The Gospel of Power: How MAGA Turned Charlie Kirk’s Death Into a National Loyalty Test

Introduction

Charlie Kirk is dead, and America is watching his corpse be transformed into a relic of authoritarian worship. He was no soldier, no statesman, no public servant who laid down his life for country or community. He was a talker, a provocateur, a well-paid megaphone for Trump’s culture wars. Yet in the days since his death, the United States government commandeered by Trump’s second regime and its loyal shock troops has twisted this man’s passing into a national spectacle of loyalty oaths and scapegoating.

This is not mourning. This is mobilization.

When an ordinary American dies, even one killed in shocking circumstances, the president does not rush to weaponize their death. The commander-in-chief does not order the flags of a nation lowered in their honor. The vice president does not dispatch government aircraft, funded by taxpayers, to ferry their remains. Congress does not rush to criminalize speech about them. And federal law enforcement does not blur the line between investigation and public eulogy.

But Charlie Kirk was not an ordinary American. He was the chosen prophet of a movement that has made grievance its gospel, cruelty its communion, and sycophancy its sacrament. And so, with his sudden death, Trump and his acolytes did what they always do: they seized the moment, distorted the facts, and demanded the country kneel.

The authoritarian impulse here is not subtle. It is not hidden behind ceremony or sanitized by careful language. It is on full display, raw, shameless, unrepentant. And it shows us exactly where we stand in Trump’s America: a land where power is hoarded for the loyal few, rights are conditional on obedience, and even death becomes a stage for state-sponsored propaganda.

The Script Was Written Before the Body Was Cold

The news of Kirk’s murder had barely broken before Trump lunged for a microphone. And what came out of his mouth was not grief, not caution, not the sober voice of a leader calling for unity in the face of violence. No; it was the same bile-soaked script we’ve heard for nearly a decade: blame the left, blame the marginalized, blame the enemies list.

Facts didn’t matter; they never do. Within hours, Trump thundered about “radical left terrorists,” casting a net so wide it included millions of Americans whose only crime is opposing him. And woven into that reflexive accusation was the now-familiar undercurrent: the implication that the trans community, the most convenient scapegoat of MAGA’s current crusade, was to blame.

This is the new normal under Trump: to turn every crime, every tragedy, into a cudgel against the people his movement already hates. The evidence can be absent, the narrative nonsensical, but the conclusion is preordained. It doesn’t matter who the shooter is, or what the circumstances reveal. The story is written in advance: if there is blood on the ground, then the left is guilty.

We’ve seen this play out again and again. When a shooting erupts, MAGA influencers swarm to social media with accusations that the killer must be trans, must be queer, must be an immigrant. Sometimes they fixate on old photos, doctored images, or random people with vaguely similar names. They are never concerned about accuracy; they are concerned about utility. If the accusation can stir fear, then it is useful. If it can harden hatred, then it is truth enough for their purposes.

And so, when Kirk’s life was cut short, the gears of this propaganda machine whirred into motion with mechanical precision. By the time the first news conference even began, trans people across the country were already being smeared as killers, again. A whole community was once more placed in the crosshairs of suspicion, not because of evidence but because scapegoating is MAGA’s default setting.

But here is the brutal irony: the suspect in custody fits not the fantasy villain MAGA conjures, but the very real, very consistent profile of mass shooters in this country. Young. Male. White. Raised in a conservative household. Steeped in gun culture. By all accounts, a “law-abiding” citizen, until the day he wasn’t.

This is the profile we have seen again and again, from Columbine to Uvalde to Buffalo. It is the profile of nearly every mass shooter in the modern American era. And yet, somehow, this truth remains taboo in the halls of power. Because to acknowledge it would mean confronting uncomfortable realities: that violence in America is not primarily the product of marginalized communities, but of the so-called “backbone of America” that Trump praises at every rally.

Trump’s baseless accusations in the hours after Kirk’s murder were not just a moment of grief-stricken misjudgment. They were the logical extension of a politics built on projection and scapegoating. For years he has told his followers that trans people are violent predators, that queer activists are existential threats, that immigrants are criminals waiting to strike. He has blurred every individual case into a generalized indictment. Now, in the moment when the evidence points squarely back toward his own base, he doubled down.

This is how authoritarian propaganda works: first the narrative, then the facts. The truth is not discovered; it is imposed. The death of Charlie Kirk was not a tragedy to be understood, it was a stage to be used. And the message was clear: loyalty means repeating the lie, and dissent means siding with the enemy.

Air Force Two, for a Partisan Court Jester

In a democracy, symbols matter. And there is no symbol more glaring, no spectacle more absurd, than the sight of Air Force Two ferrying home the remains of a partisan sycophant. Charlie Kirk was not a general returning from a battlefield. He was not a fallen president, senator, or Supreme Court justice. He was not even an elected official. He was a propagandist, a glorified podcaster whose entire career was built on flattering Trump and spitting venom at Trump’s enemies.

Yet there it was: Air Force Two, the vice president’s official jet, dispatched at taxpayer expense to carry his body home. The same aircraft meant to serve the nation’s second-in-command, repurposed to honor the corpse of a man whose highest achievement was inventing new ways to sneer at marginalized people.

We are told this was a gesture of respect. Respect for whom? Respect for what? If Air Force Two is the chariot for partisan mouthpieces, then what does that say about the value system of this administration? It says loyalty to Trump buys you honors normally reserved for heroes. It says sycophancy outweighs service. It says that in the Trump regime, bending the knee earns you the kind of privileges that ordinary citizens, the people who actually keep this country running, could never dream of.

This has no precedent. Soldiers killed in action have been flown home quietly, without the pomp of government jets. Civil rights leaders and community builders have been mourned without official aircraft deployed. Even Rush Limbaugh, Trump’s favorite radio blowhard, did not receive this kind of military-grade transport. Why? Because until now, America understood there was a line between personal loyalty and public honor. That line is gone.

Make no mistake: this was not a decision made to comfort Kirk’s family. It was a decision made to broadcast a message. It was propaganda with wings. Trump and his court wanted the world to see the state’s full power wrapped around the body of a man whose only qualification was servitude to MAGA. It was a performance of loyalty, not a gesture of grief.

And the message to the rest of us could not be clearer: If you flatter the throne, the throne will bend the nation’s resources to serve you. If you oppose it, you can rot in anonymity. Air Force Two is no longer a plane, it’s a reward. A loyalty perk. A platinum card for the MAGA elite.

