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We鈥檙e living in a historic moment of anti-LGBTQ rhetoric and political mobilization. In the urgency of the times鈥攁nd the seemingly endless spiral of headlines鈥攊t can be easy to lose sight of exactly how far-reaching and well-coordinated the attack on queer and especially trans people truly is. 

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.