a huge backlog of requests and no formal administrative policy on how the state鈥檚 corrections department should address it. 

鈥淚 think it would take over a decade for them to house the rest of the people that have requested to be reviewed for housing in a women鈥檚 facility. That鈥檚 just trans women,鈥� Lewis said. 鈥淪o we鈥檙e talking about pretty significant delays.鈥� 

Frequently, prison facilities only change their policies on housing or gender-affirming care if a lawsuit forces their hand, Dangaran said. 

Donna Langan federal prisoner to receive gender-affirming surgery in December 2022 after she sued the U.S. Bureau of Prisons, according to her lawyers. In June 2022, Cristina Nichole Iglesias to receive gender-affirming surgery while in federal prison. She received her treatment in 2023. 

Even with a court win, implementation can be slow or further enforcement may be required.

Ashley Diamond after she was held in men鈥檚 prisons, where she reported being sexually assaulted multiple times and denied hormone treatments. In 2016 she won an undisclosed settlement, which prompted policy changes in Georgia. Diamond in 2023 because the state failed to provide her adequate health care or protect her from sexual assault after a second incarceration, according to her complaint. Ultimately, Diamond withdrew her second lawsuit, citing mental health reasons.

As for Murphy, she never got gender-affirming surgery while in prison. She was released in May 2020 and was able to get the surgery last year鈥攕ince it was covered by Colorado Medicaid, she didn鈥檛 have to pay out of pocket for the expensive procedure.

The settlement reached alongside the consent decree also requires the state prison system to pay over $2 million in damages to members in the class action suit, which Murphy sees as an acknowledgment that the state did something wrong, she said. The policies brought by the consent decree are going to make 鈥渟ome monumental and systematic changes in the system,鈥� Murphy said. 鈥淚 feel like it will be a catalyst for the rest of the country. A blueprint.鈥�

Consent decrees, while legally binding, must also be monitored for enforcement. The limited data collection inside prisons can make the process of determining outcomes for transgender people a challenge, Abbate said. Surveying the affected women about their experiences is one important way to understand the effectiveness of a particular change, she said.

And in the Colorado case, if the state prison system falls out of compliance with the consent decree, they can be taken to court again. The Transgender Law Center will stay in touch with plaintiffs as well as with the outside experts who will help implement the new policies, in order to make sure the state is following through on its obligations. 

These changes will show other courts what is required for incarcerated trans people to be safe, even if it鈥檚 not binding precedent in other states. The policy changes mandated by the Colorado consent decree are groundbreaking in their breadth, Dangaran said鈥攁nd hopefully, those changes will play out more effectively than in California.

鈥淚f it鈥檚 what the people in Colorado really wanted and needed, that itself is going to create an impact that will have ripple effects鈥攁nd that is a carceral intervention that could lead to a lot of good,鈥� they said. 鈥淥r we could find after five years of this that it didn鈥檛.鈥� 

This story was originally published by .

When we on April 26, 2024, I had no idea that leading a Gaza solidarity encampment would be the most impactful learning experience of my college career. Some of us were concerned about the risks of creating an encampment and potential consequences, including police violence, arrest, expulsion, and the possibility that we would not have enough people to execute the plan. We all knew that to make meaningful change we have to take risks, but as a small school we were concerned we didn鈥檛 have the numbers. The biggest risk of radical action is that you will be alone. The police and politicians try to isolate those who oppose war.听

Over the past months, American leaders have referred to principled students as outside agitators or in order to discredit our movement for the safety and dignity of all people. In our fear we almost called the encampment off, but we were reminded of advice from our fellow students leading encampments across the country. Understanding the power of the invitation, they told us: Build it and people will come.

And they were right. We began with two tents. Then there were 10. Then 25. Suddenly I was surrounded by people discussing books from the encampment library and sharing food, family histories, and visions of a freer world. We made decisions and led the encampment as a community, guided by a shared commitment to embodying the social justice values we learned in the classroom. Because the student movement for Gaza reimagines political movements as communities, we invited everyone鈥攕tudents, faculty, community members, and our board of trustees鈥攖o join our encampment as a welcoming space to learn, envision, and build a new world together. As our encampment grew, professors taught classes there and community members outside the college answered our invitation.

I was deeply moved by the number of people who joined the encampment, especially one couple who drove two hours to offer support. As they nervously approached, carrying homemade banana bread, an extra sleeping bag, and a Palestinian flag, we welcomed them and introduced ourselves, explaining why being in solidarity with Gaza matters to us. By then the two looked less nervous鈥攎ore tired than anything. 鈥淲e came here today,鈥� they told us, 鈥渂ecause there is nothing left for us to do. Yesterday, my sister鈥檚 child was killed in an airstrike on Rafah. He was 17 years old. It鈥檚 done. But we came to support you because as students at American universities, there鈥檚 something you can do.鈥�

Supporting Palestinian freedom is especially important to me as a Jewish American. A year ago I traveled to the occupied West Bank and saw the violence of Israel鈥檚 occupation firsthand. I witnessed the suffering at military checkpoints, in tear-gassed refugee camps, and in Palestinian families鈥� daily confrontation with settler violence. 

Afterward, I returned home to my safe, comfortable life, but I was fundamentally changed. I was transformed by the people I met in Palestine who, despite generations of suffering, violence, and oppression, imagine a world in which they are free. It is a privilege to join my Palestinian peers鈥� vision of a world that values the rights, humanity, and dreams of all people. As members of powerful political and academic institutions, we have leverage to end Palestinian suffering and invest in peace.

The encampments, as an emergency response to conditions in Gaza, are a powerful tool for negotiating divestment from Israel, but they are only one tactic in a much broader movement for collective Palestinian freedom. In response to the encampment, the .听

With the support of our Palestinian classmates, another Jewish student and I led negotiations with our board of trustees chair, Don Gould. We positioned these negotiations as an invitation for Pitzer to live up to its social justice values as it did in 1986 when the school . While disclosure is tangible progress in the fight for divestment, until the college severs ties with weapons manufacturers and companies profiting from Israeli apartheid, Pitzer remains complicit in crimes against humanity.听

After the board , we began planning for our graduation ceremony where students and allied faculty showed the president and board of trustees that the world鈥檚 call for Palestinian freedom cannot be ignored. As my classmates and I walked across the graduation stage, we handed our president and board of trustees .听

When students proudly raise the Palestinian flag at protests, at encampments, and during graduation, we do so because so many Palestinians can鈥檛. By raising the Palestinian flag, we force our universities to confront their complicity in Israeli apartheid and the ongoing genocide in Gaza. Every flag handed to our president and trustees was an invitation for Pitzer and all institutions of higher education to practice the social justice values they teach, and to invest in books over bombs.听

While I am so proud of the movement that students across the world have built, I think of Gaza, where there will be no graduations this year because . As flags pile like bodies at the feet of university presidents during our graduation ceremonies, our invitation still stands: Join us by investing in peace and divesting from weapons and apartheid. And, if you are disheartened and disturbed by a world that excuses genocide and apartheid, I invite you to join us in building a more liberated world in which all of us鈥攊ncluding Palestinians鈥攁re free.

For the LGBTQ+ community, they鈥檝e come for so many parts of our lives: our ability to gather safely at gay bars and queer spaces, our ability to perform and enjoy drag shows, our ability to get married or adopt children, and, for transgender people, our ability to access life-changing and life-saving medical care to help us find home in our bodies.

There is an all-out war targeting everything that brings our community joy in the hope of making us feel so beaten down, hopeless, and joyless that we just quit fighting back. This means that laughing, dancing, celebrating, and being joyful are direct acts of resistance.

When we talk about ways to celebrate and have fun even in the face of challenging situations, these aren鈥檛 just coping strategies to get through those moments and protect our mental health鈥攖hey鈥檙e ways to take back our power.

I Love Myself As I Am

For trans folks, self-esteem can be a bit of a minefield. Our bodies can be major sources of dysphoria; our personalities often differ from the norm and can be sources for bullying or harassment; even our basic humanity is often up for debate.

In terms of our physical confidence, medical transition (or lack thereof) can obviously be a make-or-break for some trans folks. I knew I was not really going to be able to feel confident until I had my top surgery because I so strongly hated the way I looked and the way clothes fit my body. Some of that was unavoidable, but there were ways I could style clothes to emphasize or deemphasize the parts of my body I liked more or less.

There is also so much more to self-love than just loving our bodies, and there is so much more to us than just the bodies that carry us through the world. Our personalities, our passions, our creativity, and our brilliance鈥攖here are infinite things to love about ourselves if we know where to look.

Others Love Me As I Am

Being loved by others encapsulates so many layers and so many 鈥渟teps鈥� that come before it. Before someone can love you as they are, they need to see you as you are. I am joyous when I am regularly called 鈥渟ir鈥� or other masculine terms by strangers.

Once someone truly sees you as you are, then they have the ability to love the true you. This means not just a begrudging acceptance or loving someone in spite of their identity, but loving them because of it. There are lots of ways this might show up, and there are so many different types of love. Romantically, many people want to know they are worthy of being loved and that it is possible to have someone fall in love with them.

For a long time, I accepted subpar treatment from people who loved me in spite of my trans identity, largely because I had never seen an example of a trans person being loved in a beautiful and authentic way in real life or in any of the media I was consuming.

When I eventually fell in love with someone who loved all of me for who I was, it was revolutionary. Realizing that I deserved and was capable of love in the same way my cisgender peers were鈥攚hich sounds like it should be obvious but wasn鈥檛鈥攚as incredible.

I Am Not the Only One Like Myself

Positive representation can make a world of difference for someone. Seeing someone else just like us be loved, be funny, be cool, go on adventures, and do whatever else we aspire to helps us realize and remember that it鈥檚 possible for us too.

Community is an extremely powerful armor against loneliness and hopelessness, and there are so many reasons why. Seeing people who are actively going through the same things as us means we have people whom we don鈥檛 need to explain things to and people who can give us advice or insights from their own journeys.

It also shows us that if someone else has and is surviving through what we鈥檙e going through, we can do it too.

I Get to Have Dreams About My Future

Growing up as a young trans kid, I didn鈥檛 have the language to even begin to dream about my future. I had a giant blank spot where my career, wedding, family, travels, and appearance were supposed to be. Because I had seen literally no examples of trans people growing up beyond the age of 22, especially trans men, I didn鈥檛 bother dreaming about my own future. It simply didn鈥檛 feel real.

Then I saw an off-Broadway play that featured a transgender man playing a trans character who had a happy ending, and my mind was blown. I was so excited, and I spent the whole show sitting in my seat planning out everything I was going to say to him after the show.

When he came out from backstage after the show, I was all ready to give him my spiel. I took one look at him, opened my mouth, and just started sobbing. I couldn鈥檛 get a word out, but he saw me and came right up to me and started crying too. He pulled me in, and we just stood there crying in each other鈥檚 arms, not saying a word but understanding everything we needed to know about each other.

After a few minutes, he stepped back and said, 鈥淭his is it. This is why representation matters.鈥� And he told me the story of how the exact same thing happened to him the first time he saw a transgender person on stage, 20 years before, and the difference that made for him. That moment opened so much for me in how I could imagine myself growing up, growing old, finding love, succeeding, finding joy. That moment is largely what inspired me to become the speaker and advocate I am today.

I Can Experience Ease and Pleasure in My Life

The underlying sentiment behind this type of joy is just having the reminder that not everything is going to be a fight, and that the fights we are in now will not go on forever. It will not always be this hard to access health care, pick out clothes at the store, or find somewhere to work or live.

I Am Taken Care of, and I Can Take Care of Others

This type of joy comes from being actively involved in the love that flows through a community, on both the giving and receiving ends. It鈥檚 crucial to find a balance here: No one wants to feel like a burden, nor do they want to feel like they spend all their time taking care of others.

This doesn鈥檛 mean you need to quantify how much care you鈥檙e doing and make sure you鈥檙e hitting net neutral at the end of the month, nor does it mean you need to make sure that the type of care you receive is the same as the type of care you give. It simply means knowing that where possible, you can ask for what you need and know that others can ask you for support in return.

I love to cook for people. One of my favorite ways to take care of people is to feed them good food that鈥檚 perfectly aligned to their palates. Cooking for a huge dinner party or making portions and dropping them off at friends鈥� houses can be a grounding ritual for me that helps me decompress after a long day or big event.听

I don鈥檛 need these friends to cook for me in return (and between you and me, I don鈥檛 really want some of them to cook for me, if you catch my drift). The type of care I often need is time where I can turn my brain off鈥攓uality time where I can forget about everything bothering me or scaring me or making me angry and just play a board game or lose at Mario Kart.

I Can Give Love to My Inner Child

There is a knowledge among queer people that aging and time work a little differently for us, for a variety of reasons. Many formative young-person experiences are not ones that we have access to. Whether it鈥檚 because we were consciously excluded, were too uncomfortable or dysphoric to join, or were told we have to grow up and be very mature to advocate for ourselves, we feel the impact of losing 鈥渘ormal鈥� childhood experiences in many unique ways.

On a factual level, I didn鈥檛 grow up as a little boy. My parents didn鈥檛 have an extremely gendered parenting style, and it鈥檚 not like I couldn鈥檛 have access to 鈥渓ittle boy鈥� things if I asked for them at home, but at school the teachers and other students all followed a preexisting social order that I fit myself into. 

Part of the order I fit into involved things I liked (playing with Webkinz at recess was a delight until I hit fourth grade) and other things I resisted (princess dress-up parties, makeup, talking about boys), but each thing that I resisted or that fell outside of the order was an exception, not the rule. For trans women, this type of exclusion often shows up as having missed out on the formative and quintessential experience of a girls鈥� slumber party.

In my teenage years, after I came out, I continued to miss out on things. Dating as an LGBTQ+ person in a small town meant the pool was extremely limited, and I received no education on what a healthy relationship looked like, so in college, I made dating choices that more closely resembled those of an irresponsible teenager because I hadn鈥檛 had the chance to be an irresponsible teenager and learn the lessons that come along with those mistakes.

I also avoided anything that might resemble youthful rebellion because I was focused on being as acceptable as possible. My job was to become perfectly patient and a perfect educator, which meant that I entered my adult life with very few boundaries. As I say in therapy, I was a bit of a doormat.

Another unexpected way this shows up is through learning household tasks. The division of household labor is often very gendered, and many trans folks get to adulthood not knowing anything about cooking, or cleaning, or home repair. Though I鈥檓 an advocate for everyone being well-rounded and competent rather than encouraging you to just teach them 鈥渢heir new role,鈥� it can still be joyful to make specific time to teach them skills they might have previously missed out on that they鈥檙e excited about.

Use these tips as starter ideas to help you develop your own joy practices. Remember too that joy exercises must fit into a larger allyship strategy to make a meaningful impact; both are pieces of an overall strategy to make sure the trans people in your life, particularly trans children, feel seen, supported, and loved exactly as they are.

This excerpt from appears by permission of the publisher.

For far too long, we have followed the policy guidance of unfettered capitalism鈥攁n economics devoted to growing the fortunes of billionaires without regard for the consequences for the living Earth and most of Earth鈥檚 inhabitants. Focused on maximizing individual financial return, contemporary economics is more accurately known as ego-nomics. Featuring the Latin word for 鈥淚,鈥� the teaching of ego-nomics is best confined to history courses reviewing the devastating consequences of the human embrace of this flawed theory as settled science.

Finding our way to a viable human future will require the guidance of . 鈥淓co鈥� comes from the Greek oikos, meaning household. Grounded in biology and ecology rather than finance, the new eco-nomics will guide us to an ecological civilization devoted to caring for the living Earth鈥檚 household and all its living beings.

Of course, navigating the essential transition to an ecological civilization presents daunting challenges. There will be no winners on a dead Earth. Consequently, we have a shared interest in joining in common cause to create the alternative future now within our means.

The environmental and social failures of modern society highlight two foundational self-evident truths that conventional ego-nomics ignores. First, Earth is our common home and the source of our existence and well-being. Second, money has no meaning or utility beyond the human mind. Indeed, most modern money is only invisible electronic traces stored on computer memory chips.

Ignoring these truths, ego-nomics has guided us to a world that confines the vast majority of the planet鈥檚 people to servitude to the already rich, whose defining purpose is growing their personal financial assets. The resulting growth in inequality is beyond obscene.

In January 2023, the that the financial assets of the world鈥檚 super-rich were growing by $2.7 billion a day. The average billionaire was gaining roughly $1.7 million in new financial assets for every $1 in pay received by a person in the bottom 90%.

Earth is distinctive among the planets we have so far observed in its ability to sustain life. And we humans are distinctive among Earth鈥檚 beings in our ability to choose and create our future together. This gives us special privileges鈥攁nd special essential responsibilities consistent with what science now identifies as our distinctive human nature. As science affirms, mentally healthy .

We also now know that a small minority of people, deprived of proper care in their earliest years, find pleasure in demonstrating their power over others by inflicting harm. They suffer from a grandiose sense of superiority and self-entitlement known as . Such individuals have a .

The flawed and selfish promises of ego-nomics promoted by these individuals have so misled us that we have allowed money to replace mutual care in mediating our relationships with other people and the living Earth. This love for money now so dominates our consciousness that we have come to idolize financial predators.

The challenge of our time is to fulfill our true and largely unrealized human potential by learning to live as beloved communities rooted in mutual caring and service to one another, and to the natural and human commons consistent with our true nature.

The new eco-nomics calls us to:

1. Replace GDP with valid indicators of beneficial economic performance.
2. Confront and dispel the illusion that money is wealth and that growing money benefits us all.
3. Embrace biology and ecology as the disciplines most foundational to eco-nomics for an ecological civilization.

We currently debate a choice between socialism (an economy ruled by politicians and public officials) and capitalism (an economy ruled by private financiers). Many of us are fearful of the potential melding of the two into fascism.

Yet we rarely mention the people-power alternative, rooted in democratically self-managed communities and markets foundational to an ecological civilization. Realizing this alternative will require that financial assets are equitably distributed to assure that re颅sponsibilities for making significant decisions are truly shared. Predatory, monopolistic, profit-maximizing corporations will need to be converted into worker/community cooperatives responsible for serving the needs of all their stakeholders.

We need to minimize reliance on money as a substitute for caring relationships. The private banking system that currently operates beyond accountability to national governments and interests must be replaced by a global system of community banks cooperatively owned and operated by the communities in which they do business.

We are not dealing with a broken system in need of repair. We are dealing with a failed system in need of replacement. We will achieve this transformation to an ecological civilization only through a people-powered meta-movement in which the world鈥檚 people come together, guided by a valid eco-nomics, in a unifying commitment to creating a world that works for all life on Earth.

De La Cruz, a health educator with Planned Parenthood of Orange and San Bernardino Counties, is here to lead a workshop for between 10 and 20 incarcerated youths, a majority of whom are of color. De La Cruz will guide them in lessons about anatomy and pregnancy, birth control and sexually transmitted infections. He also explores healthy relationships and the pitfalls of toxic masculinity.

But the fun really begins when De La Cruz pulls the condom out of his pocket. As to be expected, all eyes are on him.

鈥淭hey鈥檙e like, 鈥榃ow, are you going to open it?鈥欌�� he says. The answer is yes 鈥� after he asks a few questions.

鈥淚 start off with asking them what the first step is,鈥� De La Cruz says.

To which they might answer: Get the girl or Buy the condom.

Wrong. The first step, he tells them, is consent.

鈥淐onsent is ongoing,鈥� he says. 鈥淚f at any point a person doesn鈥檛 want to have sex, consent is not given and they will stop. That鈥檚 step number one.鈥�

It鈥檚 common in the ensuing discussion for one of the workshop participants to protest that he is too well-endowed for a condom. De La Cruz is ready for this, stretching the condom a couple feet lengthwise or even inserting his hand up to his wrist to assure the youth that, yes, he most likely can wear a condom.

De La Cruz also encourages them not to rip condoms open with their teeth because they might break them, always check the expiration date, avoid putting it on backward (aim for a sombrero, not a beanie), and of course, make sure that once in place, the condom has some air pockets, like a bag of chips.

These conversations, coupled with the condom demonstration, break barriers and help De La Cruz earn trust. As he sees it, participants are thinking, 鈥�This isn鈥檛 just an old man trying to teach me about math or life choices and how to be responsible. But I am teaching them about life and how to be responsible鈥攂ut in their sexual and reproductive health鈥攁nd in a fun way.鈥�

Respecting participants and inviting them to share their thoughts is key, says De La Cruz: 鈥淭hat鈥檚 what makes them eager to have us back.鈥�

From Birth Control to the 鈥淢an Box鈥�

Planned Parenthood鈥檚 Orange and San Bernardino chapter, which is the second largest Planned Parenthood affiliate in the nation, began these workshops in 2013. They鈥檙e now taught at not only Juvenile Hall but at Theo Lacey Facility, a nearby maximum security jail complex.

Workshops cover healthy relationships, gender and sexuality, and sex trafficking. One session is reserved for what Planned Parenthood calls the Male Involvement Program, which explores 鈥渢he man box,鈥� or limitations on behaviors not considered masculine. Other topics include youth rights and resources, such as a program that provides birth control and STI testing to low-income Californians.

The lessons align with the sex-ed curriculum used in California鈥檚 middle and high schools. But many incarcerated young men missed those classroom lessons due to truancy or incarceration. Their lack of knowledge about sexual health puts them at a lifelong disadvantage. It鈥檚 just one more factor contributing to the poorer health outcomes associated with disadvantaged communities.

The chapter expects to reach about 300 incarcerated male teens and young men by the end of June, with plans to expand to facilities in San Bernardino County. 

How did Planned Parenthood, which is normally associated with women鈥檚 health, find its way into the lives of incarcerated young males?

The idea is that by improving the sexual and reproductive health of young men, the workshops also benefit their female partners, explains Faviola Mercado, community education manager at the Orange and San Bernardino chapter of Planned Parenthood.

鈥淲e鈥檙e increasing the likelihood of men being more open to seeking resources and testing for STIs,鈥� Faviola says. 鈥淚t helps their own sexual reproductive health, and we also know that toxic masculinity traits can be harmful to themselves and to women and children.鈥�

By anecdotal measures, the workshops can lead to changes in thinking, such as when participants conclude that an activity they earlier said was strictly feminine鈥攕ay, cooking鈥攊s fine for men to partake in. The workshop鈥檚 interactive format accounts for these mini-breakthroughs.听

鈥淥ur presentation is less of a teacher telling students what to do [and] more of a conversation, with respect between each other,鈥� health educator Neil Reyes explains. 鈥淲e鈥檙e breaking down ideas of masculinity, learning about reproductive health, and helping partners.鈥�

The Challenge of Changing Mindsets

But the effort certainly comes with obstacles. De La Cruz and Reyes are quick to note that a jail, which operates on traditional notions of masculine power, is not the ideal setting to foster emotional expression.

鈥淭he participants are not in a place where empathy is rewarded,鈥� Reyes says. 鈥淪o it鈥檚 not clear how much the message of men being OK to cry or to show emotions is being put to use where they are.鈥�

Some lessons are also met with resistance. For example, participants often push back on less restrictive definitions of gender and sexuality, though De La Cruz and Reyes hope that by answering questions on these subjects, providing explanations, hearing viewpoints, and calling for respect for all, they can build more tolerance.

鈥淎t the end of the day, I say, 鈥業鈥檓 not trying to say what is right or wrong,鈥欌�� De La Cruz says. 鈥淏ut let鈥檚 talk about it. Let鈥檚 be respectful and have this conversation.鈥�

It鈥檚 difficult to gauge the success of prison programs in changing behavior in the long term. Sometimes the only metric is the rate of re-offending鈥攁 鈥渃rude measure,鈥� says Lois Davis, a senior policy researcher at RAND Corporation with expertise in correctional education.

But the Planned Parenthood workshops at Theo Lacey, the adult facility, will be subject to far more nuanced evaluation since the Lacey participants are enrolled in a special initiative called the Transitional-Age Youth, or TAY sector, for short. TAY sector houses men between the ages of 18 and 25 together and provides classes in areas such as securing employment, navigating addiction and mental health, and preparing for re-entry.