Legislating Loyalty

Even before Kirk’s body had cooled, MAGA members of Congress were scrambling to turn his death into law. Their proposal? A grotesque piece of legislative theater: to permanently ban anyone from social media who dared to “praise” Kirk’s death. Not to punish threats, not to sanction incitement, but to criminalize dissent itself.

Think about that. The American right, which has spent years howling about “cancel culture” and “free speech,” now proposes to erase people from the digital public square for the crime of failing to worship their fallen comrade. They want permanent exile from Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, TikTok, not because someone made threats, but because they expressed the wrong opinion.

This is not lawmaking. This is loyalty enforcement.

And it is naked hypocrisy. These are the same voices who insisted that it was their right to mock George Floyd, to sneer at dead immigrants, to celebrate the deaths of their political opponents. They claimed their “First Amendment rights” when they posted memes about Paul Pelosi’s assault. They laughed when trans people were murdered. They shrugged when women seeking abortions were attacked. Free speech for them has always meant free cruelty. But now, the minute someone dares to mock the death of one of their own, they want lifetime bans.

We need to call this what it is: authoritarian creep. The idea that government officials would move to regulate what private citizens can say about a partisan figure’s death is not democracy. It is not liberty. It is state-sponsored idolatry. It is the erection of a cult, codified into law.

And we should be very clear: this is not where it ends. Today it is Kirk. Tomorrow it is Trump. The groundwork is being laid for laws that criminalize mockery of the regime, laws that punish dissent as treason, laws that turn satire into sedition. The bill floated this week is a test balloon, a loyalty oath disguised as legislation. And if the country does not recoil in disgust, more will follow.

The First Amendment for MAGA, Silence for the Rest

The United States Constitution is supposed to be a shield, a guarantee that every citizen, no matter how small, no matter how powerless, has the right to speak without government reprisal. But under Trump’s regime, that shield has become conditional. The First Amendment is alive and well if you are praising Charlie Kirk, if you are worshipping the MAGA gospel, if you are chanting the party line. For everyone else? Silence, punishment, surveillance.

Consider Florida. Within hours of Kirk’s death, the state’s education commissioner blasted teachers who posted irreverent comments online. Some educators were suspended, threatened with termination, or warned that their licenses could be stripped. Their crime was not violence. Their crime was not incitement. Their crime was failing to cry the right kind of tears.

And then there’s the Pentagon. Secretary of Defense Pete Hegseth stood before cameras and declared that the military would be “monitoring” service members’ online activity for anything mocking Kirk’s death. “We will not tolerate it,” he thundered, as if free speech for soldiers and civilians alike were privileges to be revoked by decree. In truth, the First Amendment has always been more limited for those in uniform, but this wasn’t about military discipline. This was about political loyalty. It was about telling every soldier, sailor, airman, and marine that their freedom of conscience ended where MAGA’s grief began.

This is authoritarian logic in its purest form: the idea that rights are not universal, but contingent. That they apply to some but not others. That they can be toggled on or off depending on whether you flatter the throne.

And let’s be honest, we’ve seen this pattern before. The same politicians who howl about “cancel culture” when their own speech draws criticism are the first to demand firings, suspensions, and bans when it is their turn to feel mocked. They insist that conservative speech must be in schools, but liberal teachers can be silenced. They demand that their rallies be covered on social media, but dissenters must be censored. Theirs is not a philosophy of free speech. It is a philosophy of conditional speech. Speech for me, silence for thee.

The hypocrisy is galling, but the danger is worse. Because once the state begins enforcing reverence, there is no natural stopping point. Today it is Kirk. Tomorrow it is Trump. Next week it is “the regime.” And soon enough, a citizen’s silence is no longer enough, they must actively perform loyalty. They must not only refrain from mockery, but participate in praise.

That is how authoritarianism metastasizes. Not through sudden silencing, but through the slow conditioning of a nation to equate obedience with patriotism. And make no mistake: that is the conditioning on display now. If you’re not praising Kirk, you’re suspect. If you’re not posting the right memes, you’re an enemy.

The First Amendment was written precisely to prevent this, to protect the irreverent, the mocking, the unpopular voice. But under Trump, it is being rewritten by precedent: rights exist only if they serve the cult.

Saints, Sycophants, and Scripture

If there is one thing more grotesque than the political theater of Charlie Kirk’s death, it is the religious theater. Evangelical leaders who spent years nodding along as Kirk vilified immigrants, demonized queer people, and belittled women are now draping him in sainthood.

In sermons across the country, he has been called a “martyr for truth,” a “modern apostle,” even “the Lord’s servant struck down by evil.” Worship services that once read the Beatitudes now treat Kirk’s podcast soundbites like holy scripture. Pastors preach that his death is proof of Christian persecution, that mocking him is mocking God himself.

This is not Christianity. This is idolatry.

Let’s be blunt: Charlie Kirk was no saint. He was a man who trafficked in cruelty. He mocked the marginalized. He sneered at the oppressed. He made a career out of bastardizing scripture, twisting Christ’s message of compassion into a cudgel of exclusion. And now, in death, those same distortions are multiplying.

What does it say about evangelical America that they have chosen Kirk as their martyr? It says that their faith is not in Christ, but in grievance. It says their gospel is not about love, but about domination. It says their scripture is not the Bible, but the party line.

And the danger is not just theological. It is political. Because when religion baptizes authoritarianism, it gives it divine cover. When pastors preach that Kirk was struck down by “the enemies of God,” they are not just mourning. They are declaring war. They are telling their congregations that political dissenters are not fellow citizens but heretics, that resisting Trump is resisting heaven itself.

We’ve seen this fusion of church and state before, and it never ends well. In fascist Italy, Mussolini wrapped his dictatorship in Catholic ritual. In Nazi Germany, pastors preached Hitler as God’s chosen vessel. In Franco’s Spain, the cross and the sword marched hand in hand. Now, in America, we are watching the same marriage of convenience: Trump provides the power, and the evangelical establishment provides the sanctification.

Charlie Kirk is their bridge. He is their saint of spite, their martyr of meanness. And in sanctifying him, they sanctify Trump’s entire project.

The blasphemy here is staggering. Jesus spent his life with the marginalized, the poor, the outcast. He washed the feet of prostitutes, healed the sick, welcomed the stranger. Kirk spent his life doing the opposite: excluding, mocking, ridiculing. To equate the two is not just bad theology, it is sacrilege.

But that is the heart of this new evangelicalism: to take the radical compassion of Christ and invert it into the radical cruelty of MAGA. And in the process, to drag millions of Christians into a faith that worships grievance more than God.

Kash Patel, Judge and Mourner

If there was ever a moment that crystallized just how far the lines have blurred between justice and loyalty in Trump’s America, it came at the press conference announcing the arrest of a suspect in Charlie Kirk’s murder.

There stood Kash Patel, not just the FBI Director, but one of Trump’s most trusted fixers, a man whose career has been built on service to the regime rather than to the rule of law. This was supposed to be a sober announcement, the kind of briefing where facts are delivered with precision and care. Instead, Patel turned the podium into a pulpit, and the presser into a eulogy.

He didn’t just announce an arrest. He praised Kirk as “my brother,” called him a warrior, and closed with the chilling line: “See you in Valhalla.” This wasn’t justice speaking. This was allegiance. It was a man entrusted with the nation’s most powerful law enforcement agency using that moment to broadcast his personal devotion to the deceased.

And then came the admission: Patel was not just the nation’s top investigator in this case, he was Kirk’s personal friend. By every standard of ethics, this is a conflict of interest screaming for recusal. No prosecutor, no judge, no investigator with an ounce of integrity would stand in front of cameras and declare friendship with a victim while still running the investigation. But Patel is not in the business of integrity. He is in the business of loyalty.

The American people should see this for what it is: the justice system itself bent into the service of one man’s cult. If Trump demands loyalty above all, then Patel is his perfect enforcer, a lawman who makes clear that his allegiance is not to impartial truth, but to the tribe.

And think about the precedent this sets. If the FBI director can mourn a personal friend on national television while announcing charges, what confidence can any of us have in the fairness of the process? What happens when the next suspect claims bias, when the next defense attorney points out the obvious conflict? What happens when dissenters are targeted, and the line between justice and politics has been completely erased?

The answer is simple: the system collapses. Justice becomes performance. Law becomes theater. And the stage is always rigged to flatter the regime.

The Suspect and the Real Profile of Violence

For all the noise about trans scapegoats and “radical left terrorists,” the suspect in custody tells a far more familiar story. He is not the caricature MAGA conjured in the hours after the murder. He is not a trans woman with a grudge, not an immigrant sneaking across the border, not a queer activist radicalized by drag shows. He is, in fact, the same type of man who has been pulling triggers in this country for decades.

Young. Male. White. Raised in a conservative household. Steeped in gun culture. By all accounts, a “law-abiding” citizen, until the day he wasn’t.

This is the profile we have seen again and again, from Columbine to Uvalde to Buffalo. It is the profile of nearly every mass shooter in the modern American era. And yet, somehow, this truth remains taboo in the halls of power. Because to acknowledge it would mean confronting uncomfortable realities: that violence in America is not primarily the product of marginalized communities, but of the so-called “backbone of America” that Trump praises at every rally.

For twenty years, America’s epidemic of mass shootings has followed this pattern. The killers are overwhelmingly men. Overwhelmingly young. Overwhelmingly drawn from conservative communities where guns are not just tools, but talismans of identity. And when the blood dries, the same politicians who loosened gun laws, who fanned the flames of grievance, who wrapped masculinity around the barrel of a rifle, are the first to find scapegoats elsewhere.

So it was with Kirk’s murder. Before a single fact emerged, the regime rushed to pin the blame on trans people. And when the truth became undeniable, when the suspect’s profile fit the same tired, tragic mold, there was no apology. No correction. No reflection. Just silence.

Charlie Kirk’s death could have been a moment to confront these realities. To acknowledge the true profile of American violence. To look squarely at the culture that breeds shooters and say, “Enough.” Instead, it became just another excuse to double down on lies, to smear the marginalized, to protect the myth that MAGA is innocent of the violence it inspires.

Conclusion – A Nation on Its Knees

Let me be clear: I rebuke the shooter. I rebuke the violence. I rebuke the lies that fuel it. There is no glory in murder, no justification for blood. But what makes this tragedy even more unbearable is the way it has been weaponized.

Charlie Kirk is dead, and I will not pretend to mourn him. I cannot. This was a man who spent his life trying to make queer people, and especially trans people, guilty without charges. He sought to convict us in the court of public opinion without evidence, without process, without truth. Again and again he smeared us as predators, as criminals, as threats to national security. He wielded words like a club, swinging at anyone who dared to live authentically outside his narrow vision of America.

And now, in death, the regime has made him into something more dangerous than he ever was in life: a martyr, a saint of grievance, a rallying cry for authoritarian consolidation. His voice is silenced, yes, but the machinery he helped build roars louder than ever, grinding down truth, rights, and dissent under the weight of its propaganda.

I do not mourn his death. I will not miss his voice. But I do mourn this nation. I mourn the America that once dared to call itself a beacon of hope, a land that welcomed the tired, the poor, the huddled masses yearning to breathe free. I mourn the Constitution that once promised that no matter how powerful the rulers, the people had the right to speak, to mock, to dissent. I mourn the churches that once claimed to follow Christ but now worship grievance and power instead.

Because what we are left with today is not that America. We are left with a nation where loyalty to one man outweighs loyalty to the truth. Where flags are lowered for sycophants, but rights are stripped from citizens. Where taxpayer planes become chariots for propagandists, but ordinary people are told to shut up and obey. Where evangelicals call a political operative a martyr while mocking the very teachings of the Christ they claim to follow.

This is not the America the world once looked to. This is not the America my grandparents believed in. This is a country twisted by fear and by power, a place where the message from the top is clear: conform to authority, or get the hell out.

And so yes, I weep, not for Charlie Kirk, not for the cult of loyalty that now parades his corpse as a holy relic, but for the America that has been lost. I weep for the communities who will again pay the price of scapegoating. I weep for the trans kids who will see their identities linked to violence they had nothing to do with. I weep for the immigrants and women and queer people who will be blamed, policed, and silenced to prop up a myth.

What we are witnessing is not grief. It is not mourning. It is mobilization. A government in thrall to authoritarianism is using death as theater, loyalty as law, and propaganda as scripture. And until we name it, rebuke it, and resist it, America will continue to fall further from the ideals it once claimed to hold.