TAY administrators will continue to interview participants up to three years after release鈥攖o ascertain, in part, whether participants adhere to sexual health practices鈥攁nd compare findings to a control group. And while it鈥檚 too early for results, the program鈥檚 co-developer and clinical director, Marie Gillespie, is optimistic about the educators鈥� rapport with the young men.

De La Cruz and Reyes 鈥渁re incredibly approachable,鈥� she says. 鈥淭hey鈥檙e able to connect with these young men perhaps at a level other people haven鈥檛 attempted to connect with them on. It鈥檚 not a peer relation but someone you can see in your shoes saying, 鈥楾hese are essential skills.鈥� That鈥檚 going to resonate more with young adult populations.鈥�

For now, Planned Parenthood鈥檚 health educators are continually refining the workshops based on feedback from participants.

One such moment happened during a workshop that Reyes was conducting. A participant said that while he was raised not to talk about his emotions, he would support his son鈥檚 choice to be more expressive.

鈥淚 absolutely remember that moment and thought it was pretty cool,鈥� Reyes says. 鈥淣ow I know that this person got something from the workshops that he could show the next generation if he has his own son.鈥�

These men had not shown up at to reshape what masculinity in America looks like鈥攁t least, not on the surface. They had come to join the world鈥檚 only sleepaway camp and largest gathering space for adult transgender men. Through recreating a traditional summer camp with activities like archery, hiking, and swimming, the goal is to encourage trans men to take up space and express love for their own masculinity鈥攕omething that does not come easily for many.

Replacing shame with self-love is a key goal at camp, said Rocco Kayiatos, founder and executive director of the , the nonprofit that makes camp happen three times a year. 

鈥淏eing a man is often seen as a terrible thing, particularly if you come from a queer space 鈥� and we internalize that,鈥� Kayiatos said. For transgender men, being able to find happiness and peace through a masculine gender expression often comes alongside an inherent shame associated with being a man, he said, and that shame also comes from others in the LGBTQ community.  

鈥淐ulturally, men are weapons,鈥� he said. 鈥淚 had to go through layers of dismantling my own hatred for men to be able to become a man.鈥�

For three days in May, 150 men explored the breadth of their masculinity when it was celebrated and used as a tool to nurture and to build鈥攏ot to destroy. And it happened effortlessly, because they had been doing it all their lives.听

There is a missed opportunity for cisgender men to learn from transgender men, who often think more deeply鈥攁nd more critically鈥攁bout their maleness and the shame associated with it in ways that break down toxic masculinity, Kayiatos said. Consciously deciding to be a man requires thoughtfulness that can reshape masculinity from the inside out and help dismantle patriarchy, he said.听

The problem, he said, is that transgender men are often invisible, within and outside of the LGBTQ community. To Kayiatos, the core cause of that invisibility is shame. 鈥淚t鈥檚 like swimming in a sea of shame, and shame and fear, which to me are synonymous in some ways,鈥� he said. So replacing that shame with love becomes even more vital鈥攂ut it is exceedingly rare for transgender men to have space to do that communally. 

For Brian Michael Smith, a prominent trans actor and board president of the Intentional Man Project, having such a rare space where trans men can be fully and authentically themselves has the potential to provide liberation beyond the trans community. 

鈥淲e don鈥檛 realize how much we鈥檙e carrying around that isn鈥檛 ours. It鈥檚 programming, it鈥檚 conditioning, it鈥檚 generational trauma, it鈥檚 consumerism, it鈥檚 all this external stuff that we think makes us who we are. And as trans people we have to confront these ideas about ourselves earlier on than most people do. We have to go into that inward truth, because we won鈥檛 survive unless we do that. And cis people can go for a long time, just living in these ideas of themselves,鈥� he said. 

As try to legislate trans people out of existence, Camp Lost Boys brings trans men together in defiance of that, Smith said. At camp, transgender men can make the most of being among such a large community.

They exchange vital information on long-term health during , as well as personal experiences with gender-affirming surgery and different methods of hormone therapy. While the camp does not offer medical advice, it does offer a space where trans men feel safe to ask each other intimate questions about their health at a time when trans people at the and are . 

The camp opened with icebreaker prompts, but soon, old and new friends independently discussed coming out to their families, anxiety over coming to an all-male camp, how to love their bodies through dysphoria, and the joy found in milestone moments like the first time they went to the beach after top surgery. 

The camp gives young trans men the chance to seek advice on aging through gender transition from men in their 50s, 60s, and 70s鈥攁s well as advice on financial well-being, reaching retirement, and self-care. These kinds of in-person, are incredibly rare for trans people and showed the younger men鈥攕ometimes for the first time鈥攚hat their own futures could be like in their 50s and beyond.听

Orion Pevehouse, a 19-year-old college student from Madison, Wisconsin, was relieved to see his own future reflected in the experiences of older trans men. If these trans elders had survived everything up to this moment, including the spread of HIV and AIDS in the 1980s and all the political hostility faced by the LGBTQ community, then he can survive the attacks against queer people going on right now, he said.听

鈥淚 have never seen that many trans guys in one space. To be honest, I haven鈥檛 seen this many trans adults, ever,鈥� he said. 鈥淚 have never seen an old trans person. And it just gives me a lot of hope that 鈥� I鈥檓 gonna live my entire life like this. And that鈥檚 just really exciting.鈥� 

At Camp Lost Boys, Pevehouse sought advice from Jamison Green, a past president of the World Professional Association for Transgender Health, who has written extensively about the lives of trans men. Green, who is 75, is seen within the community as the premier historian of trans men and a changemaker for pivotal advancements in transgender health policy.听

Pevehouse wanted to know how he could become more confident in his identity as he continued his transition. At camp, it was powerful for him to see so many trans men who had already gone on that journey and come out the other side confident in their gender expression. By the last day of camp, Pevehouse was able to stand up with a microphone in front of over 100 other men to share his feelings, without any nerves, about what camp had meant to him.听

He had initially been anxious about coming to camp, he said, since he was going to be around men who had transitioned decades ago. Pevehouse worried about being 鈥渢rans enough鈥� in comparison. But after seeing so many men enjoying life in different stages of their transition, he said he realized that there is no one way to be transgender鈥攁nd that masculinity is not a monolith. There are no tests or criteria for campers to prove their eligibility for camp; if they register, their masculinity is accepted. 

A number of camp attendees live stealth鈥攁s cisgender men in day-to-day life, with no one outside of family or a few close friends aware of their status. Others live in rural towns with no other out transgender people whom they know of, or in coastal cities with plenty of LGBTQ spaces but few that welcome men in the same way as other LGBTQ people. A few campers travel from other countries; trans men flew in from Denmark, Canada, and Mexico.

Camp always takes place from Friday through Monday. On the first night, all campers gather for icebreakers. For Pevehouse and campers much older than him, the simple act of seeing so many generations of trans men standing together was incredibly moving. The intense sense of relief and excitement was palpable.听

Jay Austin, a 68-year-old trans man and board chair for the Transgender Legal Defense and Education Fund, said that witnessing so many powerful young trans men at camp gives him hope for how the future will change for the better for trans people.听

鈥淚 may not get to see the liberation, the transformation of our society, but I鈥檓 hopeful,鈥� Austin said.

Green hopes the young men at Camp Lost Boys will take away from the experience that they have a future, despite the current bleak political environment. What鈥檚 important, he said, is that these young trans men live their lives and find joy, even if that means turning off the news. Trans people cannot be outlawed or erased, he said鈥攏o matter how the 2024 presidential election goes鈥攁nd the community will find new ways to express itself and join together. 

鈥淚f you just let your fears overtake you, where do you go? What happens then? I just hope that young people realize that we鈥檝e all struggled. We all have struggles ahead. We鈥檙e stronger together. And there is a future,鈥� he said. 

For young trans people to picture that future, it鈥檚 necessary for them to understand their past鈥攚hich is a community effort. Many important moments in trans history only live inside individual experiences that must be shared, Green told the entire camp on Saturday night. 

For an hour and a half, he reflected on the major advancements that allowed trans men to access medical care and to find community with each other. The , the first and largest gathering of trans men in the world at that time, was a pivotal moment. Green worked to organize the conference, which he sees as the predecessor to Camp Lost Boys. 

In the camp cafeteria, he asked others to chime in with their own memories. Trans elders and advocates shared stories of pioneering Black trans men like Willmer 鈥淟ittle Axe鈥� Broadnax, a gospel quartet singer active from the 1930s to the 鈥�60s, and Kylar Broadus, founder of the Trans People of Color Coalition.

Jevon Martin, a longtime trans advocate focused on providing services to trans people experiencing homelessness and a lack of gender-affirming care access, shared the stories of some of those pioneering Black trans men that night. He has previously worked to share the stories of Black trans men, including those who experienced the spread of HIV and AIDS in the 1980s and 鈥�90s, he said.

鈥淚 feel like the best way to really know who we are as humans is to ask questions, to tell stories, to learn where we come from, how did we get there?鈥� he said. 鈥淎nd then talk about where is it that we need to go? What is it that we want it to look like?鈥澨�

Martin wants to see more Black trans men coming鈥攁nd consistently returning鈥攖o Camp Lost Boys to join those conversations. The camp offers roughly $60,000 in to cover the cost of registration, as well as sliding-scale costs, but that does not include travel to camp; the cost of travel by plane or car can be prohibitive, especially for trans men of color. Trans and gender-nonconforming people are among the in the country, and face than white trans people.听

On top of those financial barriers, some Black trans men have expressed to Martin that they are nervous to travel to a remote, rural location. He has conversations with them to try and dispel that Black people don鈥檛 go hiking or camping. 

Camp Lost Boys will not be held without at least 35% of trans men of color registered to attend, and at least 15% senior-aged men, Kayiatos said. He will pause registration to bring those demographics off of the waitlist first. Despite those efforts, some campers still cancel last-minute since they cannot afford travel. Being able to sponsor travel would help address those disparities, and Kayiatos has been applying to grants for that purpose. 

For El Baker, a 34-year-old living in Detroit, meeting other Black trans men and other trans men of color in Colorado made him feel comfortable to take up space as a bigger Black man for the first time. He had always tried to make himself physically smaller, even in interactions with his family. But at camp, he said he felt loved鈥攁nd invited to take up space鈥攊n a way he never had before. 

鈥淎ll the reasons I found to step back are reasons to step forward here,鈥� he said, during an emotional closing ceremony. 

For many, Camp Lost Boys is a literal lifeline. Campers have struggled, and continue to struggle, with suicidal ideation and depression. Recent data from the found that 81% of transgender Americans have , and 42% have attempted it. For trans men, the unique isolation that they experience in both LGBTQ and non-LGBTQ spaces often exacerbates the already prevalent rates of suicidal ideation .听

鈥淚 can鈥檛 tell you how many emails I get from people writing to me being like, 鈥業鈥檓 on the waitlist. Can you tell me if there鈥檚 any way I can get in, I鈥檓 going to take my own life,鈥欌�� Kayiatos said. 鈥淚 just let them in.鈥澨�

Kayiatos is acutely aware that there could be other trans men signing up for camp who don鈥檛 tell him that. When he鈥檚 planning Camp Lost Boys, those are the men he鈥檚 thinking about鈥攖he ones who need brotherhood as a matter of life and death, who were completely alone before this experience. 

But at Camp Lost Boys, it鈥檚 hard to feel alone for too long. Through early-morning hikes in Colorado鈥檚 pine-dotted plains and group meditations, through late-night yurt dance parties and group stargazing trips, the retreat is meant to bring men together鈥攁nd closer to themselves鈥攊n a way that will get them to carry that love into their daily lives.

This story was originally published by , and reporting was supported by the .

The school district鈥檚 passage of the (GFR) didn鈥檛 come easy. Parents and teachers demanded a plan to eliminate officer positions in the schools at a board of education meeting in March 2020, but the fundamentals of the resolution date back to from 2019. At that March meeting, a divided board voted down the resolution. George Floyd鈥檚 murder in Minneapolis two months later prompted BOP to mobilize community partners during a week of action, lifting up the voices of Black and Brown youth across Oakland. As a result, the OUSD school board to eliminate police from all Oakland schools, becoming the first in the nation to do so.

Under the GFR, the school district eliminated police officers in Oakland schools, while committing a one-time fund of $1.9 million from the previous school police budget in critical resources. This was in addition to the more than $5 million over three years in funding for services from the Department of Violence Prevention鈥攊ncluding expanded counseling, violence-prevention services, and academic and mental health support鈥攖o help more Black and Brown students feel safe and thrive.听

The resolution was a critical win against systemic racism, over-policing, and the criminalization of Black and Brown youth at a time when people across the country were . In the years leading up to the resolution鈥檚 passage, Black students in Oakland public schools were 76% of those arrested by school police but only 26% of all local students.

Today, the new policy is starting to reverse this racist trend with a in suspensions for physical violence across Oakland鈥檚 public high schools and a substantial decline in police calls since in-person teaching resumed post pandemic. The 2021 OUSD board report compared police calls before and after the new policy and found that 鈥減olice calls to campus have dropped dramatically since the George Floyd Resolution, with 134 calls to campus between August 2021 and April 2022, compared with 1,814 during the same timeframe from 2019-20.鈥�

The report also found that 鈥渨ith no police presence on campuses teachers, admin, and students have been able to exercise healthy alternatives to de-escalate situations with the use of the police-free guidance, problem solve conflict, and start to build meaningful relationships with each other.鈥�

The GFR also led to School Safety Officers being renamed听 鈥淐ulture Keepers鈥� and 鈥淐ulture and Climate Ambassadors.鈥� As per the OUSD board report, 鈥� no longer carry handcuffs or wear police symbolism or logos and instead are tasked with 鈥減romoting school site safety through relationship building, de-escalation techniques, and the use of trauma-informed restorative practices.鈥澨�

However, while this is a victory, data from the California Department of Education, analyzed by Organizing Roots and DSC California shows that while suspension rates for all races are higher than pre-pandemic levels, Black, Native, and Pacific Islander students remain disproportionately impacted. The district clearly needs to do听more work to address the underlying biases and racism in our schools that are causing disproportionate disciplinary action.听听

Oakland set out to bring people together to imagine a better path to safety, security, and Black liberation. It chose a path that has started to reimagine the purpose of schools: supporting all students to learn, thrive, and be safe. The Oakland model provides lessons for school districts across the country to look for ways to advance racial equity and support all young people to succeed.听

In cities across the nation, including Chicago, Madison,听Los Angeles, Denver, and Phoenix, grassroots movements have been exploring or moving forward with similar plans to get police out of schools. This growing movement reflects an understanding that real safety鈥攆or students, teachers, and staff鈥攄oesn鈥檛 come from school police. It comes from having access to support services, trusted adults, and other resources that help all students.听

Research has proven what we know from lived experience鈥攖hat students of color when schools remove police. And police presence in schools has to actually protect students, teachers, and staff from shootings and other threats of external violence. In fact, having police in schools increases violence and crime by criminalizing school-aged children, forcing them out of the school system, and fueling the school-to-prison pipeline.听

The George Floyd Resolution is a manifestation of what the community has always known: We must invest in spaces of creativity, joy, and connection for young people. Our children thrive when we center violence prevention and mental health support, and work alongside the community to co-create learning environments that welcome the whole person.听听

Another important lesson from the fight to win real safety in Oakland schools is that community-led change delivers results. Oakland residents first came together to transform local systems that harm Black youth and families in 2011, soon after the killing of 20-year-old Raheim Brown by OUSD police. Dating back to the 1940s and 1950s, the migration of Southern Black families to Oakland spurred police and schools to join forces in targeting Black youth鈥擝rown鈥檚 killing mobilized the community to stand up and say 鈥淓nough.鈥� It was in the wake of that tragic event that BOP members created the B.O.S.S. Campaign (Bettering Our School System) to focus on the decriminalization of Black youth and removal of all policing in schools.

This history is critical because the George Floyd resolution did not come about because elected officials agreed to far-reaching reforms. It was the result of a movement led by those most impacted for justice based on years of organizing and community leadership. Parents, students, and community members worked together to develop a school safety plan that prioritized the needs of Black students and their families. They showed up at hearings and community events, wrote letters of support, and flooded their social media channels with information and calls to action.  

Our progress in Oakland has shown us what works to transform local systems that punish Black youth and communities of color: Put young people, parents, and community members at the center of the work. Be bold and keep fighting for transformational change and not just incremental, feel-good actions. And claim every single community win. That is what will continue to inspire those who will come after us. That is what will ignite everyday, regular people to realize that we ourselves have the power to shift, change, and transform.

鈥擲cout Oath of the Boy Scouts of America

A Scout is: trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.

鈥擲cout Law of the Boy Scouts of America

I was not athletic or popular in school. I was a nerdy, artistic kid who struggled mightily to fit in with my male peers, especially. I felt I lacked a certain toughness or masculine edge that all the other boys seemed to possess effortlessly. While they played first-person shooter video games with zeal, I sat in the corner and pretended to care. When my parents signed me up for Little League, I passed the time picking dandelions in the outfield.

It was in this environment鈥攐f awkward attempts to join sports or otherwise butch myself up鈥攖hat the Boy Scouts of America (BSA) became my refuge. It was one of the few places where the rules made sense to me, and where my skills were valued. Maybe I鈥檇 never learn how to throw (or catch) a football, but I could create a Pinewood Derby car that took home a trophy every year. And maybe I would never be good at Call of Duty, but I could organize a campout without hesitation. In other words, the Boy Scouts was the place I fit in and knew how to succeed.

What I鈥檝e come to discover by writing this book about LGBTQ people in the BSA is that I鈥檓 far from alone. Nearly every LGBTQ Scouter I鈥檝e interviewed has told me something similar: that in a world of toxic masculinity and homophobia, Scouting鈥攖hough not totally immune to those forces鈥攚as the closest thing they had to a safe haven. This is why it is particularly cruel that antigay policies existed at all, and that they were often obfuscated and not clearly shared with membership: It was entirely possible for queer kids to gravitate toward Scouting鈥攆ind a home there, excel there鈥攐nly to discover after the fact that their identity rendered them an outcast.

This is true of James Dale, the Scouting poster boy turned Supreme Court plaintiff, who learned about the ban on gays only as he was being kicked out for being gay. It鈥檚 true of countless others. And it鈥檚 true for myself: I didn鈥檛 realize that Scouting prohibited gay members until the policy debate blew up in 2012, a year after I earned my Eagle Scout rank, and a couple of years before I would come to accept my own queerness.

The tragedy of this state of affairs did not fully click for me until recently, during a conversation with John Halsey. Halsey has been an active member of the BSA for more than 60 years and has accomplished just about everything you can in the program. He鈥檚 an Eagle Scout, of course, and as an adult volunteer he鈥檚 served as a council president in Boston, not to mention various regional and national leadership roles. His uniform is positively dripping with awards.

The first time I called up Halsey, I was looking to conduct a pretty routine interview for this book. I wanted to know about his experience at the Boy Scouts of America national meeting in May 2013, where he was one of the hundreds of Scouters who voted to end the BSA鈥檚 ban on gay youth.

But before I could start asking my questions, Halsey wanted to make a point: The ban on gay members never should have existed in the first place; voting to end it simply steered the BSA out of a decades-long detour it never should have taken.

Halsey said this as someone who has been involved in Scouting almost his entire life, long before any policy concerning gay members existed. He joined in the 1950s, his youth in the program coinciding with what many see as the golden age of Scouting. Membership was at an all-time high, and it seemed that virtually every boy in America joined the program, at least briefly.

And yet, despite those decades also being a time of rampant homophobia, Halsey says 鈥渟exuality was never a topic in Scouting.鈥� He told me: 鈥淭he fact that somebody might be gay really didn鈥檛 have any bearing on anything. And, frankly, nobody thought anything of it.鈥�

That is, until 1978.

The 1970s were a tough time for the BSA. 鈥淚f the period from roughly 1945 to 1970 was the 鈥榞olden age鈥� of American Scouting, the 1970s was, to a certain extent, its dark age,鈥� writes Chuck Wills, in the BSA鈥檚 .

The membership boom had faded. To stem its losses, Boy Scout executives were trying to retool the program to appeal to a growing number of urban (read: non-white) youth. The BSA had never explicitly endorsed racial discrimination but had historically allowed local troops to keep out Black Scouts if they wanted to. The last racially segregated Boy Scout council (in North Carolina) was not integrated until 1974.

This massive registration drive started in the late 鈥�60s but fell apart by the mid 鈥�70s, when news broke that the BSA was inflating its membership numbers for the sake of federal funds. Reports showed that a council in Chicago claimed a membership of 87,000, when the true number was about 52,000, according to a New York Times article. The BSA鈥檚 chief executive at the time, Alden Barber, owned up to the problem, and was quoted in the Associated Press saying, 鈥淚f we were in the business of covering it up, it could be the Watergate of the Boy Scouts.鈥�

But the BSA was covering something up in those years鈥攁nd it was much more sinister. From almost the inception of the Boy Scouts of America, its leaders knew it had a pedophile problem.

The organization鈥檚 so-called perversion files鈥攁 record of child abusers within the ranks鈥攄ate back to around the time the BSA was founded in 1910. The list was a closely guarded document available only to top BSA executives.

The BSA used these files to systematically identify child abusers, kick them out, and ensure they couldn鈥檛 rejoin a different Scout troop (though plenty of pedophiles slipped through the cracks of the BSA鈥檚 blacklist, allowing hundreds of child molesters to continue in Scouting). The organization鈥檚 leaders, however, typically kept all of this information away from the general public, the police, the media, and sometimes even the parents in the offender鈥檚 troop. So it went for more than 50 years.

In 1978, when the Boy Scouts prohibited gay members in writing for the first time, Halsey watched with skepticism. By this point, he was in his 30s, a businessman who still volunteered heavily with the Scouts. The BSA, on the surface, said its new antigay policy was a response to an incident in Minnesota, in which two teenage boys were kicked out of a Scouting unit for admitting they were gay. The new policy, the Boy Scouts explained, was in the 鈥渂est interests of Scouting,鈥� as homosexuality was not 鈥渁ppropriate鈥� and could not be condoned in the program.听

But Halsey saw the policy as something entirely different. 鈥淭he Boy Scouts鈥攏ot unlike elementary schools, not unlike YMCAs, not unlike youth sports鈥攖ends to be a magnet for people who have a predilection to be involved with young children: pedophiles. And that鈥檚 no secret, everybody realizes鈥攁nd has realized probably for decades鈥攖hat the antenna needs to be up around pedophilia where there are young children. And the Boy Scouts failed in their mission there, and then they looked for a scapegoat,鈥� Halsey says. 鈥淎nd they decided the way to create a scapegoat was to create division within the membership by placing blame on the gay community, which has nothing to do with the problem at all.鈥�

When I first heard Halsey say this, I nearly fell out of my chair. It hit me as a theory I had encountered before, or maybe even arrived at myself. But I couldn鈥檛 place it. I dug through my notes, racked my brain, but couldn鈥檛 find any trace of this idea. Perhaps it simply matched up with a deeply held intuition I had: that, from the very beginning, the BSA knew gay men were not a problem, but decided to villainize them anyway.

I called Halsey again to try to flesh this out, maybe scare up some proof for what I saw as a provocative claim.

He explained his theory to me one more time: The antigay policy in 1978 grew out of a series of management failures at the highest levels of the BSA. The membership cheating scandal was certainly one of them鈥攁nd the only one known to the public at the time. But there was also the compounding failure to stem decades of known child abuse in the organization.

鈥淚t鈥檚 my opinion that a decade-long鈥攐r longer鈥攙ery poor management, failure to address the issue, denying that pedophiles roamed among us, caused an explosive situation,鈥� Halsey said. It could not be kept under the covers for much longer. In the mid-1970s, news broke that a Boy Scout troop in New Orleans was formed for the express purpose of giving its adult leaders access to children whom they sexually abused, causing a PR nightmare for the BSA. And indeed, the BSA would come to face many sex abuse lawsuits in the 1980s. 鈥淪omebody had to be the scapegoat. It couldn鈥檛 be the chief Scout, it couldn鈥檛 be regional directors,鈥� Halsey continued. 鈥淢y opinion is that when the lid was blown off, a clear decision was made to introduce a person鈥檚 sexuality into the equation, and I feel that gay Scouters were targeted as the problem.鈥�

Many, if not most, Americans at the time did indeed conflate homosexuality with pedophilia, and some still do to this day. In 2024, 鈥済roomer鈥� has become the slur of choice for Republican politicians looking to demonize the LGBTQ+ community. So it might seem, on the surface, that the BSA鈥檚 religious, overwhelmingly conservative leaders in the 1970s were genuinely trying to keep pedophiles out by banning gays from the ranks. But the logic didn鈥檛 hold.

When I spoke to Neil Lupton, a Scouting volunteer of roughly the same age and experience as Halsey, he told me about a conversation he had with a friend who was a regional Boy Scout staffer in the late 1970s. It was right after the antigay policy was instituted when women were being admitted to the organization for the first time as adult volunteers. Lupton, in a joking way, posed a question to his friend: If the antigay policy is about keeping out gay men who would naturally be attracted to little boys, wouldn鈥檛 the same logic also prohibit straight women? In other words, should we admit only lesbian women to ensure they won鈥檛 be attracted to the boys? His friend chuckled and said, 鈥淎sking those types of questions is the kind of thing that will prevent you from rising higher in this organization.鈥� The exchange was casual, but it illustrated a truth about the BSA: Pointing out logical inconsistencies was not welcome.

The BSA鈥檚 actions also belied the idea that pedophiles and gay men were one and the same. Though gay men could and did end up in the BSA鈥檚 confidential files alongside child molesters, their files indicated it was their sexual orientation, not crimes against boys, that barred them from the ranks. Indeed, records dating back to the 1920s show that BSA knew exactly who these child abusers were, and鈥攃onsistent with research about the demographics of pedophiles鈥攖hey were usually straight, often married men with families. As Patrick Boyle notes in : 鈥淧edophilia is a sexual preference all its own, independent of one鈥檚 preferences with adults.鈥� The playbook for dealing with these molesters was consistent: remove the offending leader, but protect his identity and his reputation.

This is not quite how the BSA handled known gay men in the organization. 鈥淎vowed homosexuals,鈥� as the organization long called them, were often swiftly kicked out, and when they had the audacity to fight back, they were publicly maligned in the press and the courts. 

So while the general public may have thought pedophiles and homosexuals were one and the same, the BSA seemingly knew the difference, and treated them accordingly. Child abusers, it must be said, were sometimes given more respect and privacy than openly gay men who committed no such crimes.

It is, of course, impossible to know the motives of Scout executives from decades past. Alden Barber, Harvey Price, and Downing Jenks鈥攕ome of the top BSA leaders during the late 1970s鈥攈ave all since died. We can鈥檛 ask them why they instituted the antigay policy, or why they failed to properly address the issue of child sex abuse.

But here鈥檚 what we can say: Experts have known for decades that homosexuality is not linked to pedophilia. In fact, most offenders are heterosexual men who are close relatives of the abused child. The idea that gay men are somehow more likely to abuse children has been thoroughly debunked. Whether the BSA鈥檚 executives knew this in 1978, we may never know, but it doesn鈥檛 seem inconceivable. Their actions鈥攖reating pedophiles and homosexuals somewhat differently鈥攕uggests that they did. Gay men at the time, with little cultural acceptance or power, were a prime scapegoat, even if the BSA knew they weren鈥檛 the problem. And there were certainly others during this period, like John Halsey and Neil Lupton, who did not buy into the myth of gay abusers.

But maybe divining the motivations of these executives is not the point. Because whether by design or by effect, the battle over gay membership served as a 40-year distraction to solving the problem of child sex abuse in the organization. As sex abuse claims rolled in through the 1980s and 1990s鈥攔esulting in large financial settlements鈥攖he BSA spent untold sums of money in court fighting the likes of Tim Curran and James Dale: exemplary Scouters who committed no other sin than being gay.

鈥淔or Scouting, it seemed to be more important to exclude gay Scouts and Scout leaders than it was to fix the pedophile problem,鈥� said journalist Nigel Jaquiss, speaking in James Dale鈥檚 attempt to volunteer as an openly gay man in the program grew into a highly public, eight-year legal battle that ended in the Supreme Court of the United States in 2000. What most people didn鈥檛 know was that in the very same years that the BSA was in court fighting to keep Dale out of the ranks, the Scouts were receiving more than 100 child sex abuse allegations annually.

Indeed, the BSA trailed other youth organizations in their eventual efforts to prevent abuse. The organization did not start requiring criminal background checks for volunteers until 2008, and it wasn鈥檛 until 2018 that those checks became required for all adults, including parents, who chaperone campouts. And while the BSA launched its Youth Protection Training in 1990, it did not start requiring its volunteers to take the training until 2010.

For Halsey, it all comes back to a failure in leadership鈥攖he very thing the Boy Scouts prides itself on teaching its members. 

鈥淚 personally believe, based on my observations and analysis and what I鈥檝e seen, we had a 20-year window where national BSA leadership was so timid and ineffective that they chose to scapegoat a whole community,鈥� Halsey said.

With catastrophic consequences.

Amid mounting sex abuse lawsuits, the BSA filed for bankruptcy in 2020, and by November of that year some 82,000 claims of abuse had been made against the organization, according to The New York Times. The resulting fallout鈥攆inancially and reputationally鈥攃ould threaten the very existence of the Boy Scouts of America.

Adding to these tragedies, the ban on gays heaped on another layer of shame and stigma that incentivized victims of sexual abuse to stay silent, for fear that speaking up could get them (incorrectly) branded as gay, and potentially even kicked out because of it. Not to mention an entire generation of boys and men in the organization who were gay but were irreparably scarred by their experience in, or rejection from, an organization that otherwise could have been a safe haven.

鈥淲e added to a challenging time for these young men. That was unnecessary,鈥� Halsey said. 鈥淭hey had an anchor called Scouting, which helped them weather the challenges of growing up, because there are challenges in growing up. And we鈥檙e talking about sexuality, that鈥檚 obviously one of those challenges, but there are many challenges of growing up, and Scouting has the beauty of being the anchor in the storm. And the sad truth is, we denied a certain group of boys and men, young men, the opportunity to hold on to that anchor.鈥�

This excerpt from听 (Simon & Schuster, 2024) appears by permission of the publisher.听

Ranjana is a vegetable vendor who was deceived into a live-in relationship by her partner who told her in 2019 that he would marry her soon after his divorce was finalized. Five years later, Ranjana has a 2-year-old son, and marriage is nowhere in sight. The partner abandoned her just like he did to three other women he鈥檇 had children with鈥攁nd initially kept Ranjana in the dark about the other relationships. She says he has separated from (but not divorced) one of the women whom he has legally married. 

鈥淪omeone told me about the Mahila Panchayat, and I came here with my plea that he come back to me, marry me, and help me financially maintain my child. I don鈥檛 have anyone I can go back to so I registered my case here,鈥� she says. 

鈥淲hen the Mahila Panchayat talked to my husband and pressured him, he returned home after 13 days,鈥� says Ranjana, who refers to her partner as her husband although they are not legally married. 鈥淗e鈥檚 been home since and gives me spending money also.鈥� Although her 鈥渉usband鈥� might never marry her, the fact that he has returned and provides for her and their child gives Ranjana some relief. 

Ranjana feels a deep sense of support from the women of the Mahila Panchayat. In contrast, her experience reporting her complaint at the local police station felt scary, and she says that she 鈥渉ates鈥� the institution. 

鈥淲hen I was telling them about my husband, the lady constable slapped me and questioned the way I was talking about him,鈥� the 27-year-old recalls tearfully.

Another woman named Reshma, a mother of three, also came to the Mahila Panchayat to discuss her case of acute domestic violence during her 10-year marriage. 鈥淗e first hit me when my eldest daughter was only 6 days old and our marriage was a year in. [The reason for the violence was] because I鈥檇 put extra salt in the khichdi. The violence increased gradually over the last four years.鈥� As she shows the scars on her body, she adds, 鈥淗e creates such a fuss in giving me a basic allowance for me and my children.鈥�

Reshma was convinced to seek help at the Mahila Panchayat by a friend who resolved her case of domestic violence in three hearings. 鈥淚 was severely distressed when Radha saw the scars on my arms and asked me to come for the sunwai [hearing]. I consulted my family, who also encouraged me, and I decided to register my complaint here,鈥� she says. Reshma shares that she did not consider going to the police because she doesn鈥檛 want to destroy her family by getting into a legal dispute. 

Radha, Reshma鈥檚 friend, has a much happier married life now. 鈥淢y husband used to beat me after alcohol abuse and refrained from paying me an allowance, which is why I had to take up the work of house cleaning and earn [money] for my children.鈥� She explains that after she complained to the women of Mahila Panchayat, they summoned her husband and talked to him. 鈥淗e has now quit alcohol, stopped hitting me, and also gives me a monthly allowance. He has now enabled me to quit work too,鈥� says Radha with a big smile. She continues to come to Panchayat meetings because here she gets to learn about other women and gains knowledge on her rights too. Additionally, the women of the council get updates on how her marriage is going.

Aside from Jahangirpuri, there are five other Mahila Panchayat councils run by , a nonprofit organization that works for women鈥檚 empowerment in India. Action India devised the model of a Mahila Panchayat in 1994 when the leadership of the NGO was struck by the vast issue of domestic violence in the neighborhoods of the capital鈥檚 slums. Per Action India, there are currently active women鈥檚 councils in Seemapuri, Sunder Nagri, Dharampura, Jahangirpuri, Welcome (Junta Mazdoor Colony), and Dakshinpuri areas. Of these, Sunder Nagri, Seemapuri, Dakshinpuri, and Jahangirpuri Mahila Panchayats are the oldest.

Action India鈥檚 co-chairperson, Gyanwati, has had an illustrious career spanning four decades working on women鈥檚 rights. She recalls the journey of the women鈥檚 councils: 鈥淲e piloted with building groups of five women each from within the communities for the Mahila Panchayat because there was no space for women to go with their marital conflicts in the city.鈥� She adds, 鈥淭he so-called Panchayats were all led by men where women had no agency.鈥�

Significantly, all the areas where Mahila Panchayats are active are inhabited by large migrant populations from Bihar, Uttar Pradesh, and other parts of the Hindi-speaking belt of the country. Most of the women are from different marginalized religious, caste, and class sects of society, states Gyanwati. As the Mahila Panchayats have progressed, they now have about 25 women in each hierarchy-free council, selected from within the local area based on their leadership abilities, articulation of domestic violence matters, and basic education for writing 鈥淔irst Information Reports鈥� for police, and other documents.

Gyanwati explains that the Mahila Panchayat meetings are carried out meticulously, with careful record keeping of all cases that are registered with them. 鈥淓very Wednesday, we take about two cases per council and sometimes on other days of the week as well, as per the availability of the case victim and her husband. During the meeting, we listen to both parties and then make a fair decision agreed upon by both parties.鈥� She points out that the process is a fair one, saying, 鈥淲e don鈥檛 necessarily side with women in all cases.鈥� 

Manorama Jha, a member of the Jahangirpuri Mahila Panchayat since 2014, moved to Delhi from Bihar鈥檚 Madhubani district in 2006 after she got married. She discovered the council through a friend who is also a member. Since joining the Panchayat, she has felt a sense of comfort in the company of women who discuss their personal matters without judgment or rebuke. 鈥淚 have learned a great deal about women鈥檚 rights. Before, I didn鈥檛 know that household chores are also regarded as work in society. But now I know, and it makes me feel valued,鈥� says Manorama.

She has also helped resolve several conflicts of women and regularly attends council meetings. 鈥淲e attend legal workshops and other rights-based sessions that help us build our understanding of GBV and patriarchal nuances of society,鈥� says Manorama, adding that she has also visited the police station and courts in cases that require a law-based approach. 

On whether her family supports her social justice activities, Manorama shakes her head with a smile, 鈥淚 lie to them when I come for the meetings or when I have to go to the police station. I tell them about it when I come back. They fear that I鈥檒l become too forward if I get to know more about my rights, but that hasn鈥檛 stopped me in the last decade.鈥�

While Action India ushered in the wave of Mahila Panchayats in the mid-1990s, the (DCW), a government initiative, officially adopted the concept in 2002 in collaboration with several privately run NGOs. Currently, DCW is running 64 Mahila Panchayats across the city with 53 NGOs. DCW Member Firdos Khan explains that the commission has 400 Mahila Panchayat members who are in turn connected to 400,000 women from marginalized sections of the city. 

鈥淲e routinely conduct sessions with Delhi State Legal Services Authority to empower these women in their understanding of legal rights to address GBV. We also went a step beyond GBV cases to ensure their children get [school] admissions, older women get pensions [and have access to] awareness programs 鈥� [that help them get] their documents in place to be able to access benefits,鈥� says Firdos. She adds that it鈥檚 not just about filing a case with the police and initiating a 鈥渕ountain of litigation,鈥� but also how to prevent injustices in the first place.

Recently, to equip the Mahila Panchayat coordinators with sensitivity skills to deal with women鈥檚 mental health issues, DCW organized a workshop in collaboration with Mariwala Health Initiative, a funding agency for innovative mental health initiatives. After one such workshop ended, Mahila Panchayat coordinators from different NGOs shared how deeply women鈥檚 mental health is intertwined with their dignity and social standing in society.

Parvati, who works with Sofia Educational and Welfare Society and is a Mahila Panchayat coordinator since 2013 in Mustafabad area, explains that a Mahila Panchayat resolves cases by first listening to women and trying to understand their needs. 鈥淢ost cases happen [because] homebound women need money to run their houses and educate their children. When the husband loses the money in gambling and alcohol, it becomes a problem for the wife. In such cases, we counsel women and use social pressure on the husband to come to the right path,鈥� says Parvati.

Several Mahila Panchayat members and coordinators agreed that there are times when men refuse to budge or might be agreeable in front of the council but later will deny all agreements. In such situations, the Mahila Panchayats keep track of the cases, sometimes for months on end, to ensure the woman has won a just resolution.

Another NGO called (CEQUIN) has run Mahila Panchayats since 2010 in the Jamia Nagar clusters in South Delhi and also in some areas of other states such as Rajasthan and Haryana. 

Jamia Nagar, a Muslim-dominated area, has a significantly large portion of women with low levels of basic literacy and education. Growing up in conservative environments, many have not ventured out of their homes, but after CEQUIN worked with them for decades to help them explore the outside world, they now know that in cases of violence, they have a Mahila Panchayat to fall back on. 

When Mumtaz, a resident of Jamia Nagar, completed eighth grade, her father stopped her education and married her off as soon as she turned 18. Mumtaz was familiar with domestic violence, having witnessed her father beat up her mother for the smallest of mistakes. So when her own husband began assaulting her, she endured it for a long time. 

鈥淢y father came to see me one day and was filled with guilt for my mother, whom he used to beat up. He kept asking for forgiveness from her until the day he died,鈥� shares Mumtaz. She recalls that because she was relatively sheltered, she initially did not know whom to turn to for help. But then she remembered taking a makeup class at CEQUIN before she got married. 鈥淚 reached out to them, and they directed me to the Mahila Panchayat,鈥� she recounts. 鈥淢y husband would beat me after getting drunk. We had a full house with his brothers and their wives, but none would rescue me,鈥� she says.

After a few hearings with the Mahila Panchayat, Mumtaz鈥檚 husband not only stopped physically abusing her but moved the family into a new house and enrolled her in an international makeup course. Now Mumtaz works as a beautician in Jamia Nagar and has more than 10K Instagram followers.

CEQUIN co-founder Lora Prabhu defines Mahila Panchayats as 鈥渨omen鈥檚 collective leadership,鈥� saying, 鈥淭he most important thing for women in Mahila Panchayats, particularly in the urban context, is that social dynamics can range widely across different castes, religions, and communities, and yet they come together for the greater good.鈥�

Naseem Khan, manager of implementation and monitoring at CEQUIN, has had a lot of experience working with Mahila Panchayats, first with Action India and now with CEQUIN. She states the importance of Mahila Panchayats as self-sustaining and independent. 鈥淲e focus our training sessions on developing leadership among the girls and women in our women鈥檚 councils. Secondly, we prioritize community participation and contribution where women members open their own homes for the hearings on a rotation basis,鈥� says Khan. She points out that in contrast to the Mahila Panchayats run by CEQUIN, other NGOs rent spaces and give coordinators an honorarium to run the program. This makes them dependent on the organizations.

The majority of the thousands of cases that Mahila Panchayats tackle each year are beyond the scope of the National Crime Records Bureau (NCRB) in Delhi. The NCRB 14,247 crimes against women in Delhi in 2022鈥攖he highest across all metropolitan cities in India鈥攐f which 4,901 cases center on abuse by husbands or relatives. Of these, only three cases were reported under the Protection of Women From Domestic Violence Act. 

Mahila Panchayats offer a good chance at fair resolutions of domestic violence, bigamy, alcohol abuse, dowry, and other gender-related crimes in India, and specifically in the nation鈥檚 capital. More importantly, such councils are helping women to speak up and reframe their ideas of justice.   

Cambridge Recurring Income for Success (RISE) was an 18-month guaranteed-income program that offered 130 single caregivers $500 cash payments from September 2021 to February 2023. Participants鈥�96% of whom were women and 62% of whom were African American鈥攈ad to have an income below 80% of the area鈥檚 median income to be eligible. Cambridge is just outside of Boston and home to Harvard University. 

Participants鈥� ability to cover $400 emergencies increased from 33.8% at the start of the program to 41.5% six months after the program, though it declined to 30% by the program鈥檚 ending. Savings improved for participants between the 12- and 18-month marks, though most said their savings were stable throughout the program.

Mean housing cost burden, or the percentage of one鈥檚 income that goes towards housing needs, decreased for the RISE recipients from 50.5% to 41.8% by the end of the program. Full-time employment for participants increased from 36% at the baseline to 40% by the 12-month mark. 

The pilot鈥檚 success validates supporters鈥� belief that guaranteed-income programs help families and don鈥檛 encourage people to rely solely on the payments.

鈥淨uite consistently, we see across all of these programs that people spend the money to support their families. No one鈥檚 going to quit working for $500 a month,鈥� said Stacia West, an associate professor at the University of Tennessee College of Social Work and the director and co-founder of the Center for Guaranteed Income Research.

鈥淚 think one of the major highlights out of Cambridge is this ability to save. Having $500 in your bank account can mean the difference between being able to get that tire fixed or not being able to make it to work, and that鈥檚 huge for so many American families,鈥� West said.

Another important assessment of the program was on guaranteed income鈥檚 impact on participants鈥� sense of self, she said.

鈥淲hen we introduce a guaranteed income, does that free up a little bit of mental space, or emotional, or even spiritual space that you can actualize as a human and not have all of your time completely spent on day-to-day survival?鈥� West said. 鈥淲henever you鈥檙e on the margins, and you鈥檙e dealing and negotiating a lower income, you just have less time and space to think about yourself and your own dreams and your own goals and your own agency.鈥�

Results from Cambridge RISE show the extra money created time and space that participants spent with their children, and the children of RISE recipients had higher grades than their peers whose parents and caregivers were in a control group that did not receive funding, the report said.

At the start of the program, 59% of participants reported being able to help their children with hands-on learning activities such as building projects. That figure peaked at 78% by the program鈥檚 six-month mark and concluded at 71%. Fifty-two percent reported being able to do arts and crafts with their kids. That figure peaked at 74% by the program鈥檚 six-month mark and held steady at 64% for the 12- and 18-month marks. 

This freed-up time allowed one recipient, identified in the study only as Veronica, to make arts and crafts and have Sunday dinner with her daughter.

鈥淚f I was not in my situation [with RISE], any way of trying to get extra money, I would be most likely working, which would then take my time away from my daughter and myself,鈥� Veronica said. 鈥淭his is not just benefiting me, it鈥檚 benefiting my daughter. … I get to show her things and that betters her.鈥� 

The results showing increased time and space for parenting stood out to former Cambridge mayor and current City Council member Sumbul Siddiqui, who initiated Cambridge RISE during her time as mayor.

鈥淚 just think about my mom and dad [who] were just constantly working multiple jobs and how hard that was,鈥� Siddiqui said. 鈥淨uality time is so important.鈥�

Siddiqui, who became the first Muslim mayor in Massachusetts when elected in January 2020, looked deeper into direct cash payments once she saw how much Cambridge residents remained in need even after she launched the city鈥檚 over-$5 million COVID-19 disaster relief fund.

That鈥檚 when she learned about the network organization Mayors for Guaranteed Income and their $500,000 grant for mayors to launch these programs in their cities if they could match the donation. Siddiqui, in partnership with Cambridge Community Foundation, Cambridge Economic Opportunity Committee, Cambridge Housing Authority, and community organizations Just-A-Start and Up Together, raised $1.6 million to launch Cambridge RISE. It鈥檚 been rewarding, she said, to see the impact the program has had on people and the way they view government officials.

鈥淚 was walking down the street the other day, and literally, at a cross section, a woman got out of her car just to say, 鈥楾hank you for everything. The RISE program has helped me so much.鈥� And literally the light was about to turn green, but she quickly did that. That was so meaningful to me,鈥� Siddiqui recalled. 鈥淭hey just really appreciate that City Hall is looking out for them in this way. And I think it鈥檚 pretty gratifying to kind of see how people are viewing government as a result.鈥�

Mayors for Guaranteed Income, a network of local leaders, was founded in 2020 by Michael Tubbs, the former mayor of Stockton, California. Tubbs launched the country鈥檚 first mayor-led guaranteed-income program. The organization has grown to nearly 150 mayors, expanded to Counties for Guaranteed Income with about 40 elected county leaders and launched a 501(c)(4) social welfare organization called . The group has also launched over 60 pilots, including Cambridge RISE, Director Sukhi Samra said.

鈥淚n addition to funding, we also provided robust technical assistance in terms of pilot design and also in terms of communications,鈥� said Samra. She said her team helped the Cambridge RISE group 鈥渃ommunicate about your pilot in a way that鈥檚 responsive to your community, in a way that meets your community鈥檚 needs.鈥� 

Samra said their work has been able to shift public opinion to be more favorable towards $500 to $1,000 monthly guaranteed income, but there is still some pushback. 

鈥淲e鈥檝e gone from the radical to the mainstream, but I think a lot of the opposition that we鈥檙e experiencing is still the same. It鈥檚 really rooted in these racist and sexist tropes about what poor people do when they鈥檙e given money, who is poor, and why they鈥檙e poor in the first place,鈥� Samra said.

of guaranteed-income programs worry giving people cash payments with no strings attached will discourage them from working. West said studies prove otherwise. Still, guaranteed-income programs have been outlawed in and , and similar legislation has been proposed in and . 

In spite of this, experts say the movement for guaranteed income is still picking up steam across the country. was the first to launch state-funded guaranteed-income programs in November, and recently proposed seeks to establish a council to study guaranteed-income programs. Legislation is advancing through the state House that would give residents living below 300% of the federal poverty level $500 per month.

is launching its first guaranteed-income pilot this spring. And, last fall, Cambridge was able to expand its pilot to create the Cambridge Rise Up Program using American Rescue Plan funds. The new program is offering $500 per month for 18 months to all families who have children and income under 250% of the federal poverty level. It鈥檚 the first guaranteed-income program with no lottery system and currently has nearly 2,000 participating households. 

鈥淚 think that municipalities and states are seeing the benefits and the return on investment that it may have and are ready to scale it up at the state level and make some investments,鈥� West said.

This story was originally published by The 19th and is republished here with permission.