The shooter has been caught. The bullets have stopped. But the violence of the lie, that endless, corrosive violence of propaganda and scapegoating, continues. And unless we end that, too, we will find that Kirk’s death was not the tragedy. The tragedy will be what his death allowed this country to become.

History Repeats: How Trans Kids Became America’s Latest Scapegoats

The fact that transgender children are fighting for access to bathrooms in 2025 isn’t evidence of national moral decay—it’s proof that state power is being deliberately weaponized against the most marginalized members of the LGBTQ+ community. We have entered a moment where transgender lives are no longer described merely as “controversial,” but as strategically useful. Television ad campaigns, legislative hearings, and school board meetings from the 2024 election through the first half of 2025 have turned trans children into talking points, campaign fodder, and scapegoats. This didn’t happen in a vacuum. It reflects a growing political calculation: that fear of trans visibility is a profitable and vote-generating commodity.

What makes this especially chilling is that many of the same politicians pushing anti-trans narratives previously expressed public support for LGBTQ+ rights. This is not about policy. It is not about safety. It is about deploying marginalized identities as tactical weapons during election cycles. We have seen this pattern before—when integration was framed as a “threat” to public education and when women entering the workforce were said to be“damaging American families.” Every time this country has approached a more inclusive democracy, someone finds a group to demonize.

THE 2024 TV AD BLITZ: TRANS VISIBILITY AS CAMPAIGN STRATEGY

In the final stretch of the 2024 election, political campaigns and independent expenditure groups aired tens of thousands of television ads invoking transgender athletes, bathrooms, and school curricula. In swing states like Pennsylvania, Georgia, and Arizona,“protect women’s sports” spots ran more frequently than economic messages. These ads rarely mentioned actual legislation. Instead, they relied on ominous music, angry parents, and distorted claims that trans inclusion represented an assault on childhood itself. By November 2024, political strategists were openly admitting that attacks on trans rights were being “tested as a voter-mobilization issue.” That testing paid off. The rhetoric didn’t fade after the election. It intensified throughout 2025, finding its way into statehouse speeches, GOP fundraising emails, and finally, into the direct confrontation now unfolding between the Department of Education and multiple school districts in Northern Virginia.

THE TITLE IX FIGHT: WHO IS PROTECTED, AND WHO ISN’T?

Trans rights opponents love to claim that Title IX “was written to protect women, not boys who say they’re girls.” What they rarely mention is that federal courts do not agree with each other on that interpretation—and never have. The text of Title IX simply says that no one shall be excluded “on the basis of sex” from any educational program receiving federal dollars. It does not define “sex,” nor does it restrict protection to “biological women.” That ambiguity has produced a series of competing court decisions that point in opposite directions:

● Grimm v. Gloucester County School Board (4th Cir., 2020) – A transgender student sued his school board for refusing him use of the boys’ restroom. The Fourth Circuit held that the policy violated both Title IX and the Equal Protection Clause, stressing that discrimination based on gender identity is discrimination “on the basis of sex.”

● West Virginia v. B.P.J. (4th Cir., 2023) – A transgender girl challenged West Virginia’s athletic ban. A lower court upheld the ban, but the Fourth Circuit temporarily blocked enforcement, signaling serious doubt that the state’s policy can survive Title IX review. The Supreme Court has yet to weigh in.

● Hecox v. Little (9th Cir., 2023) – Idaho’s ban on trans women in women’s sports was challenged. The Ninth Circuit issued an injunction, holding that the plaintiff was likely to succeed because the policy discriminates “on the basis of sex.”

● Doe v. Highland Local School District (S.D. Ohio, 2016) – A district court found that forcing a transgender girl to use a separate restroom caused irreparable harm and violated Title IX.

● Adams v. St. Johns County School Board (11th Cir., 2022 en banc) – The Eleventh Circuit took the opposite position, ruling that Title IX does not require schools to accommodate gender identity and defining “sex” strictly as biological sex at birth.

Taken together, these cases make one thing clear: there is no national consensus. Title IX’s\ scope varies dramatically based on jurisdiction. That legal uncertainty leaves room for political maneuvering—and it is precisely why the Virginia school districts believe they have a legitimate foundation for refusing compliance with anti-trans directives.

HISTORICAL RESISTANCE TO FEDERAL CIVIL RIGHTS ENFORCEMENT

The tactic of local officials defying or undermining federal civil rights protections is not new. In 1957, Arkansas Governor Orval Faubus deployed the National Guard to block Black students from entering Little Rock Central High School, compelling President Eisenhower to send in federal troops. Between 1959 and 1964, Prince Edward County in Virginia shuttered its entire public school system rather than integrate, forcing Black students to go without formal education for five years. State leaders claimed they were acting in the “best interest” of students. They were weaponizing public education to protect a discriminatory status quo.

VIRGINIA SCHOOL DISTRICTS: A NEW FORM OF RESISTANCE

Today, five Virginia school districts—Fairfax, Arlington, Loudoun, Prince William, and Alexandria—have refused to roll back protections for transgender students, even under threat of losing more than $200 million in federal aid. Unlike the segregationist defiance of the 1950s and 60s, this modern resistance is aimed at preserving civil rights, not eliminating them. By keeping inclusive policies in place, these districts are prioritizing the safety and dignity of trans students over financial security.

And this requires a real conversation:

If federal threats escalate, and the only alternative becomes compliance or closure, which one are we willing to support?

Would the moral imperative to protect marginalized kids justify shutting down schools—just as officials once shut them down to preserve discrimination?

Because neutrality in this moment is not neutrality. It is capitulation.

THE FAMILY MUST STAY TOGETHER: LGBTQ SOLIDARITY OR STRATEGIC DIVIDE

There is disturbing rhetoric emerging—even within the broader LGBTQ community—that suggests trans people are being targeted “first,” and that LGB people might be spared if they quietly step aside. That is both morally indefensible and strategically disastrous.

The Kim Davis case before the United States Supreme Court illustrates why. Davis refused to issue marriage licenses to same-sex couples and took her case all the way up the judicial chain. In 2023, the Kentucky Supreme Court ruled against her—but multiple justices openly signaled they were prepared to revisit Obergefell v. Hodges, the ruling that guarantees same-sex marriage nationwide. They did not mention gender identity. They questioned all LGBTQ marriage rights.

Trans people are not the canary in the coal mine—they are the current mine. And the rest of the LGBTQ community is already on the legal radar.