Now it seems the moment will live on for everyone else too, because Crockett has not only started selling merchandise adorned with the phrase 鈥�,鈥� sometimes shortened to 鈥淏6,鈥� but she has also recently purchased the trademark. When I first read about this whole altercation and watched the 17 times, my first concern was about a sitting House member using their position to sell merch. But, as the story settled in my body, I realized it wasn鈥檛 just the merchandise itself that bothered me. It is the message it sends about all the supposedly 鈥渂ad built butch bodies鈥� of the world.听

Six days after the viral moment, Crockett announced on social media that proceeds from her new 鈥溾�� would support her campaign. In follow-up interviews about the confrontation, Crockett rightly noted that Greene鈥檚 attack likely stemmed from tropes about her appearance. Crockett called out MAGA trolls who frequently use stereotypes and other slurs about her hair and nails to single her out. For these reasons, and so many others, it makes sense that Crockett felt inclined to respond to Greene鈥檚 inappropriate and disrespectful comments. My concern is that whenever there is a debate between cisgender, heterosexual-appearing people, there is always a risk that queer and trans people will become the collateral damage when the insults take on the homophobic and transphobic attitudes held so widely in society. That is precisely what happened in this case.

Butch culture has long existed. For many queer and trans people, butch gender expression represents a homeplace, one that they鈥檝e worked hard to locate. What is important about butch identity is that many people assigned female at birth have for generations, often shifting between lesbian identity, transmasculinity, and/or nonbinary gender expression. For example, Leslie Feinberg鈥檚 1993 loosely autobiographical fiction book tells the story of a true 鈥渟tone butch,鈥� a lesbian who will not allow her partner to touch her sexually. This term, for many, has been a critical and freeing site of self-naming and self-reclamation. But for many lesbians and trans people, it remains an intimate reminder of the violence and discrimination they鈥檝e faced during their lives. 

In many lesbian and nonbinary communities, the term 鈥渂utch鈥� often refers to masculine-presenting people and body types. These are usually individuals whose physical presentation rebuffs traditional gender norms and standards of expression. Rather than leaning into cultural expectations centering the cisgender heterosexual male gaze, these folks express gender in more androgynous and masculine ways, which frequently lean away from what mainstream culture regularly associates with people assigned female at birth. But these are not rules of butch identity. Rather, they are just a few of the ways butch folks express their gender and sexuality. For example, has played with the terms 鈥渂utch鈥� and 鈥渇emme,鈥� blurring the lines between trans women and gay men. In these spaces, butch may mean masculine, manly, or mannish, but it never has to mean only one thing. All bodies are self-defined and expansive. No rules have to apply across every case. 

Butchness allows space for a diversity of body shapes and types that don鈥檛 have to fit into anyone else鈥檚 standard. There is absolutely nothing wrong with butch bodies. In fact, for many of us queer people, butchness is an aesthetic we find ourselves romantically and sexually drawn to. Butch bodies are beautiful.

The normalization of insults like those shared by Crockett desensitize the broader public to violence against LGBTQ people. Many LGBTQ women experience than other groups of women. Many of these women were harmed by cisgender men with whom they had started families, gotten married, or once cohabitated. The risks to their personal security and health, and the safety of their children, often impels these individuals to stay in abusive dynamics without revealing truths about their gender and sexuality. For many of these women and nonbinary people, identifying with butch culture has allowed them to step more actively into their full selves, only to have heteronormative and cisgender folks turn that into the butt of a joke on a global scale. 

Many butch folks who had absolutely nothing to do with this confrontation have now become collateral damage in a battle of wits between two normatively gendered women. Not only that, the insult will now be immortalized on t-shirts, stationery, and other paraphernalia for the foreseeable future. Since the release of the now-viral video of the argument between Crockett and Greene, the phrase has been by Reading Rainbow鈥檚 LeVar Burton on Twitter (now known as X) and plastered across videos and social media messages across the world. All the while, very little has been said about the 鈥渂utch鈥� in Crockett鈥檚 clever alliterative phrase. It seems most people have simply accepted the word as a slur for cisgender, gender-normative white women, so much that they barely notice how disrespectful it is to whole communities of queer and trans people.

This is how cis women openly participate in harm against their queer and trans peers. The same women who demand solidarity at the ballot box from queer and trans people are the ones who subtly (and overtly) reveal their lack of community and regard for those more vulnerable than themselves.

So, this is for all the butch bodies. You are all built perfectly. And we see you. 

鈥淭hat made me very uncomfortable, because it鈥檚 a vulnerable position to be in鈥攖here is no way for me to verify that the individual marks my ballot as I specified, and unfortunately, that was my only choice if I wanted my vote to be counted,鈥� explains Flores. She is now a Voting Access and Election Protection Fellow at (DDP), an organization committed to building the political power of the disability community.

As the general election nears, disability-led organizations like DDP are scaling up their efforts to combat common barriers to the ballot box for disabled voters. While has a disability, there remain significant gaps in voting access for this demographic. Disabled organizers bring unique expertise rooted in lived experiences to the work of improving voting access and forging a more inclusive democracy. The landscape they are working in is a difficult one given the nation鈥檚 patchwork, state-led voting system that demands a unique strategy for countering voter suppression in each state.听

Research has shown that the nationwide are not fully accessible, meaning they each have potential impediments for people with disabilities to cast votes. Many states also , such as those that , , or make it more difficult to . These rules are most burdensome to disabled voters and also voters of color. Over 11% of disabled voters voting in the last general election, despite the expansion of mail-in voting as a pandemic precaution.

鈥淭he disability community is often forgotten, even by progressive organizations or those that are working to contact voters,鈥� says Lila Zucker, organizing director at (NDS), a disability rights and justice nonprofit organization working across 14 states in the U.S. South. Over in the South is disabled鈥攖he highest rate in the nation.听

The region is also rife with disenfranchisement as Republican-led states concoct new election-related crimes and toughen punitive measures. Last year, , an organization that tracks election-related legislation nationwide, identified a 鈥溾�� in North Carolina. Neighboring Georgia in the run-up to the 2022 midterm election for a bill that criminalized passing out food or water within 25 feet of voters waiting in line at a polling location (a federal judge on First Amendment grounds last year, but it was upheld during the midterms).听

Recently, lawmakers in Alabama passed Senate Bill 1 (SB 1), with filling out or delivering their absentee ballot applications.听 A last year. While DDP鈥檚 Flores wanted to mark her ballot without support when voting absentee in college (and she should have had the option of an accessible ballot to do so), disabled voters in other states may depend on support that could result in criminal charges under these laws. These differences point to the fact that disabled voters are not a monolith and have different needs.

Fighting legal battles and passing new legislation could make a significant difference in reducing voting barriers for disabled Americans. The American Civil Liberties Union is challenging many discriminatory voting laws in court, including Alabama鈥檚 SB 1. One of the ACLU鈥檚 coalition partners in that lawsuit is the (ADAP). 鈥淔or many voters with disabilities, absentee voting may be the only practical option to be heard and have their voices counted, [and] SB 1 poses additional barriers to this critical right,鈥� said William Van Der Pol Jr., senior trial counsel for ADAP in .

While lawyers are fighting to roll back restrictive legislation, some policymakers are also working to improve voting access through new federal legislation. Past legislative gains, like the , furthered access for disabled voters by requiring that every polling place nationwide have equipment for disabled people to vote independently and privately, including an accessible voting terminal.听

The Accessible Voting Act, reintroduced in the U.S. Congress earlier this year, could be an even greater leap forward. If passed, it would within the U.S. Election Assistance Commission, create a national resource center on accessible voting, expand options for disabled people to cast their ballots in federal elections, and improve the accessibility of voting information and resources. Another bill, , was reintroduced in the same package. It would protect disabled people who want to run for office from being disqualified for receiving disability benefits or .听

Sarah Blahovec, co-founder, co-director, and president of , which , says both bills are 鈥減art of an ecosystem of ensuring that disabled people have access to the ballot box.鈥� While Blahovec鈥檚 organization focuses on training, networking, and leadership development for disabled progressive candidates, she wonders, 鈥淗ow can we get more disabled people to run for office if they can鈥檛 actually get to the polls?鈥澨�

Dessa Cosma, executive director of DDP, emphasizes that these legal struggles are not just for disability rights. 鈥淲hen we expand voting rights for disabled people, it helps everyone,鈥� she says. 鈥淲hen we restrict voting access, it hurts everyone, but it disproportionately hurts disabled voters.鈥�

While legal battles may offer longer-term solutions to the barriers facing disabled voters, other organizing efforts are focused on working within the imperfect system we have now to ensure as many disabled people as possible can access the vote. 

At DDP, Flores and Cosma are focusing on making polling locations more accessible. The organization has been conducting poll-access audits since 2018, collecting data on common issues that could prevent disabled people from casting a ballot at their local polling location. In 2022, DDP ran , auditing 261 polling locations across 15 jurisdictions in Metro Detroit, serving about 1 million Michigan voters. The audit consists of a 23-question survey that evaluates polling locations across four categories, including having an accessible parking area, an accessible entrance, an accessible voting system, and accessible voting booths. Sites are labeled inaccessible if they fail in at least one of the four categories.听

In 2022, 84% of the polling locations that DDP visited failed the audit. This number tracks with a nationwide government study conducted in 2017 with a smaller sample size, which found that . While the results are grim, Cosma says, 鈥淢any of these are no-cost, low-cost fixable problems.鈥澨�

Of the 218 polling locations that failed DDP鈥檚 2022 audit, 67 fell short in only one of the four categories. Many of them could have passed the audit if they had added signage to help voters find the accessible entrance, reoriented accessible voting booths to give voters privacy, or just remembered to plug in the accessible voting machine. If those polling locations remedied that one failed category, the percentage of polling places that were accessible would jump from 16% to 42%.

To help polling locations address their access barriers, DDP shares its audit data and builds relationships with election officials. Flores says the data 鈥渁llows the clerks to have a better understanding of what access barriers look like.鈥� Following its record-breaking poll-access audit, DDP so other organizations can replicate its methods in districts outside Detroit without starting from scratch.听

Meanwhile, in the U.S. South, NDS is partnering with voter registration, education, and turnout efforts to make their strategies, promotional materials, and volunteer and staff opportunities more inclusive of disabled people. Zucker says one of their suggested interventions is that organizations visit congregate settings, such as sheltered workshops and nursing homes. 鈥淥ne of the biggest things is meeting disabled voters where they鈥檙e at,鈥� she explains.

Efforts such as these can ensure more disabled voters have their voices heard on critical issues during this November鈥檚 election. 鈥淢any disabled folks depend on systems that are guided and regulated by people that we elect to office, like home- and community-based services or the condition of roads, sidewalks, and public transportation,鈥� explains Zucker. 鈥淒isabled people also exist at the margins of lots of different intersecting identities, so a lot of the issues that matter to everyone in this country matter to disabled voters.鈥� Issues that are on the minds of all voters, like poverty, policing, and climate change, are acutely felt within the disability community. Disabled people experience poverty at and are more vulnerable to police violence and the effects of climate change.

To build political power on these issues, Cosma says, disabled people 鈥渉ave to have access to our democracy.鈥�

My grandfather chose the military to continue a family legacy started by his father and other family members, and presumably to ensure that his future children and grandchildren would have access to the middle class. For most of my life鈥攁s a Black woman from the South, raised in a military town鈥擨 also believed in the guarantees made to Black military families. It took me far too long to understand that the drumbeat of war could not be relied upon. In fact, for Black people, the only thing that our conscription into America鈥檚 perpetual war-making machine actually ensures is that we will never be safe.听

In reflecting on the storytelling that existed in his own family about the military, Dr. Daris McInnis, a Black U.S. Army veteran and professor of education at West Chester University, says 鈥淚 don鈥檛 come from a family of doctors. I don鈥檛 come from a family of college graduates. … So for my family, it seemed like people who joined the military really created a new life for themselves.鈥� His听father joined the military when McInnis was 5 or 6, sending the family to live on military bases around the world. His uncle didn鈥檛 graduate from college but made six figures as a military contractor after 20 years in the military. As a child, this kind of luxury was amazing to McInnis.听

McInnis graduated from college in 2008, matriculating directly into a recession. He had no job prospects where he lived in West Texas, even with a newly minted B.A. in business. But the one industry that was always hiring was the U.S. military. McInnis recalls his Army recruiter, a Black woman, saying, 鈥淪ure, you can come be an officer, you can … command troops when you鈥檙e 22 years old.鈥� To a young person, such promises were seductive; he 鈥渃ould go straight in as an officer … I would essentially outrank my dad. Which is really cool.鈥�

McInnis was also swayed by the fact that his student loans would be forgiven by joining the Army. In one fell swoop, the U.S. Army offered him and thousands of other military recruits like him stability at a time of deep global uncertainty and a status that his own parents had not achieved after decades of work.听

The military also assured recruits that they would be making their country and the world safer by signing up. This is precisely what motivated Kyle Bibby, interim chief of campaigns and programs at and a former Marine Corps infantry captain, to enlist. For Bibby, who grew up in New Jersey, the events of Sept. 11, 2001, felt way too close to home. 鈥淲e lived right next to a train station where people every day commuted in and out of the city into lower Manhattan and Midtown. There are people I knew who, for that day, had no idea where their parents were. And my way of coping with the fear was really trying to find some level of control.鈥�

Bibby thought he 鈥渇ound control through joining the military.鈥� But, 鈥淵ou learn very quickly, you are not in control in the military.鈥� Bibby learned firsthand upon enrolling at the Naval Academy that talk of meritocracy and rhetoric about earning your place through honorable service had its limits鈥攅specially for Black people.

It鈥檚 a sentiment that is echoed over and over again in Black veterans鈥� accounts of their experiences in the military. Despite the military becoming the first major U.S. institution to , the Black soldiers face and their inability to of their white peers is well documented. So too is the mistreatment of Black veterans when they return to the U.S. from military tours.

This is in part why Bibby cofounded the , alongside fellow veterans Daniele Anderson and Richard Brookshire. Brookshire, the organization鈥檚 CEO, views his advocacy on behalf of other Black veterans, at its core, as reparations work. 鈥淚t is essentially trying to build out a framework for reparative justice looking at the history of benefits obstruction that Black vets have faced historically.鈥� To Brookshire and , Black veterans are owed big鈥攖o the tune of billions of dollars鈥攆or decades of disability-benefits denials based on race.听

Despite racial discrimination and after their service, Black people are in the military鈥攁 fact that pushed Dr. Nikhil Pal Singh, professor of social and cultural analysis and history at New York University, to pursue his current study of race, militarization, and policing. He wants to understand Black people鈥檚 overwhelming presence in prisons and the military, which he calls 鈥渢wo of the most violent institutions in American life.鈥�

Singh鈥檚 work highlights the inextricable links between U.S. militarism abroad and the overpolicing and incarceration of Black Americans at home. to Singh, 鈥淭hroughout U.S. history, militarism and racism have augmented one another in a tightly bound reciprocity.鈥� And even if the U.S. military and local police forces are racially diverse, Singh contends that they 鈥渇unction in certain ways [in which] it doesn鈥檛 really matter who the personnel are.鈥� He sees them as operating with a 鈥渒ind of supremacism, a kind of impunity, a kind of ability to enforce racial order that now enlists significant numbers of people of color to do it.鈥�

In the years since the in Ferguson, Missouri, which spurred the Movement for Black Lives, much has been written about the forces in cities big and small . Singh says this can be traced back to听anti-war protests of the 1960s, which 鈥渋s really the first time you begin to see the National Guard called in to basically quell uprisings in U.S. cities, but you also see the beginning of a kind of approach to the police in the United States that begins to draw from military doctrines.鈥� In other words, the U.S. began to engage its own citizenry, particularly anti-war protesters and people of color, as enemy combatants.听

That orientation was later extended to 鈥�,鈥� which framed U.S. citizens in the 1970s鈥攐ften poor and Black鈥攁s a threat to order. At the same time, the tenor of military operations abroad, both in areas of conflict and in colonial territories such as the Philippines, began to change into a sort of global policing.听

鈥淥bviously Vietnam is the biggest example,鈥� explains Singh. In that war, the U.S. 鈥渋s involved in a kind of series of police actions. It does not declare war. It鈥檚 not fighting against another sovereign power. It鈥檚 seeing itself as trying to use force to create security, to create order, and to align these newly developing countries with U. S. interests.鈥� He labels this shift 鈥渢he policification of the military.鈥澨�

For decades, Black and warned us that a Black face in a U.S. military uniform is still the face of imperialism. Black activist, journalist, and vice-presidential nominee Charlotta Bass said, 鈥淭he fight for peace is one and indivisible with the fight for Negro equality.鈥� The violence that soldiers, Black or otherwise, visit upon other peoples in the name of American safety and security is mirrored in the that Black people experience at the hands of police across the U.S.

The truth is that the U.S. government needs Black people to buy into the promise of the military (and by extension, policing) both at home and abroad. However, our survival as Black people鈥攐ur liberation from the systems that harm us鈥攊s dependent on our refusal to believe the storytelling of the U.S. military and our rejection of the narrative that it is a force for good, both in our own lives and around the world. In addressing these myths, Singh adds, 鈥淲e have to really recognize that [the police and the military] are not security-making institutions, they鈥檙e insecurity-making institutions. They do it in the ways in which they intervene and introduce violence into situations that could be resolved in other ways, less violently.鈥�

For McInnis, his own scholarship has led him to interrogate the reasons why he joined the military in the first place. The lack of opportunities he and other Black people like my grandfather experienced in their hometowns is much more pervasive than he understood as a 22-year-old. 鈥淲here America fails to really put these things into context is to ask: Well, what was already there to make this your reality anyway?鈥� McInnis muses. 鈥淲hat creates a place and a life where so few of us can enter the middle class or enter jobs where we can have a little bit of savings and some health care?鈥� he asks. It is well past time that we as Black people question our participation in the U.S. military, both as active service members and upholders of its mythmaking. Because the question is: Can we really call ourselves pragmatists if the necks we鈥檙e standing on are our own?听

鈥淭hese are all typical signs there might be a bullying problem,鈥� says Bettina D茅nervaud, co-founder of the Swiss initiative Hilfe bei Mobbing, which translates as 鈥淗elp With Bullying.鈥� She and her two colleagues use a 30-point checklist to evaluate whether there is an underlying issue of mental, emotional, and physical bullying or something else鈥攎aybe a conflict, which might require conflict resolution. 鈥淎 conflict is usually resolved in a matter of days or weeks, but bullying can go on for months or even years,鈥� D茅nervaud says.

What happens next sounds counterintuitive. Instead of being punished, the bullies are invited to help the bullied student. In a 2008 that looked at 220 bullying cases, the No-Blame Approach, as this method is known, was successful in 192, or 87%, of the cases. In most evaluated schools, it only took two or three weeks for the bullying to stop.

This stunning success rate prompted Bettina D茅nervaud to sign up for training with German mediator Detlef Beck in 2016 and to start a consulting office for bullying in 2019.

With Ben, D茅nervaud began by encouraging a personal talk between him and the teacher he trusts most. (D茅nervaud or one of her colleagues is sometimes present in person or via Zoom if the teacher has not been trained in bullying intervention.) The goal is for Ben to talk openly and confidentially about everything that happened, his emotions, and his thoughts about the bullies. 

鈥淭his is an opportunity for them to get everything off their chest that bears down on them and to make sure we have their consent for the next steps,鈥� D茅nervaud explains. 鈥淣othing happens against the victim鈥檚 wishes, and even the parents aren鈥檛 told details about what the child revealed in the confidential talk.鈥� 

In Ben鈥檚 case, this was the first time anybody learned that the bullying had been much worse than his parents and teachers assumed. It included other children tripping and shoving Ben, name-calling, and excluding him from games. He was also voted 鈥渦gliest鈥� in his class in an online 鈥減oll.鈥� The bullying had started much earlier and gone on for much longer than the parents feared. The teacher also asked what would help him feel safe.

The second step is the core of the No-Blame Approach. It includes calling six to eight children whom the teacher chooses into a meeting set up as a social get-together: in Ben鈥檚 case, three of the bullies, three students Ben felt he could count on, and two 鈥渘eutral鈥� tagalongs. The children are not told the meeting is about Ben. 鈥淚 have a problem,鈥� the teacher might start the discussion after some small talk. 鈥淚 noticed some students don鈥檛 feel supported in class. What can we do to help them, for instance, Ben?鈥� 

The teacher carefully avoids calling out the bullies and instead says: 鈥淚 notice the other students are looking up to you. What you say counts.鈥� In D茅nervaud鈥檚 experience, 鈥淭hat immediately makes the bully feel seen. They feel they matter.鈥�

The teacher then asks for suggestions: 鈥淲hat do you think you could do to help?鈥�

One boy volunteered, 鈥淲e could include him in our afternoon soccer group.鈥� Another suggested, 鈥淚 could talk to him in the breaks.鈥� 

The group writes these suggestions on a whiteboard.

The third step includes follow-ups with all students, including Ben, within the next few weeks. If necessary, the intervention might be repeated or tweaked.

鈥淭he goal is to change the social dynamic,鈥� D茅nervaud says, 鈥渁nd to lay open what has been happening.鈥� Younger children often start crying in these meetings, D茅nervaud has observed, 鈥渂ecause they realize for the first time what has been happening and how unhappy the bullying victim has been. We talk about empathy, tolerance, and respect. How do I want to be treated, and how do I treat others?鈥�

The No-Blame Approach was developed in the U.K. in the early 1990s by psychologist Barbara Maines and educator George Robinson. Even in severe bullying cases, this approach encourages educators and psychologists not to blame and punish the perpetrators, except for criminal offenses. Two , Heike Blume, and Detlef Beck, simplified the approach further and have trained more than 20,000 educators in Germany, Austria, and Switzerland since 2003.

Switzerland is number one in bullying, according to the global 2018 (Programme for International Student Assessment) study by the OECD (Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development). The survey shows a rise in school bullying since the previous PISA survey in 2015, with the rate of physical bullying in Switzerland. 

Bettina D茅nervaud can only speculate about the reasons: 鈥淢aybe the pressure to perform?鈥�

Experts agree that bullying can cause , including depression and anxiety, self-harm, health complaints, and decreased academic achievement. 鈥淚f this issue is not dealt with, the harm can persist for many years, even into adulthood,鈥� D茅nervaud observed. A Washington Post analysis found nearly in the U.S. in recent years when a bullied student took his or her own life. 

Almost every fifth student in the and Europe says they have experienced bullying. Nearly half of teens say they have been the victim of cyberbullying, according to . In the U.S., most states have enacted , but how they are implemented on the ground varies greatly, not only from state to state but also from school to school.

D茅nervaud has been a language teacher for more than two decades, mostly for adults but also for teenagers and children. Because parents, students, and teachers frequently asked her for advice on bullying, she grasped the enormity of the need. She decided to focus on that issue: 鈥淚 realized there were not a lot of specialized offerings. In the standard teacher training, the topic is addressed in a two-hour lecture, which simply isn鈥檛 sufficient.鈥� Concerned parents or teenagers are often told to call the mental health hotline, D茅nervaud says, 鈥渂ut it usually offers general psychological advice, not specifically how to proceed and what the next steps should be regarding bullying.鈥� 

Hers is the only office in Switzerland solely dedicated to the issue of bullying, though the magnitude of the problem is rising worldwide.

She and her two colleagues get about 10 calls a week, she says, 鈥渕ostly from parents or from schools who request training for their staff.鈥� She is frustrated by what she sees as a failure of schools to take the issue seriously. 鈥淲e often hear, 鈥極h, the kids will sort it out.鈥� We sometimes see glaring inaction by the schools who try to dodge responsibility,鈥� D茅nervaud says. 鈥淭oo often, we learn that the schools do nothing, or even worse, they put the victim and the perpetrator at one table and expect them to sort it out. That鈥檚 almost always counterproductive.鈥� 

In D茅nervaud鈥檚 experience, punishing the perpetrators tends to worsen the bullying for the victim. 鈥淯sually, the bullies will make the victim 鈥榩ay.鈥� Or the victim gets sent into therapy, enforcing the feeling there must be something wrong with him or her, because they are singled out and need to get help, while no intervention happens with the bullies.鈥�

Somewhat surprisingly, D茅nervaud says in her experience, bullying is not tied to specific victim characteristics, such as weight, looks, or social status. However, LGBTQ students are at a significantly greater risk of bullying than their peers.听

鈥淐ontrary to what most people believe and what I, too, believed at the beginning, there is no 鈥榯ypical鈥� bullying victim. Anybody can be singled out to become the victim of bullying,鈥� she says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 why focusing on what is perceived as being 鈥榳rong鈥� with the target, such as losing weight or changing their looks, does not work.鈥�

She sees the underlying causes of bullying in the social dynamics at a school. The nerd with glasses bullied in one school might be envied in another community for his smarts.

This is part of why D茅nervaud is convinced parents and bullying victims must not be left alone to solve the issue. 鈥淭hese parents are often desperate and sometimes even sell their home and leave the community they were a part of, uprooting the siblings too, to send their kid to a different school,鈥� she explains. In Switzerland, parents have to send their kids to the public school closest to their zip code unless they can afford the tuition for private schools. 

Because she tried in vain to get public funding and make her service free, D茅nervaud and her two colleagues have to charge either the parents or the schools for the consultations and training. 鈥淚 wish we could offer it for free,鈥� she says.

She sees limits to the No-Blame Approach 鈥渨hen bullying has gone on for too long, sometimes for years. Then the patterns are so ingrained that removing the victim from the situation might be the best solution.鈥� And sometimes, she admits, the approach is poorly implemented. 鈥淭hen we intervene or try the approach again with a different group of students.鈥�

When bullying turns into criminal behavior, she recommends involving the authorities. One of the worst cases in her practice was that of a student who was made drunk and severely sexually abused. 鈥淗e ended up leaving that school because the abuse had also been documented on video and circulated at school, and there was no way for him to go back there,鈥� she says. 鈥淏ut the school then still needs to work with the students who stay there.鈥�

Other approaches that have shown success include the , which involves the entire school; , a method developed at the University of Turku, Finland, with funding from the Ministry of Education and Culture, that claims to have helped ; and .

Virtually all experts agree that it is best to act preventatively or intervene at the first signs of bullying rather than hoping the issue will resolve itself.

In Ben鈥檚 case, the intervention was successful. After a month, his stomach pains stopped, and he looked forward to attending school again. 

About the author: , is a contributing editor at l. An award-winning author and solutions reporter, her recent books include Bouncing Forward: The Art and Science of Cultivating Resilience (Atria).

This story was (U.S.), which shared this story to be republished within the program, supported by the ICFJ, .

My guilt, on the other hand, was related to the fact that I had left my family behind, living under perpetual siege. Since then, some of them have died, including my father, who was denied access to proper medical care鈥攍ike countless other Gazans still living under Israeli occupation. In the ongoing war on the Gaza Strip, I have lost literally hundreds of members of my immediate and extended family, friends, neighbors, and acquaintances. My guilt, back then, was fully justified. It still is.

That July morning, when I handed my laissez-passer to the U.S. immigration officer at JFK, he looked perplexed. He adjusted his polarized sunglasses repeatedly as he flipped through the strange document. 鈥淲hat does it mean that your nationality is 鈥榰ndefined鈥�?鈥� he asked. I understood the question, but could neither find the words鈥攏or the courage鈥攖o answer. I saw my face reflected in his shiny lenses and felt embarrassed. I did not look like the brave Gazan taking on the world, as my father and neighbors back home expected me to be. 

鈥淎lways remember, you are from Gaza,鈥� my father had told me, as he stood in the predawn morning with my younger brothers and a small cluster of neighbors and friends who insisted on bidding me farewell before the taxi taking me to Israel鈥檚 Ben Gurion Airport arrived. My mother had died many years earlier, during the first intifada (uprising), but her kind eyes still stared at me gently, one last time, from a framed photo in the living room. 

The look on my face as I confronted my first American obstacle was hardly one of bravery. I cannot be sent back, I thought to myself, amid a rush of other thoughts I couldn鈥檛 articulate in that moment. I wanted to tell the officer that I am 鈥渦ndefined鈥� because Israel refuses to acknowledge my nationality, my roots, my history, and my present, let alone my humanity. I wanted to tell him this is the only term they could find to avoid simply acknowledging my identity as a Palestinian; that Israel鈥檚 dehumanization of me and my people does not begin or end with language; and that I am a refugee from a place called Gaza, whose people have been forced into an internal exile within Palestine itself, and that those Gazans, like me, are, in fact, considered lucky for having a document with a name and a face. 

Other officers joined the man in the mirrored glasses, some investigating the unusual paper, while others examined me鈥攁 strange, spectacled creature with blue jeans and navy blue T-shirt with an alligator logo. After much deliberation, they decided that I could proceed with my journey to Seattle. They did not manage to successfully decipher my nationality, but ultimately deferred to the valid visa I carried from the U.S. Embassy in Tel Aviv. 

Thirty years later, I have done much with my life. I have studied, raised a family, and, at least in my own estimation, contributed to U.S. society through my books, papers, articles, media engagements, and more. My children鈥攚ho now seem poised to achieve more than I ever have鈥攁re undertaking their own journeys to find ways to 鈥渕ake a difference,鈥� a calling repeated many times in my household. 

Yet I still feel 鈥渦ndefined,鈥� not only by Israeli standards, but also by the standards of the country that should have鈥攁t least in theory鈥攂ecome my own. 

Denial 

The story of the passport is, of course, a political one. We, Palestinians, obviously do exist. I am not Russian, Moroccan, Brazilian, or a member of the M膩ori people鈥攁lthough I feel a particular affinity with the latter group given our shared struggle against settler colonialism and cultural erasure. But I do not exist as a contrast to anyone else, including Israelis. Palestinians are as old as鈥攁nd even older than鈥攔ecorded time. 

鈥淧alestine was the name used most commonly, consistently and continuously for over 1,200 years,鈥� Palestinian author, historian, and academic Nur Masalha wrote in his seminal 2018 book, .

Yet in 1969, then Israeli Prime Minister Golda Meir鈥攁n 鈥攊nsisted 鈥淭here were no such thing as Palestinians,鈥� in an interview in The Sunday Times of London. 鈥淚t was not as though there was a Palestinian people in Palestine considering itself as a Palestinian people and we came and threw them out and took their country away from them,鈥� Meir continued. 鈥淭hey did not exist.鈥�

That infamous interview coincided with the second anniversary of the 1967 war. In Israel and the West, it鈥檚 known as the ; for us Palestinians it is the (鈥渢he setback鈥�). The latter term must be distinguished from the (鈥渢he catastrophe鈥�), which was coined shortly after Zionist militias鈥攚hich would later coalesce into 鈥攇utted out a whole nation from its historic homeland to build a state on its ruins. Amid , more than 500 by these militias between December 1947 and July 1948. This is how most Palestinians became refugees, as nearly 80% of our people were forced out. 

We never found safety elsewhere. Those who were internally displaced in the West Bank and Gaza by the Nakba were then caged in by . Many Palestinians and Arabs had hoped that the 1967 war鈥攚hich involved Egypt, Syria, and Jordan against the U.S.-backed Israel鈥攚ould reunite refugees with their long-destroyed villages. Instead, the Naksa resulted in , added to the original . 

Since then, Palestinians have been caught in a seemingly endless circle of dispossession that, with time, extended beyond the boundaries of both historic and occupied Palestine. When in 1990, Palestinians, already refugees from earlier conflicts, were mostly pushed out of the country. Hundreds of thousands of from a place that they helped build. Following the discovery of oil sometime in the 1960s, Kuwait needed Palestinians as much as Palestinians needed Kuwait. However, Kuwaitis viewed Yasser Arafat鈥檚 political stance鈥攁lso adopted by his Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO)鈥攁s supportive of Iraqi President Saddam Hussein. As Iraq was forced out of Kuwait, so too were the Palestinians.

Palestinians, many of whom were Kuwaiti government workers and teachers at educational institutions, were collectively fired from their jobs and asked to leave the country. This sad scenario was repeated in Iraq, almost immediately following the U.S. invasion in March 2003. Then, too, Palestinians went on the run, thousands of them trapped in desert refugee camps on Iraq鈥檚 borders with Jordan and Syria. While some found refuge in Jordan, others , Australia, Canada, New Zealand, Scandinavia, and the U.S. 

The so-called Arab Spring鈥攚hich failed to bring freedom, democracy, or justice to Arab nations鈥攐nce again made Palestinians run for their lives. Some were fleeing war-torn Libya following another , while others fled from Lebanon, overburdened with economic hardship, foreign meddling, and the Syrian refugee crisis. But the largest number of new Palestinian refugees originated from Syria itself. 

Yet in Gaza, where we lived under Israeli , surrounded by military bases and opulent Israeli Jewish settlements鈥斺�攚e perceived Palestinian refugees in Iraq and Syria as the most privileged of all refugee communities. Palestinians living in Iraq were relatively economically prosperous, and those in Syria had access to quality education, which we lacked in the Gaza refugee camps. Access to health care facilities and other basic services were things that both groups had learned to take for granted. In Gaza, we did not. But all of us, regardless of location, were cursed with bizarre travel documents that served little purpose and generated confused looks from inquisitive immigration officers at various borders, whose typical verdict was 鈥淎ccess denied.鈥�

Palestinian refugees had鈥攊n fact, many still do鈥攖ravel documents issued by Egypt and known as , which severely restricted the movement of their holders, essentially requiring a visa to go anywhere, including Arab countries. Though, in 1995, the Palestinian Authority issued new travel documents to Palestinians in the occupied territories; Palestinian refugees in Lebanon, Egypt, and the rest of the Middle East continued to use the restrictive old wathiqa. Countries that allow Palestinians to visit or work differ from year to year, and from one political context to another, though those from Gaza (as well as Lebanon) remain the most rejected of all Palestinians. Those of us who lived under Israeli occupation had an additional and equally useless document, the laissez-passer (French for 鈥渓et them pass鈥�), which was issued by Israel to distinguish between occupied Palestinians and Israeli citizens, who had full travel rights. The Israeli document, however, never lived up to its name鈥攊t served to restrict our movement, rather than facilitate it.

These documents were meant to be used only outside the borders of occupied Palestine, or Palestinian refugee camps scattered all over the Middle Eastern Diaspora. In Palestine itself, the system is far more complex and dehumanizing. 

Kafkaesque Reality 

On Sept. 13, 1993, the unwise PLO leadership signed . The agreement granted the PLO鈥攏ot the Palestinian people鈥攔ecognition by Israel. In exchange, the Palestinian organization, which had ceased to meaningfully represent Palestinians, Israel鈥檚 right to exist. The latter move may seem innocuous, but it was not. Aside from the philosophical that states are political creations and have no inherent moral right to exist, Israel鈥檚 existence is taking place at the expense of the erasure of the Palestinian people鈥攐ur political rights, our culture, our language, and more.

That agreement essentially certified that Israel had the right to exist on top of the very Palestinian villages that were ethnically cleansed during the Nakba. It forfeited, with the stroke of a Norwegian pen and a U.S. stamp of approval, the rights of the Palestinian refugees to their original homeland. Palestinian proponents of the agreement at the time argued that fundamental issues such as refugees, water, borders, and the status of Jerusalem were . To date, no such discussions have occurred.

Instead, into three distinct territorial zones, each to be governed by different military ordinances. Israel never truly respected the zoning system it crafted to corral Palestinians behind , , fences, and bypass roads. Israel invades any region, in any zone, at any time, at will; it carries out , , , and the , mostly ancient olive groves. But for Palestinians, the zones still matter, as each zone includes , cutting off communities and families from one another, separating farmers from their land, students and teachers from their schools, and so on.  

Life in Gaza, at least prior to the ongoing war-turned-genocide and famine starting on Oct. 7, 2023, represented a different kind of struggle. It was, in the words of current British foreign secretary , who visited Gaza in 2010 in his capacity as prime minister, an 鈥渙pen-air prison.鈥� Gaza is constantly surveilled by Israeli guards, who keep an armed, watchful eye from land, air, and sea. 

This reality was not the only context behind the Oct. 7 attacks, but is certainly a main motivator behind the Palestinian resistance in the Gaza Strip. It turned out that humans have a certain tolerance level to oppression and an innate desire to be free. 

No Right to Human Rights 

Little has changed in Israel鈥檚 rhetoric around Palestinian existence in the 55 years since Golda Meir insisted there was no such thing as Palestine. On March 19, 2023, Israel鈥檚 far-right finance minister Bezalel Smotrich : 鈥淭here is no such thing as a Palestinian people.鈥� A day later, then U.S. national security spokesperson that 鈥渨e [in the U.S.] utterly object to this kind of language,鈥� saying it does little to 鈥渄e-escalate the tensions鈥� in the region. Like most U.S. officials, Kirby did not acknowledge Washington鈥檚 role in serving as the first line of defense against criticism or international sanctions against Israel, before or during the genocide. This diplomatic focus on language continues to obfuscate the brutal reality of an ongoing genocide鈥攑ainstakingly recorded by before the International Court of Justice at The Hague on Jan. 11, 2024.

But, in truth, we Palestinians also do not exist as far as U.S. foreign policy in the Middle East is concerned. When the Trump administration began implementing its 鈥�Deal of the Century,鈥� aimed at helping Israel 鈥渘ormalize鈥� its relations with Arab countries without resolving the question of the Israeli occupation of Palestine, it did so with no regard to Palestinians and their rights, which are in international law. After Palestinian leadership boycotted Jared Kushner鈥檚 2019 economic leadership conference in Bahrain, the son-in-law and senior adviser of former President Donald Trump 鈥渉ysterical and erratic.鈥� Trumpism remained committed to the same dehumanizing idea. Israel has to 鈥渇inish the problem鈥� in Gaza, on March 5, 2024, amid Israel鈥檚 genocidal war on the Strip.

鈥淭he right to have rights, or the right of every individual to belong to humanity, should be guaranteed by humanity itself. It is by no means certain whether this is possible,鈥� , a German American historian and philosopher, argued in 1949. She was responding to the adoption of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948鈥攊ncidentally, but also tellingly, the very year my people鈥檚 existence was being systematically destroyed in one of the greatest violations of the collective human rights of a single group in modern history.听

Indeed, without political context and legal recognition, human rights on their own are of little value, a mere recurring subject of repeated press releases by the likes of and (HRW). Incidentally, both organizations, along with Israel鈥檚 own rights group, , have recognized Israel as a fully fledged apartheid state. In response to a 2021 report by HRW, President Joe Biden鈥檚 state department , 鈥淚t is not the view of this administration that Israel鈥檚 actions constitute apartheid.鈥� This attitude is typical. For successive U.S. administrations, Israel鈥檚 actions do not matter. All that matters is the language, and only if it deviates from the U.S.-championed political discourse. This remains unchanged even when well over 100,000 Palestinians have been killed or wounded in Gaza in a matter of months.听

If the Palestinian struggle can be summed up in one phrase it would be a struggle against erasure. When Israel passed its so-called Nation State Law, it aimed at that 鈥渢he Jewish people have an exclusive and inalienable right to all parts of the Land of Israel.鈥� This exclusivity immediately and irreversibly denies the rights of the native Palestinians to their own land, and thus the to millions of Palestinian refugees expelled during the Nakba and the Naksa.听

United Nations General Assembly Resolution 194 insists that 鈥渞efugees wishing to return to their homes and live at peace with their neighbours should be permitted to do so at the earliest practicable date.鈥� That was 76 years ago. The refugees, my family included, are still waiting for the 鈥渆arliest practicable date鈥� to actualize. For Israel, is tantamount to calling for the eradication of Israel altogether. 

The dehumanization of Palestinians has been taking place for many years and is a functional element of the settler-colonial structure. In 1983, former Israeli army Chief of Staff described Palestinians as 鈥渄rugged cockroaches in a bottle.鈥� In October 2023, Israel鈥檚 ambassador to Germany, , said they are 鈥渂loodthirsty animals,鈥� echoing the words of Israeli defense minister who, three days earlier, had called Palestinians 鈥渉uman animals.鈥� With time, however, this dehumanizing language serves other functions aside from racial discrimination. The genocidal language became a precursor for genocide.听

Even before the latest war on Gaza resulted in the horrifying massacres of tens of thousands of mostly women and children, and the subsequent human-made lethal famine, the language of genocide has long been legible writing on the wall. Israeli heritage minister Amichai Eliyahu in November 2023 that one of Israel鈥檚 options in the war against Gaza could be to drop a nuclear bomb, while Israel鈥檚 minister for the advancement of women, May Golan, in March 2024 that she is 鈥減ersonally proud of the ruins of Gaza.鈥� Euro-Med Monitor, a human rights group, even evidence that Israeli forces 鈥渂rought Israeli civilians to watch鈥� Palestinians being tortured.

The Israelis, for once, are no longer expending much energy or time fending off accusations of genocide, which was accurately described by anti-Zionist Israeli historian as 鈥渢he first-ever televised genocide in modern times.鈥� Indeed, the masks have finally fallen, and the world is able to see the true face of Israeli settler colonialism in its ugliest manifestations. 

Patrick Wolfe鈥檚 words continue to ring true. The late Australian scholar and historian that 鈥渟ettler colonizers come to stay: invasion is a structure not an event.鈥� Genocide is an of this domineering structure, as Wolfe explains that settler colonialism 鈥�…perpetuates the erasure and destruction of native people as a precondition for settler colonialism and expropriation of lands and resources.鈥�

Although this understanding is becoming clearer to many in Western academic institutions, thanks to the relentless efforts of , Indigenous, Palestinian, , and other intellectuals, it is hardly a subject of debate in the Global South. In my visits to South Africa, Kenya, Australia, New Zealand, Hawai鈥榠, and my numerous interactions with Southern intellectuals, the intersectionality between the Palestinian cause and other Native struggles is neither an academic theory nor a debate. It is the only possible salvation to many nations that continue to struggle under the oppressive weight of marginalization and racism, within national frameworks, or colonialism and neocolonialism within an unfair, Western-inclined global system. 

We Do Exist 

Unlike my early years as a student in the U.S. and a young academic in Western institutions, I am now far more invested in building connections with people who understand, and even share, my positionality: dispossessed, marginalized, and even outright oppressed. 

This process, however, started with my own family, with my daughters and my son. Raising Palestinian children in the U.S. was always difficult, especially for those who live in small, isolated communities. The Sept. 11 terrorist attacks, however, made it even more difficult. Fearing for my kids鈥� safety, I simply stopped speaking our native Arabic to them in public. Racism and reached unprecedented levels. Eventually, we left the U.S., spending years in Malaysia, where my son was born. It was a needed respite. My greatest fears were that my kids would grow up hating themselves, abandoning their identities simply to 鈥渇it in,鈥� or worse, seeing themselves as perpetual victims. 

So their bedtime stories consisted of tales about two brave Palestinian girls, and eventually a boy, who traveled to Palestine to help liberate the people. With each quest, they learned about a new city or refugee camp. They learned about places, historic figures, and food. And each time, they flew over the sea to break prison walls, remove fences and checkpoints, always donning their precious kuffiyas, Palestinian traditional scarves. These stories, which we called 鈥淭he Palestinian Warrior Girls Express,鈥� helped them see themselves as fighters for a just cause, a legacy that continues to live with them many years later; one of them is a political activist with a Ph.D. in Palestine Studies, and the other is a health worker and future doctor, advocating for equal access to health care among marginalized communities in Washington state. 

It took years for this to happen, a process that is shared by many Palestinian American families across the country, each developing their own tools to stay close to home. Wherever we are in the world, Palestine is now part of our existence. Our food, clothes, spirituality, values, and daily conversations are all deeply rooted in our culture. With time, we grew sensitive to any injustice taking place anywhere, putting Palestinian American activists, writers, lawyers, and the like often at the forefront of any just struggle in the U.S. 

My hope grows stronger as I witness my people鈥檚 steadfastness in the face of genocide. I know that we will not be wished away by some Israeli politician empowered with U.S.-provided weapons and emboldened by the world鈥檚 support or silence. 听

I have a passport now, a U.S. one, though such citizenship resolved very little of my quandary. Yes, papers had granted me, at least in principle, access and the right to have rights, but they did not, nor should they, grant me an identity. My identity is not a piece of paper with colored stamps, but is defined through my struggle as a member of a collective that is fighting and dying to preserve our sense of peoplehood, against a backdrop of untold, rooted, and continuing injustices. 

Moreover, I no longer possess the laissez-passer of old. It was replaced by an alternative Palestinian Authority passport, which is, sadly, equally useless. Still, the new piece of paper, at least, declares that my nationality is 鈥淧alestinian鈥� (although still a refugee). 

It took me years to satisfy all the bureaucratic procedures, complicated by the distance and the Israeli occupation administration, to obtain similar papers for my children, who are also now proud 鈥淧alestinian refugees鈥� from the Gaza Strip. It was important for me鈥攁nd now, for them as well鈥攖hat the bond between us and the homeland is never severed. 

A piece of paper may grant you access, but identity is something you must seek for yourself. And in the case of my people, it is something we have to fight, and often die, for. 

She isn鈥檛 alone: A number of disabled workers given the opportunity to work remotely want to retain that privilege. After all, for some disabled people, this accommodation made it possible to advance their careers, improve the quality of their work, and become more active participants in workplace culture. For others, remote work had a more mixed effect. 

Abby Schindler, an autistic researcher in the Chicago suburbs, found that remote work came with positives, such as being able to manage sensory issues, as well as negatives: 鈥淎s someone who struggles to build social relationships, working from home gets very, very lonely and hard.鈥� 

, the unemployment rate in the United States hit 14.8% in April 2020, the highest since 1948鈥攖he first year in which this data was collected. By July of 2021, the unemployment rate had bounced back to 5.4%, still higher than February 2020, but an astounding recovery after being gripped in a pandemic-fueled economic crisis. A surprising population of workers had even more explosive employment growth: disabled people, who achieved a labor force participation rate . Given that the pandemic has due to long COVID, which affects as many as , exploring the reasons why is critically important.  

The popular explanation for was that the rapid transition to remote work across the country for disabled workers. But the truth is more complicated: Remote work is not a solution for everyone, for a variety of reasons. Furthermore, the availability of remote work should not be used to force disabled people out of the physical workplace. 

During the height of the pandemic, society briefly chose collective practice to protect each other. One standout example was remote work, which acted as a form of mass accommodation that benefited all employees, without forcing individuals to ask for it workplace by workplace. However, the ongoing conversation about how the nature of work has changed for everyone, including disabled people, may be putting too much emphasis on working from home. The conversation also tends to focus on one group of workers: those in professions that allow for remote work, while closing the discussion to much larger structural reforms. 

鈥淓mployers may have become more open to hiring people with disabilities because 鈥� there was the Great Resignation that accompanied the pandemic and lots of people dropped out of the labor market,鈥� says , Ph.D., director of the Center for Employment and Disability Research. O鈥橬eill is hesitant to attribute the rise in disability employment to a singular factor and points to improvements in hiring practices, as well as more flexible working conditions, such as , a practice that allows several workers to share a single full-time role. 

Remote work certainly was transformative for some disabled workers, such as Fiona Kennedy, an operations manager for a construction consulting firm, who says 鈥渞emote work saved my life.鈥� However, the truth is relatively few disabled people benefited from remote work.

There are two important reasons for this. One is flexible scheduling and better leave options: In a examining the rapid shift to remote work, researcher Jennifer Bennett Shinall found that 鈥渄isabled workers report far less access to these pandemic-relevant accommodations than do nondisabled workers.鈥� The other is , in which participation in certain careers and sectors of the economy is heavily mediated by race and/or disability status. For instance, the and executives are white is rooted in reality鈥攁nd while executives can work from home, janitors cannot. 