CONCLUSION: SOLIDARITY OR SURRENDER

This is not a debate about bathrooms or pronouns. It is a coordinated effort to roll back decades of progress by weaponizing fear, confusion and electoral strategy. Attacks on trans youth are the first step—because marginalized children are politically easy targets. But the end goal is much larger: make the entire LGBTQ community fair game again.

History tells us exactly what happens when we downplay early attacks as “somebody else’s problem.” The target widens. The rhetoric intensifies. The legal strategies multiply. Today it is trans students. Tomorrow it will be marriage rights, adoption, anti-discrimination protections, and the validity of queer existence itself.

That is why the Virginia school districts deserve not just quiet admiration—but our full-throated support. They are not resisting progress; they are defending it.

So the question is no longer “should we politicize trans rights?” The question is “are we willing to surrender them without a fight?”

Because if the cost of protecting transgender kids is that we must stand up, speak out, even disrupt — then let us pay that cost proudly.

We protect the most vulnerable first. Or we protect nobody at all.

We Are Still Winning: Quiet Joys in a Loud World

Every morning, before my mind fully wakes, I brace for the barrage: more bathroom bans, new anti-trans bills, another court fight. The rainbow community, especially trans folks and BIPOC communities, can feel locked into a permanent defensive crouch. National headlines often treat our existence as a flashpoint rather than a community. And honestly? That constant drumbeat is exhausting.

But here’s the fuller truth I refuse to let go of: far from the cameras and the outrage algorithms, our people keep building. Quiet victories are unfolding every day — beds made, meals shared, flags raised, elders housed, teens welcomed, neighbors protected. These wins don’t lead the six o’clock news. They don’t spike ratings. But they change lives.

So I collected a handful of stories, most from places where we’re told there’s no hope, and I’m sharing them here as a love letter to us. Call this a field report from the other side of the narrative: soft-spoken, deeply felt, and stubbornly optimistic. Even in the hardest states and the hardest seasons, we are still winning.

1) Ace’s Place in Queens: A Beacon of Trans Futures

Let’s begin in Long Island City, Queens, where New York City quietly and beautifully made history this month. Ace’s Place opened its doors as the first city-funded homeless shelter exclusively for transgender and gender-nonconforming people. One hundred fifty beds. That may sound like numbers, but to me, each bed is a breath of safety, a small chapter of dignity.

What makes Ace’s Place remarkable is not only its size but its wraparound care. The facility offers mental health support, job placement, culinary and GED classes, and assistance transitioning into permanent housing. It is run with heart by Destination Tomorrow, a Bronx-based LGBTQ+ organization. The city committed multi-year funding through 2030 because stable housing is a prerequisite to stable everything: work, wellness, belonging.

When I read about Ace’s Place, I thought of all the nights I’ve spent staring at the ceiling and wishing policy makers could feel what we feel: that home isn’t only four walls; it’s a place where your pronouns are respected, your safety is non-negotiable, and your future feels possible. Ace’s Place is a love letter from a city to its trans residents: we see you. We’ll fight for you. We’ll house you. And even if the national narrative says otherwise, we’ll keep proving that care is a public value, not a private luxury.

2) Brave Local Leaders Where Pride Refuses to Be Banned

If national politics can feel like a wedge between us and basic dignity, local leaders often step in quietly and bravely to fill the gap. Two western cities in states with hardline legislatures offer a master class in creative courage.

In Salt Lake City, Utah, state lawmakers passed a broad flag ban aimed at removing non-official banners, including Pride and Trans flags, from government buildings. Instead of backing down, Mayor Erin Mendenhall and the City Council moved swiftly. They adopted new official city flags that incorporate Pride and Trans colors into the city’s Sego Lily emblem. With one elegant civic act, they turned a prohibition into protection. It wasn’t about scoring points; it was about saying, in law and in love, that queer people are part of the city’s very fabric.

Just over the border in Boise, Idaho, a similar ban arrived. The response? Mayor Lauren McLean and the City Council declared the Pride flag an official city flag. Boise chose not to retreat from values nearly a decade in the making. I think about young people walking past their city hall and seeing, in the most public of spaces, a symbol that says: you belong here. That matters. Symbols aren’t just fabric; they are public hearts beating outside your window.

These acts may look symbolic, but they are substantive. In places where our visibility is politicized, leaders used municipal law to build a shelter of light. They risked blowback because protecting dignity is worth it, and they offer a replicable blueprint for other cities navigating hostile state policies.

3) Law Harrington Senior Living Center: Queer Elders at Home (Houston, TX)

Across the country, queer elders are often pushed to the margins, priced out of neighborhoods they built, and forced to hide who they are to access care. Houston’s Law Harrington Senior Living Center answers that with a full-hearted yes to safety, affordability, and joy. It is the largest LGBTQ-affirming affordable senior complex in the nation, with independent apartments and community spaces designed for dignity and connection.

I picture lunchtime there: a dining room full of chatter, a flash of sequins from a resident’s jacket, a plate of something warm passed across a table. Staff and neighbors greet each other by first names. No one is asked to split themselves in two to be served. There’s a gym and a dog park, game rooms, and programming that acknowledges community history. In a state where the legislature has taken aim at trans healthcare and basic recognition, Law Harrington quietly insists that our elders deserve ease. It’s not flashy; it’s foundational.

4) The Montrose Center: 47 Years of Tender, Fierce Advocacy (Houston, TX)

Law Harrington didn’t appear out of thin air. It belongs to the Montrose Center, an institution that has steadied Houston’s LGBTQ+ community for nearly five decades. Under the leadership of Avery Belyeu, the first openly transgender leader of a center its size, Montrose has weathered an onslaught of bills and political headwinds. And still, they serve tens of thousands every year with mental health services, housing supports, youth programming, and community space.

There is a special kind of courage in capacity building. Passing a law gets headlines. Building a clinic, a shelter, a counseling program — that’s the work that endures. Montrose is a reminder that while some try to legislate us out of public life, our institutions are patiently and persistently laying down the infrastructure of care.

5) Upstate Pride SC: Quiet Power in the Deep South

Let’s head to South Carolina’s upstate, where queer visibility is often painted as improbable. Upstate Pride SC proves otherwise. Through education, health fairs, Black Pride Week, support groups, and affirming public events, they cultivate belonging. It’s grassroots and it’s gorgeous: neighbors taking care of neighbors, one porchlight and potluck at a time.

I love their ethos: amplify acceptance, provide practical help, and keep showing up. There is nothing theoretical about it. This is community maintenance, the work of stitching dignity into daily life. You can feel the throughline: if the state house refuses us, the clubhouse down the street says come in.

6) Brave Space Alliance: A Black and Trans-Led Sanctuary (Chicago, IL)

On Chicago’s South Side, Brave Space Alliance has built something profoundly hopeful: a Black-led, trans-led LGBTQ+ center that puts mutual aid and housing at the core. Their housing program provides temporary residence for up to 18 months in an affirming environment, with wraparound support to help community members take their next steps. It is the sort of practical care that turns fear into future, providing stability you can hold in your hands.

Threading the Needle: What These Wins Have in Common

These stories span urban cores and smaller cities, blue coasts and red legislatures. What they share is a stubborn commitment to dignity and a belief that the public square belongs to all of us — on the street, in a shelter, and above a city hall.

• They are rooted in resilience. Even where laws are hostile, local communities keep crafting love-driven solutions.

• They look far into the future. From senior housing to youth programs, these wins plan for decades, not news cycles.

• They are led by neighbors. The heroes here are not always famous, but they are deeply effective.

If you only read national headlines, you might believe we’re losing everywhere at once. The ground truth is more complicated, and far more hopeful. Local wins are blooming in places that outsiders often write off. Hope is not a theory; it is a practice.

A Love Letter to Us — and a To-Do List

Here’s what I want us to hold: there is bad news, yes. But there is also this. Ace’s Place turning keys and turning pages. Flags protected in hostile climates. Elders eating together without fear. Youth finding mentors. Black and trans-led groups building homes and redistributing care. The story of this moment is not only what we’re losing; it is how we keep making more of what we need.

What we can do next:

• Share these stories so your feeds carry strength, not only struggle.

• Donate what you can to Destination Tomorrow, the Montrose Center, Upstate Pride SC, and Brave Space Alliance.

• Write to your city council. Ask how your town can protect Pride symbols or expand shelter access now.

• Stay gentle with yourself. Joy is not a distraction; it is a strategy.

In between the headlines, we are building. We are shielding. We are healing. And yes, we are still winning.

Activism w/ Perspective: Fighting Loudly, Loving Strategically

Introduction

Activism is a sacred labor—born from pain, sustained by hope, and driven by a vision of a better world. It demands resilience, empathy, and most of all, perspective. In today’s world, where progress can feel both rapid and glacial, it’s easy to confuse disappointment with betrayal, and frustration with failure. But we must take care: not every trans elected official must lead with their identity. Not every ally must be loud. And not every setback is a sign of surrender.

This is not a call to quiet down. Quite the opposite. We must keep shouting. We must keep organizing, educating, marching, and disrupting when necessary. But we must also remember that movements are long, and victories are layered. They are won in courtrooms, in backrooms, in ballot boxes—and yes, in uncomfortable, quiet compromises.

Let us revisit the stories of movements that have shaped this nation. The women’s suffrage movement. The civil rights movement. Let’s understand the slow churn of progress and the balance between activists and elected officials. Let’s celebrate the necessity of both roles—and the limitations they each must wrestle with.

The Myth of the Single-Issue Representative

The expectation that any marginalized person who steps into political office must become a full-time symbol of that identity is a dangerous one. Yes, representation matters. And yes, a trans lawmaker's presence is itself a revolutionary act. But these individuals were not elected solely to be icons. They were elected to serve—and that service must encompass every constituent in their district, not only the LGBTQ+ community.

That doesn’t mean we let silence or inaction slide. Accountability is key. But there’s a difference between constructive accountability and purity politics. We must resist the urge to cannibalize our own movement by calling for the removal of trans politicians who don’t center their entire legislative agenda around trans identity.

Identity can inform action, but it should not be weaponized as a measuring stick for worthiness.

Lessons from the Women’s Suffrage Movement

The women’s suffrage movement in the United States was not a singular, sweeping success. It was a bitter, fractured, and decades-long struggle marked by internal disagreements and slow legislative advances. The fight for the 19th Amendment began in earnest in the mid-1800s—but it wasn’t ratified until 1920. And even then, it excluded many women of color.

Some of the most prominent voices—Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady Stanton—were deeply flawed in their approach to intersectionality. They sidelined Black suffragists and framed white womanhood as more “worthy” of enfranchisement. Yet, their activism still moved the needle.

Meanwhile, activists like Ida B. Wells and Mary Church Terrell continued to fight on dual fronts—for gender equality and racial justice. They were often overlooked or outright rejected by white-led feminist organizations. Still, they persisted. Their advocacy wasn’t always reflected in the laws of their day—but it laid the groundwork for the future.

The lesson here? Progress is rarely clean or equitable. It is often marred by contradiction. But the change that eventually comes is built on the backs of many—not just the few who were visible at the top.

The Civil Rights Movement: Loud Voices, Strategic Patience

When we remember the civil rights movement, we often picture Dr. Martin Luther King Jr., standing at the Lincoln Memorial, thundering “I have a dream.” But for every King, there were thousands of organizers working quietly—often invisibly—in communities across the country.

The Civil Rights Act of 1964 and the Voting Rights Act of 1965 did not spring forth from inspiration alone. They were the result of relentless pressure campaigns, legal challenges, marches, boycotts, and negotiations. Activists did not stop yelling. But they also understood the power of strategy and timing.

Consider John Lewis—a man who was both activist and lawmaker. He knew what it meant to bleed on the Edmund Pettus Bridge and what it meant to compromise in Congress. His legacy is a masterclass in duality.

And yet, even Lewis was sometimes criticized by younger activists who wanted faster, more radical change. That criticism was part of a healthy tension between generations—but it did not require his erasure or rejection.

Activists and Elected Officials: A Necessary Dance

Activists are not meant to be liked. We are meant to challenge, to provoke, to stir the pot. Elected officials, meanwhile, must build coalitions, navigate bureaucracy, and represent a broad spectrum of voices—including some that are in direct opposition to ours.

The relationship between activists and lawmakers must be symbiotic. One pushes from the outside, the other maneuvers from within. We must be wary of trying to collapse these roles into one.

A trans state representative who supports public education funding, tenant protections, and racial justice but doesn’t sponsor a new trans healthcare bill every session is not abandoning their community. They are doing their job. Our job, as activists, is to make the next trans bill impossible to ignore. Not to punish our allies for having multiple priorities.