What the pandemic highlighted wasn鈥檛 just the benefits of remote work, but the need to move away from an individual, rights-based model of disability in the workplace to a larger cultural, social model, a conversation that will benefit a much larger swath of workers as well as society as a whole.

Equitable Not Equal

Under the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990 (ADA), which built on earlier legislation and policy, including the , , including at work. The ADA reflected a larger societal shift away from the charity model, in which disabled people were viewed as objects of pity, to one of broader social inclusion in which they were entitled to access to society.

鈥淚f there鈥檚 an event that affects everyone and there鈥檚 a solution that might address it in a way that preserves health and well-being, why not provide a mass accommodation relying on the infrastructure and process usually created on an individual basis and allow everyone to do what they do from home to the extent it鈥檚 possible?鈥� says , an assistant professor of law at Brooklyn Law School. 鈥淔or teaching, that turned out to be absolutely possible, particularly teaching adults in a legal education setting.鈥�

Lin鈥檚 work focuses on DisCrit, work that lies at the intersection of disability studies and critical race theory, and she鈥檚 very interested in how the pandemic illustrated that it was possible to move away from a 鈥渓iberal individualized model where you are responsible for your own safety and security by showing up to work鈥� to a more collective, social one. In Lin鈥檚 view, this 鈥渕ass accommodation鈥� allowed a huge percentage of the workforce to pivot overnight, accessing a tool disabled workers had been . 鈥淭he experience of having isolation and needing to innovate quickly to preserve health and well-being through policies that acknowledge interdependence to me was a huge potential cultural shift,鈥� she says.

In ordinary conditions, workplace accommodations take place through an individual 鈥溾�� that is supposed to include bargaining in good faith and negotiation on both sides, but ultimately leaves workers on their own. Prior to the pandemic, disabled workers who needed hybrid or remote work struggled to access that accommodation. And when emergency declarations expired, those mass accommodations ended as well. 

鈥淎fter a tooth-and-nail accommodations/disability discrimination fight with my employer that resulted in union, news, and federal civil rights agency intervention, I won the right to keep my remote work accommodations,鈥� says Heather Ringo, a graduate student and teacher. Unfortunately, the same is not true for many other disabled people, who were forced back into the workplace as shelter-in-place orders expired. 

But those employment protections aren鈥檛 available to , freelancers, and . An Uber driver with kidney disease who needs dependable restroom access is expected to manage it for themselves, for example, just as a freelance journalist who to write needs to purchase their own equipment. 

Meanwhile, accommodations ranging from a safe, clean space to take injectable insulin to seating in retail spaces can be a struggle for low-wage workers, many of whom must work in person. During the pandemic, these workers had to fight for even the most basic personal protective equipment, even as companies patted themselves on the back for offering various forms of hazard pay ().

The Pandemic Work Rebellion

Workers and bosses alike learned an important lesson during the pandemic: Workers have the power to shape their environments. The as the country opened back up highlighted the fact that more workers were willing to walk away from their jobs in a growing 鈥溾�� movement. The aftereffect of this is also apparent in a slew of opinions grousing about how Generation Z simply .

White-collar workers overall鈥攚ho are predominantly white, with 鈥攆ound that shifted dramatically when they were able to do it from home, and once they had a taste of freedom, they were reluctant to let it go. The call to return to the office triggered a revolt. In workplaces across the country, workers argued passionately for remote and hybrid options, insisting that the flexible hours of remote work were beneficial for the quality of their work, overall productivity, and happiness. 

Across industries, furious snowstorms of internal memos circulated, with workers drawing upon a growing body of research to make the case for remote and hybrid options. Some were also that remote work represented a revolutionary accommodation that must be protected now that society recognizes that it鈥檚 possible. The , often viewed by executives and upper management as an authority on innovations in business, crowed over how remote work .

For some disabled people, such as Casey Doherty, this was absolutely true. Doherty, who has illnesses that limit her energy, graduated into the pandemic, and is now struggling to find work. She expresses frustration with alienating job ads (鈥渕ust be able to lift 10 pounds鈥�), refusals to consider remote work, and the sense that 鈥渢his is the way things were done,鈥� so it鈥檚 the way things should be done forever.

鈥淲hy can鈥檛 we expand our understanding of what work can be?鈥� she asks, when talking about the career progress enabled by remote and hybrid options. But the question could and should be applied to a larger conversation. 

Who Really Benefits From Remote Work?

Researchers in fall 2020 estimated that only can be performed wholly remotely. However, conversations about the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic tend to erase the presence of the other 63% of jobs, particularly those of  鈥渆ssential workers,鈥� who were ordered to report to in-person jobs: the meat-packers, nurses, transit engineers, grocery store employees, power plant workers, and others who kept critical systems running. At times, it seemed that society at large felt entitled to the labor of these workers.

For those who must perform on-site work, the conversation about remote work can feel frustrating, a scene of privileged workers celebrating much-needed changes while ignoring the army of workers who made those changes possible.

鈥淭he fact that in in which there was the highest level of COVID deaths were industries in which Black workers are predominant is incredibly telling, because it rests on this history of racial capitalism in which hard labor, manual labor, labor that is associated often with nonwhite communities 鈥ould not be outsourced,鈥� explains Lin. 鈥淲hen essential workers who continued to show up to work during the pandemic physically were celebrated, they actually had their exposure to severe harm and death become the very reason they were deemed essential.鈥� 

Lin explains that the explosion in labor organizing during the pandemic highlighted the collective fight of workers, such as those at Amazon fulfillment centers. 鈥淎ctivists are in a position to point to the ways in which life is made better, but for whom,鈥� she says. 鈥淭here were multiple, basically mass-structural accommodations during COVID that still broke along lines of privilege versus inequality,鈥� where workers with preexisting social and cultural power received more support than historically marginalized ones. 

Remote work, or a traditional accommodations process, can鈥檛 fix occupational segregation and related disparities. True progress in disability employment requires a societal shift from the way that the law, and our larger culture, currently view disabled workers, toward a world in which society is 鈥渘ot entitled to our deaths,鈥� as disability activist Mia Mingus wrote on her popular blog, , in 2022. This necessitates solidarity across cultural and social identities, and across workers. As Lin notes in a forthcoming paper, 鈥淩ather than letting vulnerable professional staff with [less] access to resources fall through the cracks,鈥� bargaining by unionized Albuquerque teachers benefited students and staff collectively.

The conversation about disability employment needs to track not just jobs, : Are disabled people in roles with fair pay, benefits, and opportunities for advancement, or are they pushed into low-status roles? When the distribution across different kinds of jobs is weighted, does remote work really explain the rise in disability employment? And when this conversation excludes the racialized nature of disability and low-wage jobs, is it really representative of the employment landscape as a whole?

The mass accommodations offered during the pandemic provided a glimpse of a world in which disability inclusion is, as Lin notes, folded into the idea of universal design of workplaces. Access to remote work has indisputably changed individual lives, but meaningful solutions lie in shifting the conversation away from one very specific accommodation issue that affects a particular class of workers to disabled workers as a whole, and the deliberate social choices that perpetuate economic and social inequality across race and disability status. Expanding that conversation opens the way to bold solutions, such as ensuring that all jobs are good jobs, dismantling occupational segregation, and promoting collective freedom rather than individual struggle. 

Thinking through every moment of your existence in this way is not only exhausting, it鈥檚 confining. But what if we lived in a world where access鈥攖o medical treatment, to the workplace, to basic enjoyment鈥攚as not treated as an afterthought, but was embedded in every element of our society instead?

As we watch a genocide unfold in the Gaza Strip, it鈥檚 important to remember that access of any kind is predicated on safety. Ramzy Baroud, Ph.D., a native Gazan, journalist, and a Palestinian studies scholar, gives voice to what happens when that safety is denied in his stunning essay about the ongoing fight for displaced Palestinians to seek safe haven without losing sight of where they鈥檝e come from. When your physical homeland has been destroyed, how do you hold on to your sense of home, and your people鈥檚 roots?

That guiding question has helped us shape this issue. Disability communities have long modeled what it means to fight for equitable access to our institutions, so it was imperative for us to include some of that community鈥檚 leading activists. Alice Wong offers a generous and beautiful op-ed about the obstacles she faces in the medical system and the ways she and other disabled people effectively advocate for themselves. We also recruited s.e. smith, an author who has appeared in several issues, to explore the remote work 鈥渞evolution鈥� and question who actually benefits from it.

As always, we have some fun too: Our very own Sonali Kolhatkar honors the special role libraries play in our lives, while Amelia Diehl spotlights the clean air clubs making it safer for high-risk folks to enjoy events by decreasing their chances of contracting severe COVID-19 when gathering. This issue includes stories about everything from gender-affirming care to the importance of preserving traditional music in Morocco, but above all, it helps us recognize that access is 别惫别谤测辞苍别鈥檚 responsibility.听

Advocating for access should not fall on the shoulders of those already fighting to be seen; it鈥檚 incumbent on us all, collectively, to ensure that the world we inhabit is as considerate as possible of 别惫别谤测辞苍别鈥檚 needs. Achieving true liberation starts with ensuring we all have equal access, adopting the North Star of the disability community as a North Star for us all.

Be well,
Evette Dionne

The RICO indictment itself states that the 鈥渃riminal activity鈥� didn鈥檛 begin when we started organizing against Cop City in the spring of 2021, but instead a full year before, on May 25, 2020, when a Minneapolis police officer murdered George Floyd. For the State, a 鈥渃riminal enterprise鈥� was born when people poured into the streets demanding justice, abolition, defunding, and alternatives to police interactions with the public. While masses of people were inspired鈥攄uring the height of the COVID-19 pandemic鈥攖o protest the ongoing police murders of Black people, the state of Georgia instead determined this collective exercise of free speech a criminal act.

The State鈥檚 level of attack on the Stop Cop City movement establishes a deliberate and frightening trend. In Atlanta, we have witnessed, in addition to the racketeering charges, the killing of , with no one held accountable; ; and the arrest of the leaders of . These actions are designed not only to criminalize the movement but to redirect its efforts toward defending arrested comrades while destroying the infrastructure that supports movement work.听

Across the country, increasingly draconian laws have been passed to create extensive civil and criminal penalties for protest. Oklahoma and Iowa have enacted laws for hitting protesters. Indiana and Minnesota now bar people convicted of or receiving unemployment insurance, housing support, or student loans. Florida Gov. Ron DeSantis signed a new law in April 2021 that he bragged was 鈥渢he strongest anti-looting, anti-rioting, pro-law-enforcement piece of legislation in the country.鈥� In other words: anti-protest, anti鈥揊irst Amendment, and pro-criminalization.听

, who have organized against the construction of a new pipeline, have also had their organizing criminalized. Between December 2020 and September 2021, more than with protest-related crimes. Many of those charges were later dismissed, but the State isn鈥檛 always after a conviction鈥攄raining movement energy and resources through lawsuits suffices. 

Land defenders in the Black Hills have been for standing against the continued occupation and disfigurement of their land. Protesters against the Israeli genocide have now become , as well as a wider media and government narrative that projects them as antisemitic as opposed to anti-genocide. In Atlanta鈥檚 Cop City fight, open records requests exposed a 鈥攐ne that included all levels of municipal, county, and state police; Homeland Security; and the Atlanta Police Foundation鈥攕trategizing on how to bring domestic terrorism charges against Cop City organizers. 

The protest landscape today is reminiscent of that in the 1960s and 鈥�70s, when police, prosecutors, and courts acted in alignment to crack down on radical activists and civil rights protesters. These same forces are uniting today against direct action led by leftist organizers, similar to when federal and state authorities teamed up to conduct surveillance and targeted operations on protest movements in years past. This targeting by State actors led not only to the attempted criminalization of organizers but also to the killing of activists like Chicago Black Panther Party leader Fred Hampton in 1969. If you are challenging the State on how resources are spent or how communities are policed, the State is going to respond with all the tools it has to defeat you.听

We must not give up the fight. We must create structures and support systems to expose and overcome the abuse of power. A mass defense structure is crucial鈥攖his includes legal observers, bail funds, and movement lawyers to support organizers who are targeted by the State. 

Additionally, we need media teams that support the movement narrative on important battles. Creating spaces for organizations and individual activists to meet, plan strategies and objectives, and build collective support is likewise key. In Atlanta, some of these tools are being attacked because they鈥檙e so effective in supporting organizers to get back into the streets and continue the fight. Power needs to be in the hands of the people鈥攁nd for that to happen, the people must be organized to combat state repression. 

Despite the record increase of women in Congress and elsewhere, including and , the nation is far from achieving gender parity. In 2024, on the eve of what鈥檚 being called the most consequential election of the past eight years, the spikes that began six years ago have plateaued. While the surge of women running qualifies as an important trend, the trend is far from the norm. The problem, say experts like and , is that the obstacles to women candidates that have always existed鈥攎oney, lack of institutional support, and a male-dominated culture鈥攁re still in place, and are more daunting for women of color and other marginalized constituencies than for whites. This, despite the fact that women have outvoted for the past 40 years. 

鈥淩acism and sexism have converged to ensure there are few women in office, even fewer women of color,鈥� says Cohen, founder and president of . 鈥淭here are more resources for women now. There is momentum to have a more diverse elected class that looks more like America. But our system has so many barriers to that happening.鈥� And those barriers aren鈥檛 new. One is economic: A from the Center for American Women and Politics (CAWP) at Rutgers University notes that salaries for elected office in many states are frequently too low to meet working women鈥檚 needs, which often include childcare. It鈥檚 another way women are underpaid, a long-standing problem that鈥檚 part of a larger context of structural problems, through which Cohen says we should always view the state of women in electoral politics. As she says, 鈥淗istory matters.鈥� 

Still, the recent rise in the number of women in elected office is significant. The CAWP reports that after the 2022 election, the number of women serving in Congress rose to a new high of 149, or nearly 30% of all seats鈥攖hat鈥檚 106 Democrats, 42 Republicans, and one Independent. With 91 Democrats and 33 Republican women serving in the House of Representatives, women marked a new House record. The 25 women serving in the U.S. Senate鈥�15 Democrats and nine Republicans鈥攆ell one short of the record. Four more women serve as nonvoting delegates (i.e., those who represent the District of Columbia and U.S. territories) to the U.S. House. What鈥檚 more, the 118th Congress swore in one of the most ethnically diverse groups of women officeholders in the U.S. House to date, boasting new highs in representation for Black and Latina women.

At the same time, in 2022 due to retirement, running for another office, or primary or general election defeat鈥攖he highest number in U.S. history. Attrition is normal, but for women, who are still trying as a demographic to get a foothold in electoral politics, the 2022 departures could be a red flag. 

Dittmar, associate professor of political science at Rutgers and CAWP鈥檚 director of research, says that attrition could be due to burnout. 鈥淔or a while there was a greater sense of urgency鈥� for women to run for office, she says. 鈥淏ut have we moved from urgency to exhaustion?鈥� Dittmar says that in 2024, unlike other years, there鈥檚 no catalyzing event to make women want to throw their hats into the ring鈥攕uch as the racial reckoning sparked by the police murder of George Floyd, the revelations of the #MeToo movement, the COVID-19 pandemic, or the Supreme Court overturning Roe v. Wade. While all these events continue to impact politics鈥攖he loss of abortion rights in particular will be in the 2024 election鈥攖he shock of invigorating events that compelled women to run for office has faded.

But that doesn鈥檛 mean they aren鈥檛 engaged. Dittmar鈥檚 2023 CAWP study, 鈥�,鈥� takes a closer look across five states at the ways in which women build power, including but not limited to winning elected office. 鈥淢otivation to run can be different for women,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not always a career move. There are different calculations.鈥� 

Dittmar says that women effect political change in ways that are not reflected in the numbers elected to office. For example, women of color work to shore up voting rights and are part of a rich history of local activism. The 鈥淩ethinking鈥� research shows that they exert as much influence on elected officials鈥� decision-making as high-level staffers do鈥攊nfluence that鈥檚 low-profile by nature but ultimately helps shape policy. 

The study also found there are existing support infrastructures for women in politics, such as networking and advocacy groups, that are helpful but insufficient. (鈥淪upport infrastructure鈥� is broadly defined and includes aid in education, preparation, recruitment, mentorship, camaraderie, coping, and achieving professional success for women seeking and/or holding political power.) Where support infrastructures do exist, they do not equally serve all women. Such infrastructures are overly reliant on volunteers, short on support for current officeholders and related positions like consultants and lobbyists, and rarely designed to serve women at intersections of race and gender. In many cases, Dittmar says, women鈥檚 political organizations are led and/or resourced by white women. 

While these impediments are sobering, they don鈥檛 seem to discourage women from seeking office. She Should Run, a nonprofit group promoting women as candidates, found in a 2023 鈥溾�� survey conducted with YWCA and UN Women that 22% of women surveyed were fired up to run for office. 

Being encouraged to run by friends, family, colleagues, and mentors is a big factor, especially with Black women, who have to be repeatedly encouraged to run before they actually do, and who have a history of working for change in their communities. Asian women were least likely to run for office, while Native American women were most likely to view politics in a positive light and to see themselves as leaders. 

The report鈥檚 key finding is that the majority of women surveyed were motivated to address problems closest to them, which go beyond gender equity. In other words, women were most likely to take action on issues related to children, health, education, and poverty, but their broader concerns include the economy, climate change, reproductive health, racism, and gun violence. This is especially true of women who are Gen X and younger.

Dittmar says it is also important to examine what elected women are doing to address the growing number of issues they care about. Access is important, but it鈥檚 only a means to an end. 鈥淧ower is not just about getting there, it鈥檚 about being in the room,鈥� she says. 鈥淒oes a Black woman in the room have the power to disrupt the room, to change the conversation, change the policy debates? That鈥檚 the question.鈥� 

The 鈥淩ethinking鈥� report found via interviews of political figures in Georgia, Nevada, Illinois, Oklahoma, and Pennsylvania that women officials still struggle to establish that kind of power. Compounding this struggle is the fact that women remain underrepresented in influential non-elected positions such as donors, staff, political appointees, consultants, campaign strategists, and managers. This amounts to underrepresentation in elected offices at all levels. 

, still a distinct minority, but also a record high number. Dittmar says gubernatorial races can actually be tougher to access and win than federal races. 鈥淭he question that faces women is, are you capable of being a sole executive?鈥� she says. Governorships are also highly competitive, i.e., more sought-after by men. According to recent CAWP data, women are not much better represented at the municipal level鈥攄espite popular belief to the contrary鈥攊ncluding on school boards, which are often seen as attracting grassroots candidates and aligning with issues traditionally associated with women, such as education and kids.

But even if the numbers were better, it would not necessarily be good for women. For example, the Republican Party, long seen by many as unfriendly to women鈥檚 rights and feminism, includes many prominent conservative women such as Reps. Marjorie Taylor Greene, Elise Stefanik, and Lauren Boebert (dubbed in a recent article by The Washington Post as the 鈥溾��).&苍产蝉辫;

Boosting their political agenda are right-wing women-led groups like Moms for Liberty leading the fight against LGBTQ rights, Black history education, and other favored targets of Trump鈥檚 MAGA movement. Underpinning these groups is an overwhelmingly white Christian evangelical movement. 

In fact, Trump won the majority of white female votes in 2016 and 2020, according to exit polls. 鈥淲e know why white women supported Donald Trump鈥攂ecause they鈥檝e been aligning with white male power forever,鈥� says Dittmar. 鈥淭hey benefit from white supremacy.鈥� 

The fact that the GOP鈥檚 agenda is increasingly antithetical to women鈥檚 rights complicates efforts to increase the party鈥檚 female representation. In a 2019 New York Times piece, Cohen wrote that because of this agenda, female Republican elected officials were becoming an endangered species and women were leaving the party in droves. It was up to a handful of moderates like Sen. Lisa Murkowski of Alaska to pull the GOP back from the brink by serving as models for other Republican women. That didn鈥檛 happen, even though Trump lost the election in 2020, and Murkowski, one of the few GOP senators who voted to convict Trump in the second impeachment for his role in inciting an insurrection, is still in office.

On the Democratic side, Cohen says the liberal party is responding to voter pressure to counteract Trumpism but is not dealing with underlying biases within the party. 

Women鈥檚 political participation is also hampered by the threat of violence, mostly from the extreme right, whose views are fueled by religious fervor. For women in office or those thinking of running, 鈥渢he cost of service is too high,鈥� Cohen says. She adds that it鈥檚 no accident that 鈥渢his is all spiraling after [the] Obama years,鈥� when the GOP鈥檚 overt antipathy toward a Black president opened the door to antipathy toward other groups. 鈥淕ender hostility and racial hostility go hand in hand.鈥澨�

So what can be done to increase access and sustain interest? Many solutions were put forth in a 2021 report by the Center for American Progress assessing women鈥檚 status in politics and leadership. Despite the alarmingly antidemocratic nature of the Jan. 6 insurrection, the election itself was seen as a hopeful moment, with Kamala Harris becoming the first female, first Black, and first Indian American woman to become vice president. Record numbers of women of color and LGBTQ candidates ran for offices across the country in 2020鈥攁nd won.听

Still, the report acknowledged progress was slow and recommended recruiting more women of color and candidates outside of existing networks; increasing funding for women candidates, especially in open-seat elections that offer the best opportunities for women of color, LGBTQ candidates, and marginalized women; combating the influence of big donors by getting cities and states to adopt small-donor public financing of elections; increasing legislative pay; and requiring legislatures to adopt family-friendly workplace policies. 

Perhaps the most obvious, but most important, recommendation is the report鈥檚 last one: fostering an atmosphere of equity and respect on the campaign trail by rooting out sexual harassment, racism, homophobia, and other abuses. Changing the culture is the surest and best way to open access and ensure equitable outcomes not just for women, but for everyone. 

When Rachel consulted ob-gyns, they either told her they wouldn鈥檛 provide an abortion or declined to provide recommendations. And since her insurance doesn鈥檛 cover abortion care, she鈥檇 have to pay the expensive fee out of pocket. 鈥淚 just wanted it to be over with,鈥� she says.

Feeling judged and scared, she and her mom turned to the internet, where they found a virtual abortion clinic. From there, the process was quick and straightforward: Rachel answered some screening questions to ensure she was a good candidate for medication abortion, chatted with a provider, and within days, the pills鈥攎ifepristone and misoprostol鈥攚ere delivered to her door. Now, Rachel says she would choose telehealth again if she were in need of an abortion. 鈥淚 liked that it was discreet and it was cheaper than other options.鈥� 

To be sure, many people are not as lucky as Rachel, a pseudonym we鈥檙e using to protect her identity. Even before Roe v. Wade was overturned in 2022, abortion deserts鈥攄efined as cities or towns located more than 100 miles from an abortion facility鈥攃overed large swaths of the United States, while many states had already instituted burdensome gestation restrictions and mandated waiting periods. was also being used to keep some of the most financially precarious communities from accessing abortion care.

In the two years since Dobbs v. Jackson Women鈥檚 Health Organization, abortion access has become even graver; near or total abortion bans, rendering entire regions of the country abortion deserts. But, despite the fear and shame that tends to cloud the subject, seeking abortion care should be as easy as securing any other telehealth prescription: a few clicks, messages exchanged, and then picking up the mail. 

In December 2021, the U.S. Food and Drug Administration , while professional organizations, including the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, endorsed a telehealth abortion model. These legislative and organizational changes, coupled with , have revolutionized abortion care in the U.S.

It鈥檚 important to note that telehealth is not for everyone and some abortion patients want or need to go to a clinic. So, while avoiding the clinics is empowering for some, we all deserve access to care that works best for us. 

Finding Freedom in Virtual Clinics

While the future of mifepristone access in the U.S. depends on a , easy, convenient, and compassionate in-home abortion care continues to be an option for many. It鈥檚 still legal to access virtual clinics in 24 states and Washington, D.C., and now are happening through these clinics. The latest science from at the University of California, San Francisco, a research group I am affiliated with, shows that abortion via telehealth is . In fact, medication abortion overall is regarded as safer than many common medications including .

In response to the 2022 Supreme Court ruling, some states began passing proactive abortion protections, making abortion care in those states more accessible. Six states have begun passing , which allow health care providers to send pills to patients across state lines, while some people are even securing these pills on their own through what鈥檚 referred to as a 鈥渟elf-managed abortion.鈥� 

Research I鈥檝e worked on regarding self-managed abortion indicates that many people inaccurately believe it to be unsafe across the board (e.g., they think of 鈥渃oat hanger鈥� abortions). In actuality, even the World Health Organization recognizes medication abortion without doctors to be .

, when grassroots feminist activists in Brazil discovered that misoprostol, initially developed and prescribed as an ulcer medication, has abortifacient properties. This discovery led to the creation of whisper networks and 鈥溾�� groups, which have since spread throughout Latin America. The groups are now equipped with online tools like WhatsApp to and provide emotional support. 

After decades of protests led by these feminist movements, several predominantly Catholic Latin American countries鈥�, , and 鈥攄ecriminalized abortion. While many pregnant people in these countries can now enter local abortion clinics for the first time, pregnant people in the U.S., some of whom can no longer access clinics, are now reclaiming abortion freedom from the comfort of their homes.

The most recent data indicates that around have attempted a self-managed abortion, which is likely an underestimation. And in with abortion pills, 96.4% successfully completed their abortion without needing an additional procedure and only 1% experienced a medical emergency.

Dana Johnson, Ph.D., an abortion researcher at , is tracking this trend in the U.S. She鈥檚 particularly excited about the emergence of 鈥渁dvance provision鈥� in abortion care, where people can order 鈥渏ust in case鈥� abortion pills online before they鈥檙e even pregnant.

While there are various websites offering abortion pills, , run by Dutch physician Rebecca Gomperts, is one of the most recognizable names in the game. AidAccess ships advance-provision abortion pills across the U.S., even to states with active abortion bans, which Johnson says helps reduce the anxiety for those fearful of a hypothetical pregnancy: 鈥淭hey won鈥檛 have to wait for shipping times,鈥� she says. 鈥淭hey don鈥檛 have to worry about someone intercepting the mail. They can tailor it to their lives.鈥澨�

Johnson and her at the University of Texas, Austin, which has surveyed people across the U.S., have found that a lot of the people who order pills in advance are folks with health issues for whom a pregnancy could be dangerous and even deadly. They鈥檙e right to be worried, as story after story has emerged about pregnant people being unable to receive abortions even in the face of .  

Some people, Johnson notes, are even ordering these pills so that they might be able to help someone else with an unwanted pregnancy. 鈥淭hey were really proud to share medications with the people in their networks. They definitely viewed themselves as activists,鈥� Johnson says. 鈥淎nd a lot of these people who we spoke to weren鈥檛 necessarily activists before.鈥� 

Politicians can close down abortion clinics and pass increasingly draconian bills, but at the end of the day, ( believe abortion should be legal in at least some circumstances). If anything, research such as Johnson鈥檚 shows that people are more engaged and knowledgeable on abortion than ever before. 

Abortion in the Medicine Cabinet

In a country with abysmally high , particularly for Black people, and where , having abortion pills in the medicine cabinet is a prudent safety precaution. Johnson recalls one interviewee telling her, 鈥溾�榊ou wouldn鈥檛 live in a house that didn鈥檛 have a fire extinguisher,鈥� and that鈥檚 why she bought the pills.鈥� Another respondent compared it to traveling with an EpiPen. Perspectives like these offer a new way of thinking about abortion: Rather than treating it as a scary, shameful experience, abortion pills can simply be a part of one鈥檚 health care arsenal, tucked on the shelf between Tums and Advil.

Other parts of the health industry that were historically considered radical or fringe have also become part and parcel of health care with widely expanded access. Consider mental health, for instance鈥攁n area of health care long , with a history of criminalizing patients or relegating them to . Now, thanks to the , insurance companies must cover mental health care, and it鈥檚 possible to use telehealth to see a therapist and/or a psychiatrist.听

Getting antidepressants or antipsychotics today can be as simple as seeing a doctor on video and picking up the medicine. You can even keep anti-anxiety pills on hand in case of a panic attack. Why should abortion pills be any different? 

While sexual and reproductive health care are often deemed the most sensitive or controversial aspects of health care, other medicines within this realm have been mostly destigmatized in order to increase access. For starters, people who are concerned about HIV can now take (pre-exposure prophylaxis), a precautionary pill that lessens the chances of contracting the illness, or PEP (post-exposure prophylaxis) after a potential encounter. 

There are also virtual clinics for HIV/AIDS prevention, including , which also provides contraception, mental health care, and herpes treatment. Even Plan B, which is closer to the cultural land mine of abortion than other medications, is now available over the counter. Doctors can prescribe the medication to patients who want to have it on hand just in case, rather than needing to jump through hoops for access in a moment of crisis. 

Bringing Back Your Period 

, which refer to a regimen of mifepristone and misoprostol used in a different way, might be the final frontier in the transformation of our understanding of abortion. Imagine this: Your period is a few days late and you鈥檙e worried you might accidentally be pregnant. Some, like Rachel, would take a pregnancy test and schedule an abortion. However, for those who don鈥檛 want to have an abortion or don鈥檛 have access to the procedure, these pills can simply 鈥渂ring your period back.鈥� You鈥檒l never have to know whether you were pregnant or whether your period was simply late for other reasons. 

Wendy Sheldon, Ph.D., the lead scientist on , found that interest in period pills in the U.S. 鈥渃ould be substantial.鈥� During her study, which included nearly 700 people across nine clinics, she and her team found that 70% of patients who didn鈥檛 want to be pregnant said they were interested in taking period pills without a pregnancy test. 鈥淚t was enormous,鈥� Sheldon says. Indeed, she and her team were surprised to find no difference in the levels of interest between blue and red states, indicating that even people living in states where abortion access is protected would be interested in period pills. 

Then why have most people never heard of them? While period pills are technically legal across the country, they are caught in the ideological crosshairs of the abortion debates. On one end, groups who seek to ban or highly restrict abortion view period pills as indistinguishable from abortion鈥攖hese days, anti-abortion groups argue that more and more parts of reproductive health care, like or , should be considered abortion. On the other end of the ideological spectrum, abortion-rights groups view period pills as reinforcing abortion stigma, and that empowering people to circumvent a pregnancy test and an abortion contradicts the talking point that abortion is a normal part of health care. 

Additionally, while period pills have been embraced in countries with poor abortion access around the world (from to ), physicians in the U.S. are skeptical. Some, Sheldon notes, are unwilling to prescribe abortion pills in what鈥檚 currently considered 鈥渙ff label,鈥� meaning, these pills are only officially approved to be used after a positive pregnancy test. 鈥淚 think everyone knows that it鈥檚 safe,鈥� Sheldon says, before adding the caveat, 鈥淲e don鈥檛 have enough data yet to publicly convince clinicians.鈥� But in order to get this data, researchers and clinics need funding. Sheldon, for one, was working on a newer study testing the efficacy of period pills but ran out of funding and had to shutter the research. 

Ushma Upadhyay, Ph.D., is a researcher currently leading the first clinical trial on , but recruiting clinics and participants for the study has been difficult. 鈥淭he main obstacle to recruiting people into the study is that people just don鈥檛 know it鈥檚 a thing,鈥� she says. 鈥淚t鈥檚 not mainstream yet. It hasn鈥檛 been accepted.鈥� Despite the difficulties, the research must go on. Upadhyay envisions a future in which people鈥攑roviders and patients alike鈥斺�渆mbrace the unknown鈥� as well as the complexity of pregnancy and abortion. 

If we, as a society, can embrace this complexity, we can forge into this new phase of abortion freedom, where it is so normalized that patients can chat with a primary care provider or even urgent care and pick up misoprostol at a nearby pharmacy without worrying about being shamed, let alone arrested. 

Across these various cases, one thing remains clear: While abortion is more restricted than ever before, freedom also abounds. Amid horror story after horror story鈥攅specially for those whose pregnancy requires in-clinic care鈥攖here are also people taking back their bodily autonomy. Abortion pills keep us safe in the face of bans, whether we order them on an app, keep them on hand, or use them in novel ways. While politicians seek to squash this idea, abortion should remain easy, convenient, and stress-free鈥攁nd we, regardless of what happens at the Supreme Court this summer, have the power to help our communities ourselves. 

However, the legacy of colonialism worked to nearly sever this symbiotic relationship by imposing barriers and invisibilizing Indigenous food systems. The Stevens Treaties of 1855, for example, led to Native nations ceding millions of acres of our ancestral homelands to the United States government in exchange for rights that would protect and continue our way of life for future generations. These obligations remain the law to this day. 

But these, like so many Native rights throughout history, have too often been undermined and broken. From land dispossession to environmental degradation, the obstacles Indigenous communities face in order to obtain access to traditional foods are numerous and deeply entrenched. 

But so are the victories. 

In the 1960s and early 鈥�70s, numerous tribes in the Pacific Northwest led a movement to uphold treaty rights and honor our sacred responsibility to protect vital salmon populations. My mother-in-law, Georgianna 鈥淧eachie鈥� Ungaro, spent her life as a ceremonial fisher for the Suquamish Tribe and was one of the many women who fought fearlessly during what came to be called the Fish Wars. She recalled the experience of fishing for Chinook salmon (or 鈥渒ing salmon鈥�) in Elliott Bay. 鈥淲hen you get out on the water, you can smell the salmon,鈥� she said. 鈥淚t is a spiritually uplifting moment. And, God, I just love it. The smell always reminds us to give thanks for the salmon, and for that, we always had a good season.鈥�

The Fish Wars represent a pivotal chapter in the history of Indigenous resistance, culminating in the 1974 Boldt decision that ruled in favor of Native rights.

This landmark case not only reaffirmed Indigenous fishing rights but also recognized tribes as equal partners in resource management. This was a watershed moment in the struggle for Indigenous sovereignty, heralding a new era of cooperation and empowerment.

The legacy of the Boldt decision extends far beyond legal victories, embodying the enduring spirit of Indigenous resilience and the interconnectedness of Indigenous rights and environmental justice. It also serves as a reminder of the ongoing struggle for food sovereignty a half-century later. 

Today, as Indigenous communities address the repercussions of historical trauma and systemic oppression, the fight for food access and restoration remains as urgent as ever. As we work hard to address the barriers obstructing our vital connection to our heritage, we are fueled by the significance of our culinary traditions, the echoes of past struggles to uphold our kinship, and the ongoing commitments to strengthen food sovereignty in our communities.

Celebrating Indigenous foodways is significant and offers profound learnings, but it also requires us to confront the barriers and threats that continue to impede us from doing the restoration work we require. Environmental degradation, loss of habitat, and the erosion of our food heritage pose daunting challenges to food access and Indigenous sovereignty. Moreover, the commodification and industrialization of food have further displaced traditional Indigenous foods, exacerbating health disparities.

To address these challenges, we must embrace a holistic approach to Indigenous food sovereignty, one that recognizes the interconnectedness of land, culture, and community. This entails reclaiming ancestral lands, revitalizing traditional food systems, and fostering partnerships with allies committed to honoring sovereignty, as well as environmental and social justice. By centering Indigenous voices and experiences, we can amplify the call for systemic change and build a more just and sustainable future that truly feeds us all.  

Chinook Salmon in Parchment

This cooking method locks in the salmon鈥檚 natural flavors and also pays homage to ancestral Coast Salish culinary techniques, which use various seaweeds and waxy leafed plants in place of the parchment. As Ungaro describes cooking salmon, 鈥淭heir beautiful meat is dripping with good fat, and that is their medicine.鈥� 

• Preheat the oven to 400 degrees F
• Season a 4-to-6-ounce salmon fillet with salt, pepper, and garlic powder听
• Lay the seasoned fish on a sheet of parchment paper large enough to fully envelop the salmon
• Add a tablespoon of water or vegetable broth to enhance moisture and flavor听
• Seal the parchment paper securely, perhaps with a silent acknowledgment of gratitude
• Place the wrapped fish on a baking sheet and put into the oven
• Bake for 15 minutes. Makes one serving.听

When I tweeted about this article, people were shocked that a young disabled person had lived in a hospital for five years. But it didn鈥檛 surprise me at all, even decades after the passage of the Americans With Disabilities Act in 1990 and , a 1999 Supreme Court ruling that found it鈥檚 tantamount to segregation to force disabled people, who could otherwise live in the broader community, to live in institutions. The Olmstead ruling also insisted that public entities must provide community-based services for those who wish to use them. This is a struggle I understand intimately.

Born with a neuromuscular disability, I am a wheelchair user and have a tracheostomy, a hole in my throat connected to a ventilator that allows me to breathe. I have a team of caregivers who work for me around the clock. Medicaid covers some of the cost, but I also have to crowdfund out-of-pocket costs that total $840 per day. This is not sustainable, yet here I am, treading water until a medical or financial crisis forces me to abandon the family I鈥檝e built with my cats, .

Some disabled people must live in a nursing home or hospital due to their complex medical needs and the lack of and . Medicaid, , is structured in a way that forces disabled people into impossible situations. States are required to provide care in institutions, but community-based services are optional, often with long waitlists. found that nearly 700,000 people with disabilities are on lists for these services, with an average waiting period of three years. Ratcliff is one of many people who have their entire lives on hold because of institutional bias. 

Two years ago, I was in the ICU, which left me unable to speak or eat by mouth. I was determined to return home, but we could not find the additional help I needed. When my sisters relayed this to the discharge planner, he matter-of-factly said we had two choices: Family members would have to indefinitely fill in the gaps, or I could be transferred to a facility outside of the county. I burst into tears. I raged silently, but my face expressed my terror at this prospect. I felt so powerless and fragile, tethered to structural ableism designed to warehouse people like me purely because of our bodies. I have always been vulnerable and dependent on others, but in that moment, I, like so many disabled people, was seen as nothing but a burden, a drain on society, a collection of diagnoses and expenditures. 

My sisters consoled me, saying, 鈥淲e鈥檙e going home, and we will make this work,鈥� pulling me out of the depths of shame, guilt, and fear. Without their support I could easily have been persuaded into thinking that living in a facility was the only option. So many people are in this system designed to disappear us. This haunts me daily.

In January 2024, I was reminded again of in a nondisabled world: My feeding tube ruptured, and I couldn鈥檛 get it replaced until the following week. Meanwhile, the tube began coming out and my abdomen became distended, tender, and rigid. When I could not tolerate the pain anymore, I went to the emergency room. 

I arrived to discover many patients, staff, and health care providers unmasked. When I lay on the exam table to have my tube replaced, I could not communicate the excruciating pain I was in throughout the procedure because they would not allow my smartphone or caregiver in the room. I tried mouthing words, but no one could understand me. My body shivered, every nerve ending tingling as I tried to hold on. 

Two days in the hospital felt like two years. Laws like the ADA require only the bare minimum of care, and there is no enforcement. Compliance cannot be forced, even on people who do not see you as fully human or deserving of the right to access the same space.听

Disabled people constantly navigate hostile environments, especially health care settings. Here people in positions of power can say whatever they want while patients have to give citations, articulate clearly and effectively, and have the presence of mind to push back during acute, potentially fast-moving situations. I have been advocating for my health with doctors since I was a child, but this latest experience shook me. They gaslit me about my valid concerns of mistreatment. Even with all my social capital and resources, I was reduced to nothing. I thought of all the patients on the same floor who were alone, scared, and suffering.

When will disabled people be free to just be and to fully participate in society with autonomy and dignity? Liberating disabled people is a constant collective effort that at times feels like a distant mirage. Alexis Ratcliff had no choice except to live in a hospital for many years and now is being forced to leave even that semblance of a home. I only recently created a home of my own, which took decades of planning, scheming, and manifesting. The constant labor of ensuring my freedom weighs on me heavily. It should not be so hard to survive鈥攁nd survival is not enough. 

wrote that 鈥渃reating access is a critical way of showing up in solidarity.鈥� If we lived in a world that placed access above all, creating access would be a collective responsibility. In this world, cultures of care would ensure that carceral institutions like nursing homes are abolished; people, not profits, would be the priority; care would flow generously without restrictions from the state; and people like me would be secure knowing we are valued and wanted not for what we can produce but for who we are. This world鈥攁n accessible one centered on justice鈥攚ould be ruled by a simple phrase always put into practice: 鈥淣one of us are free until we all are free.鈥� 

Jennifer Liang, The Action Northeast Trust Co-Founder

After severe ethnic violence disrupted life in the Chirang district of Assam, India, in 2014, Jennifer Liang, co-founder of rural development nonprofit the Action Northeast Trust (referred to as ), sought a means to guide children and youth toward peace building between once-feuding communities. She discovered the U.S. sport of Ultimate, which was novel in the region, easy to learn, required only a disc, and encouraged inclusivity through mixed-gender play. Furthermore, the sport has no referees, which means that players self-officiate and talk through any fouls or conflicts. 鈥淚 felt the sport had a huge potential as a peace sport and to be transformative,鈥� Liang says. 鈥淚 really liked its values.鈥�

In 2015, the ANT trialed a simple version of the game in a conflict-prone area called Deosiri. The community responded so positively that the Manoranjan (meaning 鈥渆ntertainment鈥�) League continues to this day, aimed at children between the ages of 11 and 14. A more advanced form of the game for older youth is practiced in the Rainbow League. In an effort to build social cohesion, the ANT requires every team in the Rainbow League to include players from at least three different villages, three different ethnicities, and three different mother tongues.

In 2023, nearly 3,500 children from about 100 villages participated in the ANT鈥檚 Ultimate program. 鈥淔amilies have now accepted the fact that their children go out to play with children from other communities,鈥� Liang says. 鈥淭hat鈥檚 a nice thing to happen.鈥�

Participating in the program has been transformational for many. In 2019, eight girls were invited to try out for India鈥檚 national team, traveling to the 2020 World Junior Ultimate Championships in Sweden; two girls were selected for the national team. The tournament was eventually canceled due to COVID-19, but the opportunity was still hugely motivational for these girls and others around them.

According to Liang, the success of these eight girls has encouraged parents to become more open to sending their daughters out to play. She relates one story of a father from a conservative background taking his daughter to buy sports shoes for a tournament.

鈥淭he fact that [girls] are now able to play in public, which they never had a chance to do before … alongside boys, gives them a lot of confidence.鈥�

Aminath Zoona, Salted Ventures Swimmers Founder/CEO, Ocean Women Program Co-Leader听

As an island nation, the Maldives is more than 99% water. Most travel between the islands happens by sea, making swimming a much-needed life skill. But many girls and women are never taught how. 鈥淧arents here feel more comfortable sending their daughter to a female instructor to learn swimming,鈥� says Aminath Zoona, who is a mother of three, including a 7-year-old daughter. But the dearth of female instructors means many girls and women miss out on the recreational benefits of the ocean, as well as job opportunities in the tourism and marine conservation sectors. 

Zoona鈥檚 father, a diving expert, taught her to swim at a young age. This gave her a rare skill among her peer group. Zoona grew up to become the first female Maldivian trainer for swim and snorkel instructors in the country.

In 2019, she started her own swim school, , in the nation鈥檚 capital, Mal茅. The school quickly became a success, with a long waitlist of children and adults wanting to learn how to swim. 鈥淏y ensuring that my students have a positive experience while learning swimming, I instill a love for the ocean in them,鈥� Zoona says.

Then in 2022, the United Kingdom鈥揵ased marine conservation charity announced its program that sought to train local women to become swimming and snorkeling instructors. Zoona immediately stepped up. She now co-leads Ocean Women with Flossy Barraud from the British nonprofit.

During the nine-day Ocean Women pilot held in November 2023, Zoona trained five women from Rasdhoo Island (and two men from other islands) to become certified swim and snorkel instructors. The following month, the Ocean Women graduates organized their first swim teaching session: 19 children and five adults participated.

After the successful pilot, Zoona and Barraud are now planning for the next phase of the program. They intend to create new teaching opportunities for the recently graduated instructors and hope to expand the program to other islands in the Maldives. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 all about empowering women,鈥� Zoona says. By expanding the pool of female swim and snorkel instructors, she hopes to create many more ocean champions for the Maldives. 鈥淚t will have a domino effect,鈥� she says.  

Meredith Harper Houston, The Swan Within Founder and Executive Director听

Professional ballet dancer Meredith Harper Houston knows firsthand about the healing power of dance for abuse survivors. She had always wanted to share these transformative benefits鈥攁 dream she realized in 2016 by founding . The nonprofit brings dance to incarcerated girls in Los Angeles County. 

鈥淢y own experiences as a professional athlete, dancer, and trauma survivor drove me to create a program that helps these girls reclaim agency over their bodies,鈥� Harper Houston says. 鈥淚t provides them with the tools to reclaim their lives through the principles and practice of ballet.鈥�

Early on, Harper Houston did all the teaching herself. Eight years later, the program now has 12 dance instructors.

Nearly 700 girls between the ages of 14 and 18, many of whom are from communities of color, have participated in the program to date. They have all experienced some form of trauma, such as physical, emotional, or sexual abuse, or have been victims of sex trafficking. 鈥淲itnessing the resilience and strength of these young individuals reaffirms the importance of our mission,鈥� Harper Houston says.

The program typically runs for 12 weeks, with multiple sessions each week. At the end of the program, the girls present a performance to their families and the facility staff. 鈥淚t is a celebration of the indomitable human spirit,鈥� Harper Houston says.

She says she sees measurable improvements in self-awareness, emotional expression, and interpersonal relationships among the girls in the program. In the short term, the program has been found to reduce fights, suicide attempts, self-harm, and harm to others. In the long term, it has helped these youths reintegrate into society. Harper Houston is now expanding the program to help participants prepare for the job market, with mentoring sessions that cover goal setting, etiquette, and financial literacy.

In 2019, Harper Houston received a Pioneer Woman of the Year award from the office of then Mayor Eric Garcetti and the Los Angeles City Council in recognition of her contribution to incarcerated youth. 鈥淭he program has become a powerful journey of healing and empowerment for both the girls and myself,鈥� Harper Houston says.听

After years of isolation, Eagen joined a growing movement to make spaces safer by focusing on air purification. Air filters acknowledge the intimacy that comes with sharing air, and the inescapability of our interdependency. Eagen launched an organization called in San Diego in February 2024, drawing inspiration from , a grassroots group that provides free air-purification equipment to local and touring artists in Chicago.

Emily Dupree founded Clean Air Club in early 2023 after her partner got COVID despite wearing a mask at a concert. 鈥淭here had to be a better way for us to navigate the continuing pandemic, where we would be able to enjoy the arts community, but also be safe while doing so,鈥� she says. 

Thanks to the blueprint that Dupree established, the movement has grown to across the United States, four in Canada, and one in Australia, with a handful more preparing to launch. These groups provide essential mitigation resources and community building in a political climate where COVID-19 remains an ongoing public health threat without adequate institutional or social support. 

Numerous studies have shown that high-efficiency particulate air (HEPA) filters, as well as ultraviolet radiation (far-UVC light) lamps, can reduce the transmission of COVID-19. Yet most venues have not upgraded their air ventilation systems to meet the of five air changes per hour鈥攖he rate at which a space鈥檚 entire volume of air is completely replaced. And that is only the minimum. 

鈥淐lean Air Club exists as a DIY stopgap measure in the midst of ongoing institutional failure,鈥� Dupree says. 鈥淲hat we鈥檝e seen is a widespread suppression of the realities of how COVID can harm us so that capital and the interests of private businesses can continue unimpeded.鈥�

When Katie Drackert developed long COVID, they say 鈥渋t hurt鈥� to be left out of performance spaces they had participated in for nearly 10 years. Witnessing the ongoing public health failures motivated them to found in Austin, Texas, and study communications. 鈥淲hether we want to or not, we鈥檝e all agreed to be public health communicators鈥攁nd in such a grassroots way, where we鈥檙e fighting such an intense media machine and social stigma.鈥�

Before fundraising for air purifiers in San Diego, Eagen built a social media following by posting memes about the connections between COVID, disability justice, and decolonization. As an Indigenous Californian of the Acj谩chemem Nation, an Irish American, and a descendant of the San Juan Capistrano Mission Indians, their ancestors have a long history of being inflicted with鈥攁nd resisting鈥攄isease, from smallpox and tuberculosis to HIV and AIDS. The resulting loss of life, connection, and language (and the role the government played in each) formed the foundation of Eagen鈥檚 worldview. So while they have been harassed for wearing a mask, Eagen sees their work as pivotal for public health and social justice. 