Navigating Disappointment Without Turning on Each Other

We will be disappointed. That is the nature of activism. We ask for the moon and get a paper lantern. But we cannot confuse disappointment with betrayal. We cannot afford to eat our own in the name of ideological purity.

Trans people—especially trans women of color—are under siege in this country. We are being legislated out of existence in some states, ignored in others, and tokenized in many. This is not the time to alienate the few who have made it into the rooms where decisions are made. Hold them accountable, yes—but with compassion and context.

And we must also be strategic in choosing our battles. Take, for example, the fight for trans inclusion in sports. In early 2025, Eliza Munshi, a senior at Falls Church High School in Virginia, competed briefly with the girls’ track team before state policy abruptly changed, barring her from participating. She later joined the boys' team to avoid penalties for her school—despite having no competitive advantage—and described the experience poignantly: “Sometimes I forget I’m transgender. People around me forget too.”

This issue has been weaponized beyond recognition. While we know the fight is just—while we know inclusion is non-negotiable—the unfortunate reality is that there is, at present, no national palate for it. The conversation has been so twisted, so saturated with misinformation and fear-mongering, that we may need to place that particular fight further down the road.

This isn’t surrender. It’s not abandoning the mantra, “If one of us isn’t free, then none of us are.” It’s about paving the road with the battles where we can build consensus and momentum—so that, when the time comes to take up the fight again, we are stronger, louder, and harder to ignore.

Strategic patience does not mean complacency. It means investing our energy where we can make change today, while never losing sight of the fights we’ll take up tomorrow.

Let us also be honest with ourselves: sometimes the loudest critics are not the most involved. Keyboard warriors who drag public officials online often fail to show up at school board meetings, testify at hearings, or volunteer at mutual aid events. Rage is easy. Movement work is hard.

The Power of Local Action and Long-Term Vision

Change doesn’t only happen at the federal level. Some of the most impactful queer-affirming policies begin at the city council, school board, and county supervisor levels. Don’t wait for the next trans senator to save you. Be the trans candidate who runs. Be the volunteer who canvasses. Be the neighbor who educates. Be the witness who shows up when others stay silent.

Change also doesn’t happen on a one-year timeline. The civil rights movement spanned generations. The LGBTQ+ rights movement—stretching back to the Mattachine Society, the Compton’s Cafeteria riot, and Stonewall—is still unfinished. Let us commit to playing the long game.

A Call to Stay Loud and Stay Strategic

Here is what we must do:
- Keep marching. Protest is visibility, and visibility brings power.
- Keep organizing. Systems don’t collapse because of a hashtag. They collapse from pressure and planning.
- Keep educating. Silence is often the result of ignorance, not malice.
- Keep voting. It’s not everything, but it’s still something.
- Keep creating. Art is activism. Joy is resistance. Queer life itself is defiant.
- Keep perspective. Not every disagreement is disloyalty. Not every politician is a savior. Not every setback is the end.

Conclusion: The Future Is Collective

We are all necessary in this fight. The disruptors and the diplomats. The radicals and the reformers. The queer elders and the new generation.

Let’s be clear-eyed about the work ahead. Let’s be relentless in our advocacy and generous in our solidarity. Let’s demand better without destroying our own.

The arc of the moral universe bends toward justice—but only if we pull together.

And we will.

The Power of Trans Joy: A Reflection on TransPride DC

Last weekend, I had the profound honor of attending TransPride DC, and I am still glowing from the experience. In a time when transgender lives are so often politicized, erased, or endangered, stepping into a space filled with love, celebration, and unapologetic authenticity was nothing short of revolutionary.

From the moment I walked in, I was surrounded by a sea of affirming smiles, vibrant expression, and visible pride. There was laughter echoing in every corner, chosen family reuniting, allies listening and learning, and a powerful energy that said: we are here, we are whole, and we are worthy of joy.

TransPride DC wasn’t just an event—it was a homecoming. It was about more than visibility; it was about belonging. There were panels and performances, hugs and healing, and the undeniable beauty of people simply being themselves without fear. I saw trans elders embraced with gratitude, trans youth lifted up with hope, and nonbinary folks taking up space with pride and purpose.

As someone who works with Rainbows In Revolt, this was a moment to recharge, to remember why we do what we do, and to connect with the community that fuels our fight. The trans joy on display reminded me that joy itself is resistance. To celebrate our lives, our bodies, our identities—in public and without apology—is a radical act.

To everyone who made TransPride DC possible: thank you. You created a sanctuary in a storm, a celebration in a season of struggle. And to every trans and nonbinary person who showed up: you are loved, you are seen, and your joy is a beacon that lights the way for others.

We will carry this joy forward, into every protest, every Pride, and every place where our voices must be heard.

In solidarity and celebration,
Rainbows In Revolt

We Are Not Dishonorable

On January 23, 2025, just three days into his return to office, President Donald Trump signed an executive order banning transgender Americans from serving in the United States military. The order—titled “Prioritizing Military Excellence and Readiness”—revived and expanded upon his earlier ban, this time with a darker clause: active-duty transgender service members could face dishonorable discharge simply for identifying as trans.

And on May 6, 2025, the United States Supreme Court allowed that order to take effect. The Court issued a stay of a lower court’s injunction, permitting the ban to proceed while legal challenges continue. You can view the stay here.

With the stroke of a pen and the silence of a majority, the highest court in the land sanctioned a policy that equates transgender identity with misconduct—an act punishable by the same terms reserved for desertion or insubordination. No trial. No context. Just discharge, and disgrace.

Let’s be clear: the transgender service members who now face this threat are among the finest our nation has to offer.

- Colonel Bree Fram, a high-ranking officer in the U.S. Space Force, continues to serve with distinction while advocating for inclusion and strength through diversity. [Wikipedia]

- Commander Emily Shilling, a decorated Navy pilot with 19 years of service, now leads the legal challenge against this order in Shilling v. Trump—risking everything not just for herself, but for every trans soldier who follows. [GLAAD]

- Edit… The Navy Seal I had listed turned their back on the community. Removed Name and informaiton

- Lieutenant Commander Blake Dremann, the first openly trans service member promoted post-transition, is a symbol of leadership earned through merit, not conformity. [Military Times]

- Staff Sergeant Patricia King, the first openly transgender infantry member in the U.S. Army, who deployed to war zones while living in quiet authenticity. [WNYC Studios]

- Colonel Sheri Swokowski, Major Jamie Lee Henry, Monica Helms, and so many others have served with honor, not only in uniform but in advocating for equality once they left active duty.