鈥淚solation is not fun,鈥� they say. 鈥淲e can鈥檛 have a movement without joy.鈥� Without play and recreation, 鈥渨e can鈥檛 feed our soul and our spirit, to have energy and to have integrity for the fight.鈥� 

This grassroots effort to purify air in social spaces is clearly meeting an urgent need: Clean Air Club has provided air-purification equipment at more than 600 Chicago and Midwest events, more than 30 national tours, and seven EU/U.K. tours. The group also supports eight official artist partners who commit to having air purifiers at most of their shows, and hundreds of local artists who want to make shows safer. 

In January 2024, Clean Air Club also launched the platform for COVID-cautious artists of all disciplines to find each other. Within a month, 450 artists had signed up around the world.

Clean Air Club prioritizes events that require and provide masks, and in many cities, organizations partner with a to distribute masks. 

鈥淰enues worry that it鈥檚 going to drive away their customers or it鈥檚 going to interfere in some way with their customers鈥� enjoyment of the evening,鈥� Dupree says of mandatory-masking events. 鈥淏ut in our experience, all of the Clean Air Club mask-required events sell out. They are packed with people who are happily masked and happy to participate in a form of care of one another.鈥�

Many of these groups consider the clean air movement as harm reduction: People are going to gather anyway, and any level of mitigation helps reduce the chain of transmission. 

It鈥檚 no coincidence that this grassroots movement is being led by artists鈥攎any of them queer. 

鈥淗istorically, queer nightlife has been such a safe space for when the rest of the world isn鈥檛 accepting of us,鈥� Drackert says. 鈥淒isabled queer people should be able to partake in celebration and pure joy as well.鈥�

While most groups focus on providing cleaner air for music, arts, and leftist organizing spaces, some have a broader focus. Thanks to a crowdfunding campaign and material donations, Fan Favorite has provided some combination of rapid tests, masks, and air filtration at events including a Palestine solidarity event, a punk show, a fast-food workers organizing panel, an erotic art night, a social drawing night, and an open mic. They have also distributed masks and tests to workers crossing the Mexico鈥揢.S. border.

founder Ashley Hayward is a burlesque performer and her partner is a comedian, so she hopes to make those shows safer. in Los Angeles focuses on air purification for the drag scene, which relies on lip-synching, making mask-wearing impractical. in Charlottesville, Virginia, has installed permanent air filters in three local nonprofits, and makes filters available for any community event. Even car dealerships have requested the purifiers; the group might start renting them to businesses to help subsidize the cost.听

Groups like INHALE Nashville and Clear the Air ATX also provide lists of local COVID-safer businesses to help incentivize these practices. 

Rob Loll, founder of in Jamestown, New York, aims to provide air purifiers as well as masks, tests, and COVID information to his community. He鈥檚 provided one permanent air filter to a yoga studio, and provided air filters for a Christmas choir concert. A small business owner himself, he is trying to help other business owners realize that cleaner air directly supports the local economy. 

鈥淭his whole idea that we鈥檙e just going to keep working until we鈥檙e sick, and then disrupt everything,鈥� is unrealistic, Loll says. 鈥淓ven from a business, capitalist sense, I don鈥檛 understand how this is supposed to play out for them.鈥�

Accepting that the pandemic isn鈥檛 over means acknowledging the need for long-term infrastructural change and updated air-filtration standards. Several organizers compared the clean air movement with the structural overhaul necessary to purify water to eliminate cholera. 鈥淚 really hope that we鈥檙e just the very early adopters of something that makes a lot of sense to do on a broad scale,鈥� says Jennifer Bowser of Breathe Easy RVA in Richmond, Virginia. Similarly, during a January 2024 Senate hearing on long COVID, epidemiologist pushed for updated air filtration to fight the virus, comparing it to how many building codes now require earthquake-proofing. 

鈥淚 have to remind myself when I get overwhelmed, I鈥檓 doing the job of the state,鈥� Drackert says. 鈥淏ut I will do it, and I鈥檒l continue to do it, because I feel really passionate about it.鈥� 

Making spaces safer for disabled and immunocompromised people helps everyone鈥攅specially considering each COVID infection increases a person鈥檚 risk of becoming disabled and immunocompromised. Cleaner air also mitigates allergies, wildfire smoke, and industrial pollution; it also lowers the risk of other airborne diseases like influenza and RSV. And making spaces safer means more people can participate in crucial organizing efforts. 

This grassroots movement for clean air is poised to grow鈥攁nd quickly. In early February, Dupree hosted a call with 14 clean air organizations to share strategies and build solidarity, and the number of groups has almost doubled since then. 

鈥淎ll of the planet鈥檚 health is connected,鈥� Eagen says. 鈥淣ot only has it been true eternally, but on this global scale with so much air travel, the people who are breathing on me here probably breathed on someone in Chicago or got breathed on by somebody from Chicago. Our clean air in each of our cities impacts all of us.鈥澨�

CORRECTION: This article was updated at 9:38a.m. PT on May 24, 2024, to correct the name of the organization Clean Air Cville.听Read our corrections policy here.

But then something extraordinary happened: After the COVID-19 pandemic was declared, , including in my neighborhood, ended the practice of . Not only did this act trigger a cascade of returned books from people unable to pay late fees or too ashamed to show up with books years past their due dates, but it also increased library attendance.

There is a powerful lesson here: Public libraries found that dropping the 鈥渇ree market鈥� approach to book borrowing made their services more accessible. There鈥檚 a capitalist fear that people will take advantage of free offerings and steal items, so the only way to enjoy shared resources is to hold individuals accountable in some way. Such an approach assumes the worst of human nature: Allow people to borrow books without a financial incentive to return them, and they will steal them. 

In reality, ending late fees helped not only libraries but their patrons (and funders) as well. For example, the found that forgiving late fees in 2016 resulted in people returning $800,000 worth of overdue materials鈥攁nd 15,000 new or returning users, prompting the city鈥檚 mayor to . reduced tensions with patrons, improved morale, and increased goodwill toward libraries. And Chicago鈥檚 experiment confirmed the idea that punitive financial measures are neither the most efficient nor the most humane way to serve communities. 

If you have the means, you can certainly buy a book from an online retail giant, purchase a computer from a multinational corporation, or subscribe to a corporate media outlet鈥檚 newspaper. Or, you can access all of these things for free at your local library. And now, if you鈥檙e tardy, you can return borrowed items without penalty. 

My local library is not particularly well-resourced, but it is staffed by highly compassionate, creative individuals who make extraordinarily good use of their space, offering no-cost services and welcoming all manner of community interactions. The librarians provide passport services, art classes, access to Wi-Fi, open-mic poetry and music nights, guided meditation, children鈥檚 story time, and author events. None of these events cost money; enthusiastic participation is all that鈥檚 required.听

It鈥檚 no wonder that people of all political stripes, except perhaps the most , tend to celebrate local libraries. However, what often goes unsaid is that libraries aren鈥檛 as much 鈥渇ree鈥� as they are publicly funded and therefore nonprofit. We, the people, through our collectively taxed incomes, pay for these extraordinary spaces that serve us. Libraries assume the best of human nature, and allow us to be unshackled from capitalism鈥檚 low expectations of human beings as needing financial incentives to behave responsibly. 

The culture of collective care that our public libraries foster is spreading. 鈥�,鈥� adorable birdhouse-like structures that serve as communal bookshelves for people to leave and take books, have popped up in neighborhoods all across the United States. The idea that nefarious actors would steal books in order to sell them simply doesn鈥檛 enter into the equation. And if someone did such a thing, chances are they are experiencing financial hardship鈥攊f selling used books helps put food in their bellies, so what? 

If the idea of sharing books either through publicly funded libraries or neighborhood bookshelves works so well, surely it opens up a universe of options to share other things too. Enter the 鈥�,鈥� an idea that鈥檚 taking hold and upending the notion of consumerism and individual ownership of all types of things, allowing people to borrow everything from lawn mowers and telescopes to camping equipment. 

The idea that publicly funded collective care鈥攊n other words, a sharing economy鈥攎ight better serve communities than consumerism is a dangerous one. Once we begin to imagine all the ways in which the principles behind public libraries can be applied to society, we threaten the enormous profits that buoy the bottom lines of the wealthy. It鈥檚 no wonder that libraries and other collectively funded social services constantly face and that significant portions of city budgets are spent on policing and criminalizing poverty. The alternative鈥攑ooling our resources to help us all鈥攐pens a world of possibilities. Our libraries have shown us that. 

Now that there are no more late fees fueling worry in my kids, there鈥檚 little to stop them from bounding joyfully to the library every chance they get. And perhaps each time they borrow a book, they鈥檒l marvel at the wonder of what libraries make possible for us all. 

Here, lush date palms once shadowed a serene oasis called La Source Bleue: shallow pools that filled naturally from the underground aquifer. Until 2021, this oasis was a popular tourist destination and a cultural hub for Indigenous Amazigh communities, the nomadic tribes who have lived in Morocco鈥檚 desert regions for centuries. 

鈥淭he oases are truly a source of life for the nomads who live in the Dr芒a-Tafilalet region and the entire Moroccan desert,鈥� says Mustapha Tilioua, an anthropologist of Amazigh descent and professor at the nonprofit Tarik Ibn Zayad Center for Studies and Research in Errachidia, a half-hour drive from Meski. La Source Bleue, he says, was 鈥渢he heart of the oasis.鈥�

For the past three years, climate-change-induced drought across much of Morocco has hit places like Meski especially hard. Now, La Source Bleue is dry, its low walls crumbling into an empty basin. Scarce drinking water has forced Amazigh families to relocate to urban centers with more reliable water resources for themselves and the livestock on which they depend. 

Tourism has likewise dried up, causing a loss of income for the more than 20 families who have depended on La Source Bleue for their livelihood. 

But amid the silence, there is music. In a medina near La Source Bleue, an Amazigh musician is trying to revive Meski鈥攁nd his community鈥檚 heritage鈥攚ith the sounds of the desert. Mouloud Amrini, who performs under the name Meskaoui, hopes to use what he calls 鈥渆nvironmental music鈥� to help his community attract visitors. 

鈥淭he music that I play [is like when] I walk throughout the desert,鈥� Meskaoui says.

Meskaoui first founded his Gallery of Music Mouloud Meskaoui in 2009 to educate people about Amazigh musical traditions and nomadic music from around the world. It is supported in part by the Tarik Ibn Zayad Center, where Tilioua teaches Amazigh cultural history. 

On average, Meskaoui says the gallery receives about 800 to 1,000 visitors a year鈥攁 mix of international visitors and fellow Moroccans. That鈥檚 far fewer than before the oasis dried up, but he says its purpose remains vital. 

Meskaoui鈥檚 gallery is part of a wider goal to preserve what Tilioua calls a 鈥渞ich regional heritage for future generations.鈥� Some of Tilioua鈥檚 students have Amazigh lineage but lack a connection to their identity鈥攖he result of many years of government-led marginalization. That鈥檚 why he established the Sijilmassa Museum: Crossroads of Civilizations, with photographs, instruments, clothing, and other relics that show the diversity within Amazigh tribal history.

Tilioua and Meskaoui鈥檚 partnership started 20 years ago when they went on tour together to introduce nomadic Amazigh music to the world, performing in Saudi Arabia, China, Peru, Paraguay, Mexico, Mali, Timbuktu, Egypt, and elsewhere. Soon enough, they began to host musicians in Meskaoui鈥檚 gallery.

Mandolins, West African djembe drums, tambourines, electric guitars, keyboards, and other souvenirs from Meskaoui鈥檚 travels crowd the walls of his performance room, where he and other musicians play improvisations that blend elements of Amazigh music with their own styles. 

For Meskaoui and Tilioua, the message is simple. 

鈥淚t鈥檚 a call for peace in the world,鈥� Tilioua says, 鈥渂etween peoples and civilizations and all cultures.鈥� 

Interviews were conducted in English, French, Arabic, and Darija. French translation was done by Marlowe Starling and Arabic and Darija translation was done by Rana Morsy. 

The reporting for this article was made possible by New York University鈥檚 GlobalBeat program.

Alice Wong is a disabled activist, writer, and editor. She鈥檚 also the editor of Disability Visibility: First-Person Stories From the Twenty-First Century. Her memoir, Year of the Tiger: An Activist鈥檚 Life, was released in 2022, and Disability Intimacy: Essays on Love, Care, and Desire, was published in April 2024.
Twitter:

Ramzy Baroud, Ph.D. is a journalist, author, and the editor of The Palestine Chronicle. He is the author of six books. His latest book, co-edited with Ilan Papp茅, is Our Vision for Liberation: Engaged Palestinian Leaders and Intellectuals Speak Out. His other books include My Father Was a Freedom Fighter and The Last Earth. Baroud is a nonresident senior research fellow at the Center for Islam and Global Affairs.
Twitter:

Kamau Franklin has three decades of experience as a community organizer in New York City and Atlanta. He has coordinated and led community cop-watch programs, liberation/freedom schools for youth, electoral and policy campaigns, large-scale community gardens, organizing collectives, and programs providing alternatives to incarceration. Franklin lives in Atlanta with his wife and two children.
Twitter:

Umberto Nicoletti began his career as assistant photographer, and in 2005 opened Das Studio, which deals with photography, video, art installations, graphic design, and creative direction. Asylum (Rizzoli New York, 2023) is his first fine art book.
Instagram:

Kimberly Saladin is a Coast Salish Native American artist who creates with vibrant colors and textures, working primarily in photography and digital art. A Muckleshoot Indian Tribe adoptee, Saladin dreams of using her creative and artistic gifts to learn more about her culture and to honor her people and ancestors.
Instagram:

CK Nosun is an anarchist and self-taught artist based in Montr茅al, Qu茅bec. They work primarily in digital illustration and linocut to make work that documents and celebrates struggles for anti-capitalist, anti-colonial futures.
Instagram:

As an able-bodied person, it would be easy for me to move through life mostly oblivious to just how difficult this world can be for people with disabilities. But I am not oblivious, because I鈥檝e been blessed with a long and close relationship with my stepmother, Haze, who was born with just 5% vision due to complications at birth. 

When Haze was a child, her mother would regularly rearrange the furniture, helping Haze learn to navigate unknowns with grace and perseverance. For most of her life, she was committed to 鈥渇aking it鈥�: getting by without Braille, a 鈥渟tick,鈥� or a guide dog鈥攖hings that would draw attention to her disability. Living in an ableist world meant that she could be excluded from opportunities to contribute her many gifts and experience life to the fullest. Still, she and her family knew how to take full advantage of the other accommodations she was entitled to, from government programs for the blind, to ADA accommodations at work. She became a gifted musician, a corporate vice president, and a church leader. Over the years I鈥檝e witnessed just how much extra work she must do to accomplish things many of us do without thinking. Because of her, I notice lighting, bumps in the sidewalk, inaccessible websites and apps, and things that make life hard for people with low or no vision.  

And yet, this issue of 猫咪社区!鈥攚ith its framing of access to solutions being equally important as the solutions themselves鈥攈as helped me see that despite the challenges Haze faced, her many privileges ensured that she had access to the solutions and accommodations that did exist. What an incalculable loss to all of us that not everyone has access to the tools and solutions that enable people to live their fullest lives. Please share these stories of access as the solution widely with your communities! 

Warmly,听
Christine

P.S.: After seven years at 猫咪社区!, I will be stepping down as executive director and publisher later this year. I鈥檝e shared more information in a letter to our 猫咪社区! community, which will be published online after May 15, at yesmagazine.org/letter-from-christine. I will hold my farewells to you, dear reader, for the Fall 2024 issue of 猫咪社区!, which will be my last.听

How long have you been a 猫咪社区! reader and how did you find 猫咪社区!?

What I love about 猫咪社区! is that it focuses our attention on noncredentialed people and their capacity to control and create their own well-being. It also sees that fields of endeavor such as farming, health, livelihood, raising children, and caring for the vulnerable are all interconnected. The focus on community with people who have a stake in its future is so powerful and important.听

The only thing we really control is where we put our attention, and 猫咪社区! brings us the possibility of what we can produce within walking distance.听

What kind of work and/or volunteering do you do? What are your passions?
My passion is to create an alternative to the business narrative where scale, speed, and convenience are all that matters. To shift our attention away from those in charge, and toward those that produce in the caring economy鈥攖hose who stop depending on institutions to provide what matters: safety, raising a child, our health, social and economic justice, and the environment.听

How do you apply or use 猫咪社区! articles in your daily life or work?
I write about and invest in efforts to support neighbors in reclaiming control of their own well-being.听

Have you taken action after reading something in a 猫咪社区! story?
I have increased my support of other groups that are aligned with 猫咪社区!, such as Journalism That Matters and Solutions Journalism Network. 猫咪社区! demonstrates the power of reporting on what local people, connected to each other, produce. It is an antidote to the helplessness and despair that is too common among us.听

I heard these myths at home, at family gatherings, and even in the mostly immigrant church I attended. The story of the immigrant who left everything to contribute to the U.S. was in our textbooks, songs, news reports, and even some of my favorite media. I saw this message in memoirs, poetry, and later, the nonprofit sector, organizing spaces, and even artwork about immigration.

I, in fact, created art about these immigrant talking points. For many years, I believed in this narrative. Surrounded by so many fellow first-generation immigrants, I thought it was a good thing to emphasize my contributions to the U.S. The stories of our parents鈥� and elders鈥� success, in spite of the odds stacked against them, made them all sound almost superhuman. I was proud that I鈥檇 someday have a chance to prove myself worthy of the American Dream鈥攚ithout questioning why I wasn鈥檛 able to have that dream in the country of my birth.

And then the narrative slowly changed.

It was common in my community to hear racial slurs about people not like us. Members of my community, including older relatives, constantly talked about how much stress they felt because of systemic or individual racism. However, that didn鈥檛 stop some of those same adults from making racist comments about people of other ethnicities. Though I was lucky to have caring teachers and classmates who talked about how these comments hurt them, I still heard racial slurs in Spanish in multiple settings.

WATCH: Toward a Multiracial Immigrants鈥� Rights Movement

When I was a kid, I didn鈥檛 recognize that these remarks and the reaction they elicited in my community weren鈥檛 just racist and inappropriate; they were hypocritical. I was undocumented until I received my green card at age 15. At around age 9, my mom and I began meeting more frequently with our lawyer, and I started noticing that people in my immigration hearings and meetings weren鈥檛 just Spanish speakers, light Brown, or Christian. And yet, immigration has been codified as a mestize Latinx issue at the expense of people of various creeds and countries trying to get our attention.

Thanks to my interactions with the U.S. immigration system, I was exposed to different stories, and thankfully, my experiences in college and beyond also helped me grow and understand that there鈥檚 no way the immigrants鈥� rights movement can continue to exist while mostly catering to Spanish speakers and non-Black/non-Indigenous Latinx folks.

These realizations came to me just as I began meeting friends from different countries. I attended college at the University of California, Irvine, where multiple friends and I shared meals, exchanged stories, and sometimes discussed our immigration status or that of undocumented loved ones. Nightly news stories about immigration contradicted what I learned about U.S. policies, such as , Japanese internment camps, the Trail of Tears, and the Three-Fifths Compromise. Anything that melted in our proverbial pot did so through violence. Ours isn鈥檛 a multicultural or multiracial country forged in peace.

According to the Pew Research Center, the biggest undocumented community in the U.S. Countries such as El Salvador, Honduras, Venezuela, , and multiple Soviet bloc countries now have large undocumented communities. The U.S.鈥揗exico border continues to receive a major influx of migrants from around the world, but today鈥檚 focus on the means routes have only gotten more dangerous.

While many immigrants continue to arrive from Latin America, Latinx isn鈥檛 a race. People from any ethnicity can be Latinx, and people whose ancestors migrated to the region may find it necessary to make their way to the U.S.

In order to successfully assimilate, some immigrants often side with whiteness. It can be argued that we鈥檙e conditioned to want this even before migrating, because many countries around the world also have systemic biases that uphold white characteristics as desirable. For people from Spanish-speaking Latin American countries, the lack of inclusion of non-mestizo peoples begins in our countries of origin.

The , known as a Mexican concept, applies to much of Latin America as well. The premise of mestizaje is that Latinx/Latin American peoples are a mixture of Spanish and Indigenous peoples, erasing the fact that mestizaje was created through violence.

鈥淚鈥檝e heard, you know, the whole spectrum of Latinxs say, 鈥榃e don鈥檛 have racism. We don鈥檛 talk about race in the same way as in the U.S.鈥� I experience the complete opposite of that color-blindness,鈥� , a Panamanian American multimedia creator, historian, and educator says. 鈥淲hen I鈥檓 in mostly Latino spaces, it鈥檚 a guarantee that it鈥檚 going to be racist, anti-Black, or anti-Indigenous.鈥�

Despite the presence of Black communities, Asian migration, and Indigenous peoples, there remains a false notion that all Latin Americans are Brown and speak only Spanish. Mestizaje and its many iterations also prevent many white Latinx folks from acknowledging their privilege in the U.S. or Latin America. 

鈥淚n the U.S. imagination, an immigrant is a Brown person that receives anti-immigrant vitriol. It鈥檚 also a face that can garner empathy,鈥� Harris says.  

In extreme circumstances, immigrants even join and take part in violent tactics. Research from senior fellow Ran Abramitzky even shows that some immigrants give their U.S.-born children 鈥渨hite-sounding鈥� names in an effort to secure a better future for said children.

Not doing the work as non-Black Latinx folks can have additional consequences when people of non-Black immigrant origins gain power. In 2022, former Los Angeles City Council President Nury Martinez was after a leaked tape revealed her racist remarks against multiple communities, including Asian, Black, and Indigenous communities. The scandal shed light on the need for more anti-racist and intersectional work among mestize Latinx communities.

But all is not lost: Immigrant communities are now waking up to the need . They鈥檝e received help from pop culture brands such as Refinery29, whose social media accounts often feature about how to discuss racial justice in Latinx communities.

Today, multiple community organizations, including , , and the , are working hard to include Indigenous peoples. Multiple immigrant rights organizations are also increasing legal assistance, destigmatizing the lack of legal status, and advocating for people who speak languages other than English or Spanish. 

While these groups have always been here, they have gained more visibility since the 2020 iterations of the #StopAsianHate and Black Lives Matter movements. Unfortunately, in the four years since these movements gained traction, we鈥檝e only seen greater need and fewer resources. Harris says that the , and other nonprofits such as the that offer vital services for Black immigrants, continue to be underfunded, though Black immigrants experience a disproportionate amount of violence .

Even when immigrants become naturalized citizens, the lack of language-inclusive services can make it harder for them to have access to reliable information in their native language. Asian Americans Advancing Justice is working on for Asian American, Asian Islander, and Pacific Islander (AAPI) voters, while the is using the legal system to help AAPI voters experiencing discrimination. There are also multiple local and regional organizations, such as the , defending AAPI interests across the country through an intersectional lens.

Lack of funding and support for models based on solidarity is still a problem. Burnout is common in social justice work, but the good news is that those of us who鈥檝e been educated on better ways to be allies can speak to our families and friends about why assimilationist rhetoric is harmful. After all, appealing to the desires of people in power didn鈥檛 help pass comprehensive immigration reform. 

Building a more inclusive immigrant rights movement, I鈥檝e learned, ultimately means abandoning all white-supremacist thinking in the U.S. and our countries of origin.