From Pittsburgh to D.C.: A Call for Unity Amid Renewed Threats to LGBTQ+ Rights

A Night of Celebration Turned Ominous

On May 2, 2025, P Town Bar, a cherished LGBTQ+ venue in Pittsburgh, was hosting a vibrant drag event featuring local icon Indica and the legendary Amanda Lepore. The atmosphere was electric until approximately 20 Pennsylvania State Police officers and undercover agents abruptly entered the establishment around 11:30 p.m., interrupting the festivities. Patrons and staff were forced to wait outside in the rain as officers conducted a search of the premises.

Attendees described the incident as reminiscent of the police raids on gay establishments during the 1960s and 70s. One witness recounted, “Dozens of state police, geared up with bulletproof vests, flooded the bar and told us to get out. None of the officers would explain what was happening.”

Echoes of a Troubled Past

This recent raid is not an isolated incident but part of a historical pattern of law enforcement targeting LGBTQ+ spaces. The most infamous of these was the 1969 raid on the Stonewall Inn in New York City, which sparked six days of protests and became a catalyst for the modern LGBTQ+ rights movement.

Other notable instances include:
- The Hazel's Inn Raid (1956): In Pacifica, California, police arrested 77 gay men and 10 lesbians during a raid on Hazel's Inn, one of the earliest recorded mass arrests of LGBTQ+ individuals in the U.S.
- Operation Soap (1981): Toronto police raided four gay bathhouses, arresting nearly 300 men in what became the largest mass arrest in Canada since the 1970 October Crisis. This galvanized the Canadian LGBTQ+ community and led to the founding of Pride Toronto.

Lessons From Other Movements

The LGBTQ+ community is not alone in this experience. In the wake of George Floyd’s murder in May 2020, millions across the U.S. and around the world rose up in solidarity under the Black Lives Matter banner. What followed were not just protests, but changes—some symbolic, many substantive. Cities re-examined police budgets, Confederate monuments fell, corporations were compelled to address systemic racism, and public discourse around racial justice shifted in a way unseen for generations.

Likewise, the 1992 Los Angeles uprisings following the brutal police beating of Rodney King—an event captured on videotape and broadcast across the nation—led to momentous outcomes, including federal civil rights charges against the officers involved, and deeper scrutiny of LAPD practices.

The Legacy of Matthew Shepard

On the night of October 6, 1998, 21-year-old Matthew Shepard, a gay college student at the University of Wyoming, was brutally beaten, tied to a fence, and left to die outside Laramie, Wyoming. After being discovered 18 hours later by a cyclist, barely alive, Matthew succumbed to his wounds on October 12.

The outcry led to the Matthew Shepard and James Byrd Jr. Hate Crimes Prevention Act of 2009. His legacy is a reminder: we must not wait for another tragedy before we act. We will not be silenced. We will not be closeted. And we will not be treated as second-class any longer.

We Shouldn’t Wait for a Tragedy

We in the rainbow community cannot afford to wait for a mass-casualty event, a national tragedy, or a government-sanctioned crackdown to awaken us. We cannot allow another Pulse Nightclub or a Stonewall to be the flashpoint that brings us together. The time to unify—trans, queer, lesbian, gay, intersex, nonbinary, ace, two-spirit, and beyond—is now.

We must also recognize the interconnectedness of struggles. The erosion of trans rights today—whether in schools, sports, or healthcare—is a harbinger of broader rollbacks. Marriage equality and reproductive freedom are not guaranteed. An attack on any one of us is an attack on all of us.

Where Was the Outcry?

In 2025, the New Hampshire House passed a bill banning puberty blockers and hormone therapies for minors, effectively criminalizing essential healthcare for transgender youth. Disturbingly, this legislation advanced with minimal public condemnation from national Democratic leaders or prominent LGBTQ+ advocacy groups. Similarly, blue states like California saw the introduction of bills aiming to restrict transgender girls from participating in high school sports.

Transgender individuals have historically stood at the forefront of LGBTQ+ rights movements. They marched alongside their peers in the late 1990s and early 2000s, fervently advocating for marriage equality. Their unwavering support was instrumental in achieving significant milestones for the community. Yet, when faced with targeted legislation and discrimination, the trans community often finds itself isolated.

Intersectionality and the Legacy of Marsha P. Johnson

Understanding the LGBTQ+ struggle requires acknowledging its intersectionality. Marsha P. Johnson, a Black transgender woman, was a pivotal figure during the Stonewall uprising. She famously stated, "You never completely have your rights, one person, until you all have your rights."

The challenges faced by transgender individuals today are not isolated incidents. Eliza Munshi, a transgender high school athlete from Falls Church, Virginia, was compelled to join the boys' track team due to new anti-trans regulations. Eliza expressed her frustration, stating, "I just want to run with my friends. I want to compete as who I am, not who the state says I have to be." Her experience underscores the personal toll of discriminatory policies.

Raising the Standard: It Starts with Us

At this moment in history, we can no longer afford to rely on elected officials to carry the water for us. Too many have gone silent when we needed their voices the most. We must start this movement, sustain it, and turn it into a voting issue in 2026 and 2028.

We demand:
- WorldPride 2025 must proceed without harassment—at airports, in streets, at events.
- No federal surveillance of LGBTQ+ gatherings.
- Full cooperation and protection from D.C. leadership.

This movement must be led by us: from the bars, sidewalks, kitchens, classrooms, and everywhere we exist.

We Are the Beacon Now

Before the current Trump administration, the United States was seen as a global ambassador of human rights. We can no longer rely on federal officials to ensure our nation remains that beacon.

It must be us.

We must persevere and do the difficult things. We must stand on shaky legs amidst our fears and keep showing up. If we back down now, decades of hate and Christian nationalism win. We must be the light. We must rise.

A Call for Unity and Vigilance

Let the memory of Stonewall guide us, and the urgency of this moment compel us. We don’t need permission to demand dignity. And we don’t need tragedy to demand justice.

We must come together as one community—fierce, diverse, and united. If those in power attempt to disrupt WorldPride, let them be met with the full power of a rainbow coalition that will not be pushed back into the shadows.

This is not just about parades or parties. This is about power. About people. About pride.

And we are ready.